Bah humbug!

I can trace my Christmas sense-of-humour failure to Thursday.  I took the kids to Santa's Grotto at Ruxley Manor. 

Objectively, the grotto gets a 9.5 out of 10 from me.  Miss A, who was, as usual, impeccably behaved, had a fantastic time.  The "Father Christmas Experience" lasted about an hour and involved singing songs, throwing snowballs at naughty rats (trust me, it made sense at the time), making reindeer food, decorating ornaments, and finally, getting a present from the man in red himself.  I have deducted a 1/2 point from my rating due to the fact that both Miss A and Santa look quite startled in the official photo.

Fortunately, it was not the type of Santa where you lay out your holiday wish list, as Miss A had expressed her intention to ask for a sandwich for Christmas (yes, it was before lunch...).  Santa has already arranged a non-food based gift based on earlier conversations.

My experience, though, was not 9.5/10 for reasons that are entirely my fault.  You see, Istyboo is going through what we might term a "challenging" phase.  If his vocabulary were a bit better, I think he would spend his waking hours shouting "Destroy! Destroy!" interspersed with charming, cheeky smiles. So I spent the hour chasing him around the various sections of the grotto pleading with him to participate in the activities and stop with the smashing.  As a final farewell, when I was finally getting him out of the grotto, he managed to grab the camera lens and twist it out of focus.  That's my boy...

So, feeling mentally bruised and battered, I reacted badly to some minor frustrations on the gift receiving front and threatened tearfully to call off Christmas (I may also be reacting to the stress of trying to get a move organised in six weeks OVER THE HOLIDAYS).  Honestly, what is the best way to deal with gift givers who consistently get stuff you neither need nor want, who have ignored both direct requests and the fact that you have hobbies, who give you things that you will either immediately return or pass on to the charity shop, without acting like a complete asshole?

I recognise that this is a problem akin to "my diamond shoes are too tight" but I get frustrated because it makes me feel like the givers are just fulfilling a perceived obligation as quickly as possible rather than expressing any emotional closeness.

So, advice and happy Christmas thoughts are appreciated.  I've now un-cancelled Christmas, wrapped all the presents now and put on my Christmas Eve Yankee Candle (purchased at Ruxley Manor!) to soothe myself. Bring on the carol services!

Domesticating the man

A conversation last night:

C: "Now that I'm doing a bit more cooking, I'm starting to appreciate some of your gadgets that I thought were useless before."

V: "I'm intrigued."

"Like that thing that sits next to the cooker.  That you put spoons on.  That's great.  What's it called?"

"The spoon-rest."

"Ah."

Clearly magical

Other people get me out of bed

I have spent the last month sorting out our mountains of paper clutter, fifteen minutes a day.  Today is the 20th of the month and I have now, finally, tamed the mountains of paper.  So... we had about five hours worth of paper clutter around the house. *shudder*

One of the gems I came across were some old Myers-Briggs personality tests.  I have always come back ENTJ - the "E" of which one of my friends questioned.  "Really?" she said.  And I shrugged.  Because it really depends on my mood whether I'm going to be the life of the party or hiding in the kitchen.

One place that I am definitely an "E" - getting my energy through social interaction - is running.  C can go off for hours at a time by himself and come back glowing (though he is currently claiming to be the strongest E ever on the planet - yes, we got distracted by Wikipedia...).  I find that a run with company seems to pass in mere moments, while a solitary run is... longer.

Every Saturday, I wake up thinking that I could just stay in bed.  And every Saturday, I see that I have left my running kit out and so, of course, I have to put it on.  And having donned my stretchy, breathable spandex, I have to eat a healthy, appropriate-to-running breakfast.  And having eaten my porridge with a bit of fruit, I then have to get in the car and go to Sevenoaks.  And then, before I even know what has happened, I am hitting the coffee shop glowing (or something less glamorous than glowing... trust me) with fresh air and exercise.  It's the reminder of my post-run high that gets me to set out my trainers on a Friday night, since I don't want to miss out.

The next step is getting out this Wednesday night - clearly the morning momentum isn't going to get me out in the evening, but I'll just try to recapture the memory of my post-run bliss and see if it can get me out the door on a dark and stormy night.

Run in the sun

Today was an important run.

It's my birthday today and I totally had the excuses ready to stay in bed.  We went out last night and I had two G&Ts.  I have been nursing a minor cold all week.  Itsyboo has been sleeping badly and I'm exhausted.  It rained so much last night that it was probably going to be a complete mud-fest.  I didn't eat breakfast until a hour before I was supposed to run, instead of my preferred two hours.

You get the picture.

But I dragged myself out and turned up, ready for an awful run, where I felt exhausted and tired and grim.  But as I started the pre-run chats with the lovely women of SLJ, my mood lightened a little bit.

By the end of the run - which I just took slow and steady, giving myself permission to at least do a "comfortable run" on my birthday, I felt magical.  I was so glad I went, the sun was shining, the air was fresh, there was a fun amount of mud.  I stopped for a coffee afterwards instead of going straight to Miss A's football, which was delightful.

So it was good, I did it even when it didn't feel "right" and the half-marathon in February feels that little bit more achievable.  My favourite present to myself so far!

Working hard or hardly working?

It's kind of hard for me to believe, but today is my last day at home with the children during the summer holidays.  We will (hopefully) be off on holiday next week and when we're back, it will be term-time again.

It has really brought home to me that I am not a stay-at-home mum any more.  I pictured the summer holidays as endless, sun-filled (this year, at least) days where I needed a giant bag of tricks to help the kids entertain themselves as I counted down the days until September.  Instead, my two days a week with them has positively flown and I'm mildly surprised that this is really it.  A picnic and play in the park today, the weekend, and then Nanny takes over until holidays.

After a month of work, my main impression is sheer exhaustion.  I'm giving it at least six months, but oh. my. god. I have never been this tired.  Apart from the last time I went back to work and during pregnancy.  I don't feel the same sense of accomplishment / escape I felt when I went back with Miss A. 

It may be that I've been reading too many articles on the fact that part time workers are generally screwed.  To be fair to my employer, this is not something I've picked up directly, more my own (sad!) general sense that, now that I am a mummy/worker who tries to spend a lot of time with my children, I will never, ever be promoted again.

And I love being home with the children.  It is an entirely different pace - easier and harder than the office.  By 9:00 this morning (when I started this blog), I had stripped and remade the beds, put the linens in the wash, fed and dressed the children and myself, tidied up and put the dishwasher on, made a frittata and salads for our picnic lunch, and cleared that mess up.  By contrast, on working days, by 9:00, I will generally have fought my way in on public transport, have answered a bunch of e-mails, and have gone to the office canteen for a sub-standard cup of coffee.

Far more delicious than canteen fare at work

It's not that it's better being at home, I guess.  It's that I don't feel like I am being measured against a paradigm of the ideal worker and falling well short.  Pre-children, I once told a colleague that having babies wouldn't change me, I would always want to work all the hours and be terribly ambitious.  I was half right - I just wish there were a clear way to combine family time with success in the work place. I'll keep looking and, if I find it, I'll let you know.

The walls are melting with the heat

Sometimes I feel like we are never happy.  In March, I was complaining about the long, cold winter.  Now that the roads are melting, I'm kind of wishing for just a few flakes of snow or something to cool it down just a little bit.

Now, my dear Texan friends, I will only accept comments of the ilk "but it's x degrees here, weenie" if you are currently living without air conditioning.  If it is currently warmer than 85 degrees Fahrenheit inside your house, dude, I feel you.  If, however, you are currently enjoying refrigerated air while shaking your head at how soft I have become, I fear that my mild sleep deprivation may lead me to say something I would later regret.

I will confess, the heatwave has been bad for my running.  I have let myself be discouraged by the baking sun from running outside for three whole weeks.  I have, in the last week, reinstated my work gym membership and been on the treadmill, but there's not a lot to blog about running in a room filled with sweaty colleagues and daytime TV.

It's a little cooler today, so I decided it was time to start running outside again.  When I say decided, that makes it sound like the process was a little easier than it actually was - I dragged myself kicking and screaming out the door, only successfully motivating myself with my new mantra (with thanks to Jen Gebhardt and the Oatmeal) "Don't let the Blerch catch you!"

Today's goal was two miles.  I ran along the narrow, churned up path again today, which is now covered in lush weeds and thus even harder to run down as you can no longer see which bits are flat.  I think my strategy is going to have to be that I use the half mile until the end of the path as a slow jog/walk warm up / cool down and then do the proper run after the path.  Mentally, I want to resist this idea - "the countryside starts at the end of my backyard," wails my psyche.  But seriously, I used to travel nearly a mile to get to the park to run in Dulwich, and I value the integrity of my ankles.

I finished my run in 27:45, which equates to 13:53min/mile.  That's a lot slower than the 12:00min/mile I was running on the treadmill, but way more enjoyable.  I ran 4.5 miles this week (yay!).  1/2 marathon, I'm coming very slowly at you!

Working girl

I've done it.  I went to work.  I left my babies for three whole days.  I wore a suit.  I sat at a desk.  I had lunch like a grown up and I didn't share it with anyone.

I survived.  The kids survived.  We made it.  It was ok.

So what did I learn in my first week back to work in 18 months?

I learned that rush hour commuting basically always sucks.  I learned that it's more of a pain to stand on a train journey that takes 40 minutes than one that takes 10.

I learned that the kids love you best for ten minutes after you get home.  After that, their affection is anyone's.

I learned that I should never wear this dress again as a former colleague who I ran into at the train station congratulated me on my pregnancy.  Embarrassing for all involved.

But most of all, I learned that it's great to have your Friday when everyone else is having their Wednesday.  Colour me totally smug.

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodnight (until Thursday)

Friday marked the end of my last week as a stay-at-home mother.  It has been a whirlwind.  Two weeks ago, I went in for a meeting with my boss.  Two weeks later, I am laying out my suit, tights, and heels for my first day working for almost exactly 18 months.

It's hard to write about it, because I don't know quite how I feel.  I'm happy - I think it will be good to reconnect with my "grownup" self.  I'm sad - even if it's only three days a week, I will be leaving my babies.  I'm nervous - some days I have such bad mummy brain, I can hardly remember my own name, what if I inadvertently cause the entire banking system to collapse?  Okay, that's seriously unlikely but you never know.

It's probably exaggerating to say that my return to work may save my sanity.  Probably.  Financially, it's not necessary.  My salary will cover nanny and travel costs with more than enough left over for a weekly cleaner (hallelujah...)  I will get to drink hot cups of tea.  I will get to go to the gym.  I will spend three days a week wearing clothes without food or snot on them (I hope...) and talking to adults.  And then I will spend four days with my beautiful babes.

Enjoying the bouncy castle before BBQ guests arrive

The glorious weather this weekend has been great both for our Independence Day BBQ and as my SAHM send-off.  I'm even more pleased that the weather is still supposed to be hot and sunny at the end of the week, so I can continue to enjoy fabulous summertime with the kiddiwinks.

My all-time, iconic summer song

Happy Birthday NHS!

Today is the 65th birthday of the National Health Service.  As someone who was sceptical when I first moved to the country, I would now like to take this opportunity to thank the NHS.

I am thankful that any time we have needed acute care, the NHS has been incredible.  When I had to have abdominal surgery when 20 weeks pregnant with Miss A, I could not have asked for better care.

I am thankful that I got unparallelled medical care at one of the UK's leading antenatal research hospitals for free.  I am grateful, if slightly sceptical, at all of the amazingly detailed extra scans I got for free*, even if one of them meant I spent a couple of months worried that Itsyboo had a heart defect.  If he had, though, we would have been able to fix it in utero using the latest surgical techniques.  For free.

I am grateful that, as nervous new parents, when we were terrified that a five-month old Miss A was concussed (this is actually a funny story, once you get past the initial crazy fear), we took her to A&E and never had to consider whether we could afford it.  Who knew that you could be undyingly grateful for a diagnosis of gastroenteritis?

I am grateful for vaccinations, advice, and care that mean my kids are, so far, happy healthy and growing fast.

When people ask if I ever want to move "back home," I say no, citing holiday (ten days per year?!? I think not) and health care.

*I am aware that I pay for the NHS through taxes.  I'm okay with that.  I am aware that my tax £££s support those on lower incomes.  I'm okay with that too.  I'd rather everyone had access to vaccines and other preventative health care, rather than being a crisis for the medical system once their conditions got so bad they needed acute remedial care.

In and out of the mouths of babes

Sunday nights are a night for soup in our household.  The recipe changes every week.  It always starts with an onion, but can go anywhere from there, depending on what looks like it's about to go bad in the fridge.

This week's soup also included some trimmings from the vegetable patch - some perpetual spinach that needed tidying up, some parsley thinnings.  It feels awfully smug and healthy when I can chuck things in the pot that I harvested from the garden mere moments before.

Despite the variability of the flavour, it's always a hit with the kids.  Itsyboo in particular is known to be extremely enthusiastic.

There is definitely a child behind the bowl

We changed our routine a little bit today - in the past we've eaten our soup in shifts.  5:00 for kids tea, then grown-ups once the children were in bed.  I decided, though, that we'd all start eating supper together on a Sunday, so we sat down at 6 en famille.  Miss A, delighted by both the meal and the company, announced "I love eating soup.  It makes me grow up big and strong!"

"Big and strong like who?" asked Daddy, smirking.

"Like Mr. Tumble!"

Justin Fletcher 1, Daddy 0.

He wins!

Up and down again

I spent this morning putting together Miss A's birthday present.  For those of you keeping track, yes, Miss A's birthday is in November. But we moved the day before her birthday, and I judged from the picture on the box that it would take me at least two hours to put together.

I was out by 50%.  After three hours, one primal howl of despair, a blistered finger, and a minor safety hazard, Miss A can use the table and chairs that were sent to her in November. 

Pity my poor middle finger. Grabbing things is hard!

 

It wasn't a great week for exercise.  I went to bootcamp on Monday and had a great time.  The rest of the week was downhill from there, so I was determined to go for a run today.

 

By a combination of accident and design, I took a completely different route this week.  I spaced out and ran past the turn I'd normally take, and ended up on the route that takes me round the back of Fidelity.  This route is much flatter than last week's on both a macro (hills) and micro (churned up earth) scale.  I thought it would be a lot better but I forgot about the stiles.

 

A stile in the style of the ones I went over today.  Ha - do you see what I did there?

 

For about half a mile, you are crossing fields where there is a stile every tenth of a mile.  On the way out, they were just a little annoying - breaking up my running flow since I had to stop and climb over.  On the way back, they started to seem like a medieval torture device since I had to stop running, get my legs up AND over, then start running again.  Cruel, man.

 



This week's distance was 1 1/2 miles, and I did it in 20:06, which is two whole seconds per mile faster than last week.  And that's with all the stile stops, so I can reassure myself that I could, in fact, outrun molasses.

 

I may try this route again next week when I am going far enough to turn it into a circular one, thus avoiding the stiles on the way home.  Longer term, though, it looks like I'm just going to have to get better at running across little bumps and furrows so that I can run through the fields.

 

Like a train in the night...



Run!

I read somewhere that to write a "successful" blog, you had to decide what it was about and stick to it.  Since I have covered mummy dilemmas, driving and now athletics in the last week or so, I think I'm doing well, don't you?

I mentioned in a previous blog post that I have been feeling an erosion of self since becoming a mother (like every parent ever in the history of time).  Like many mums, for a few years, even my body has been a shared resource.  But now I'm claiming it back.

In my early thirties, I discovered something strange and unexpected.  I like long distance running.  It's a incredibly portable hobby that clears the mind and makes you healthy.  Rather the opposite of wine, which is another of my great loves. 

When they sing "Light Up, Light Up," they are talking about my face which turns bright red from both wine and running

I started out with 10Ks and then ran the Austin Half Marathon in 2009.  It was hard, hilly, and fantastic.

I've now set myself the goal of running Austin 2014.  Since my fitness levels are *cough* not what they used to be, I've got a lot of work to do.  I'm going to start with my former fabulous running club's beginner programme.  This week, I ran 1 mile this morning and will run two "homework" runs of seven minutes each.

I sincerely hope that not all of my running blogs will contain the words "holy fucking hell," but that's how I've got to describe today's run.  My brilliant idea to maximise the fitness impact of my training was to run across the fields behind our house.  This reduces the impact on joints and forces more of your muscles to join in to stabilise you on an uneven surface.  It is, however, harder, since the softer ground absorbs some of the force of your foot's impact. 

I forgot to consider, when planning my route, that the particular field I wanted to run in is accessible only by a narrow path between two fields that, during the winter, is properly ankle-deep mud.  That's not an issue now that it's summer, but imagine how this churned-up footbath dried.  If you guessed that there is not an inch of flat running surface, then you get the extra special prize today.  Happily, there was no one else around or I might have caused them to sprain something laughing as I ran / tiptoed across the wobbly path - which is nearly 1/4 mile long.  And I had to run over it twice.  Between that and the stiles, I managed the mile in 13:26.  Not my best time ever, but I've got plenty of time for improvement, right?  Right?!?

Keep tuned in for further updates this week, when I will attempt to do my homework runs at the same time as attending boot camp three times.  Body, you are mine.

Going the distance

When I was a young thing back in the great state of Texas, I used to think of speed limits as a sort of minimum guidance.  I don't think I was the only one who saw them that way - though I did get a speeding ticket or two, which I blame on my extreme youth (oh, the days...)  The roads were generally wide and well-planned, and I never actually felt like I was taking my life into my hands.

Driving is different here.  When I took my first spins around London, I was terrified at how slow I had to go.  I was convinced that I was going to get shunted from behind by someone who was going the speed limit.  But in London, you had to be ready for the car in front of you to do anything - turn without warning, stop suddenly, or throw themselves into reverse and speed towards you like a very confused demon out of hell (they possibly may have been parallel parking).

I got used to it, though, and adapted to the fact that, on any given journey, I was going to average roughly 5mph for the trip.  It was fine.  Fine.

And then we moved to the countryside.  Full of lanes that are basically paved horse tracks.  And I learned something important.

Did you know that, if the local authorities don't intend to rigorously enforce a speed limit, that they just don't set one? My favourite local attraction, the lovely Ightham Mote, can only be accessed by a windy road that is approximately 1 1/2 cars wide.

The road to Ightham Mote is not unlike the gorgeous Curly Wurly Tree

There are spots where you can pull over to let a car coming the other way pass, since there is no way that two cars can go past each other and both keep four wheels on the road.  Can you guess what the speed limit is?

Sixty (that's 6-0) mile per hour.  The idea of even attempting to match the speed limit there makes me think of that song by Cake about a race car driver who is possibly dead...

Perhaps it's age and a sense of my own mortality, but more likely it's the sheer insanity that has made me reconsider the relationship between speed limits and actual driving speed.  I'll be the one toodling along at 1/3 of the posted limit.  Feel free to honk and flash lights - I'll think of it as your celebration of my driving coming-of-age.

What shall I do?

Today is one of those days when I shall be using my blog as a form of free therapy.  Lucky readers!  In short, I find myself facing a thorny dilemma at the moment.

When I attempted to resign from work at the end of my maternity leave in January, my manager very kindly declined and offered me an additional period to make up my mind.  After various negotiations with HR, we agreed that August would be the end of an extra period of unpaid leave.  Going into the extra leave, I scoffed to myself that there was no real point, as I was going to be a stay-at-home mummy in the countryside, raising children and vegetables and possibly chickens.

As time passes, however, my resolve wavers.  I panicked about going back to work after my maternity leave with Miss A, but it was okay.  I was happy getting out of the house, we had wonderful childcare for Miss A - a gem of a childminder who still keeps in touch for updates.

Fast forward to today and I'm weighing up all sorts of things trying to decide whether it's better to stay or go (at home or back to work for anyone who just got worried).  Although it would be welcome, the extra money isn't really the primary motivating factor.  Rather it's my own mental well being.

I find that I have lost quite a lot of my sense of self outside of being a mum.  Staying at home means I, quite naturally, am focused on the children.  But following our move to Kent, I find it harder to carve out things that are for me and not for the family.

Last year I read the lovely Playful Parenting by Lawrence J. Cohen.  In it, there was a metaphor I loved for children's attachment.  Dr Cohen presented it as a cup, filled by their primary carer's attention and love.  Some children needed constant tiny top-ups, some could go for a while and then need a big top up, but the results of an empty cup resulted in difficult behaviour and unhappy children and parents.  I am, of course, simplifying greatly here, but you get the idea.

Worth a read if this sort of thing floats your boat

 

So, if I think of my sense of self as a cup topped up by interacting with friends and doing things that are good for me, I'm getting pretty close to bone dry.  I often feel like singing Good Feeling - pleading with that good feeling to stay just a little longer.

 



Even a million years after my youth, I still love the Violent Femmes

 



I noticed it less before the move - I had a strong network so I saw friends nearly every day.  Even if it wasn't an arranged play date, I was pretty much guaranteed to see someone if we went down to Goose Green (I am pining for that playground...).  I could nip in to Push Studios around the corner for a Pilates class on a Saturday morning.  I had running buddies and there was a lovely, social running club that I fully intended to join again...

I think I forgot how long it took to set up my network and how lucky I was to have such a concentration of resources.  I took a few knocks to confidence when the first couple of people I tried to chat with at the school gate were polite but cool - I have since met more lovely people but it becomes 1,000 times harder to try to form relationships and initiate play dates when you have a vague worry that you are imposing.  Nonetheless, I try to keep reminding myself to be The Friendliest Mum at the Play GroupTM.

I have also made efforts to do things that make me feel physically good - I have joined a bootcamp workout class (second night tonight).  I have made running club enquiries, but sadly they seem to be a lot more competitive than social.  I fear that running 8 minute miles is some way off for me.

It seems, though, that going back to work would easily sort this out for me.  I would be back amongst my colleagues and work friends, I would have the gym and all its classes in the same building.  I could join the lunchtime running club...  I feel like I can only go back to full on, full time work, though I am meeting my manager soon to discuss options for a return.  It also seems like a live-in nanny is our only option (we'd need around 60 hours a week of childcare, I estimate) and, while we are lucky to have enough room to accommodate someone, I'm not sure how I feel about sharing my home.

While I feel that having me home is the best I can do for my children, it's the best I can do only if they get the best of me.  If I'm sad and stressed and feeling bad about myself, I can't give them the attention and energy they deserve.

There are probably some ideas that I am missing now - working without going back full time, childcare options (I was convinced that we HAD to have a nanny when I went back with Miss A, but the childminder was the most awesome ever).  I will continue to mull them over and do what I can to feel better while I prepare for my chats with work.  I do, of course, welcome ideas and comments and suggestions.

Foraging fail

One of the entertaining things about moving to a new house is seeing what comes up in the garden.  I know that we have several fruit trees - apple, cherry, plum, and apricot - and I can't wait to see which is which.  We also have all sorts of beautiful geraniums, nigella, nasturtium, and, of course, forget-me-nots popping up in every bed.  It's a little thrill every time I see something new sprouting - though it does mean I've let the weeds grow much more than I have in gardens that I designed myself.  And my restraint paid off, as I would likely have uprooted a large stand of aquilegia.

Living in the countryside, I also get excited about the flora and fauna surrounding us.  I have had a recipe calling for wild garlic since time immemorial.  Now I live near woodlands - I went foraging for wild garlic.

I found none.  I toodled through all the local woods, with and without children, dogs, and spouse and found nada.  Sadly, I filed away my recipe for another day.

I was weeding the flower bed today, when I noticed a distinctive garlicky smell coming from the bruised leaves of what I had assumed were more bluebells or lily of the valley.  A closer look at the emerging flowers confirmed it.  I have wild garlic in my back yard.

My own Allium ursinum

 

My first thought was "I can't believe I spent all that time looking for something that I had at home.  Metaphor for life, right?  My second was "now I know what's for dinner!"

Sunburned and happy (+ a quick recipe for kids' tea!)

So, nominate me for the anti-mum of the year awards, both of my children have rosy cheeks now.  As do I.  We spent the entire bank holiday weekend in the sun.  We soaked up every iota, in the lido, in the sandpit in the garden, and at Knole Park.  Unless we had to be inside (sleeping - the kids aren't quite old enough to camp in the back garden), we weren't.

It was a seriously magical long weekend.

C had today off too, but the weather, sensing the end of the weekend for the general public, shifted back to the standard English, and it rained all day.  Luckily after all that outside time, the kids were really pleased with a trip to the library.

Cooking can be a challenge when it's hot and you're busy doing fun things like finding slugs (so mum can kill them - don't tell the kids).  I whipped out one of my old favourites, that has been in development since I was at university and ate a lot of rice.  This is my cheat's fried rice - a great quick tea for kids that's good enough to serve to grownups too.  I made it this weekend with peppers, mushrooms and prawns, but really, this is a great way to use up things that are hanging around in the kitchen.  Grated carrots and courgettes also work particularly well, as does ham - though with ham, I normally leave the soy sauce out, as ham is salty enough on its own.

Ingredients:

Tbs vegetable oil
2 eggs
soy sauce
4 spring onions, sliced
1/2 red pepper, sliced
garlic, sliced
handful of mushrooms, sliced
packet of raw prawns (try to make sure they're sustainably sourced!)
250g packet pre-cooked rice (I used Tilda basmati)
handful of frozen peas
handful of coriander, chopped

Instructions:
Heat a tsp of vegetable oil over a medium heat in a non-stick frying pan while you beat the eggs with a dash of soy sauce (you can omit the soy sauce for very small children, but it gives a nice flavour to the omelette).  Pour into a thin layer in the bottom of the pan and cook until set.  Flip to brown on the top and then set aside.

Heat 2 more tsp vegetable oil and toss in the spring onions, the peppers and the mushrooms.  Stir fry until the peppers are starting to soften (5 - 10 mins).  While they are cooking, roll up the omelette and cut into strips around 2cm wide.  Throw in garlic and stir for another couple of minutes until fragrant.  Add the prawns and stir fry until the prawns are pink and opaque - just a couple of minutes again.

Once the prawns are cooked, add in the rice, peas, and omelette strips and heat through.  Serve with coriander as a garnish.

From Paris to Berlin

If we're friends on Facebook (and if you're reading this, we likely are), you probably noticed that Eurovision was this past weekend.  I struggle slightly to explain my deep affection for the song competition.

A friend (Jenny!) once described Eurovision as "like the smell of skunk", impossible to describe unless you've experienced it.  Another friend (Kat!) described it as "if the Olympics and [American] Idol had a baby, and that baby was raised by noted Russian lady band Tatu."  I would add that, although the song "From Paris to Berlin" was not a Eurovision song, it should have been.

My heart is pumping for love...

I watched Eurovision for the first time as an adult, and I delighted in watching acts where I mostly wondered why on Earth they were doing that on stage.

Past Eurovision winners Lordi

 

Some friends (Lorcan...) take the music seriously - I just love the staging.  This year was disappointing that way, as the setups were generally pretty anodyne.  With a notable exception.

 





How can you fail to be charmed by Dracula singing falsetto?

Greece was also a favourite.  Tiny instruments and kilts FTW.

Alcohol is Free!



So I hope that 2014 will mark a return to the Lordi days (though I really did like the 2012 winner and this year's winner isn't bad).  In that case, I will be euphoric.



What to feed them

When the children were very small, I sometimes felt like I was missing a trick that I didn't really get into the habit of having pouches of baby food and special baby snacks around the house.  I cooked a lot of purees and child-friendly foods, and, having frozen the excess, using that as my convenience food.  I posted on facebook about feeling that perhaps I had "drunk the koolaid" and should just be buying the pouches, but an old friend intervened to say that I was doing the right thing (thanks, Zoe!)

Looks lovely and handmade, right?

 



So I kept on cooking, the kids kept on eating and all was good.  And then I had envy of the people who had little, individually wrapped snacks in their bags.  I tended to have a banana (individually wrapped, right?) or a tub of grapes or something, but my kids seemed to gravitate towards the little fruity bars of delight that I never remembered to buy.  But then, Hattie Garlick came along and made me feel like I was doing a good thing by eschewing mini-rice cakes and kiddie crisps.  And, to be perfectly honest, when I did buy perfectly uniform carrot cake snacks, my kids took two bites and fed them to the dog.

Apparently the packaging was more bewitching than its contents

And then, another friend on facebook shared this story and, after being a bit horrified, I allowed myself, very briefly, to feel smug about the kiddiwinks refusal to eat jars of food.  It turns out that my general kiddie-snack forgetfulness was actually the instinct of a great mum (cue ironic laughter).

Of course, an article like that makes you think (too much?).  The vet had suggested some changes to Coco's diet, and I started thinking that cheap fillers and inappropriate ingredients may not be limited to prepared food for children, so I settled in for a lengthy Google session on dog food.  Now, as much as we love her, I have neither the time, nor the inclination to feed Coco a raw diet, but it also seemed that even a lot of expensive, premium pet foods contained a lot of questionable ingredients.  I stumbled upon the Dog Food Analysis site, which answered a lot of questions and at least gave me some brands to look for.  I'm not saying Coco is going to be eating £70/bag Orijen, but at least I feel like I can make some good decisions for her.

Meanwhile, C and I will continue eating value ready meals with a guaranteed level of horse-meat content (just kidding)...

On women in fantasy fiction

I got some good news yesterday - one of my favourite authors released a new novel this month and I am looking forward to diving in and escaping grim reality for a few hours.

I really love Kay's work - I think his use of language is stunning, precise and beautiful.  His plots are sweeping and are clearly well researched without showing off.  All of this, and he writes awesome women.

He writes female characters who I would love to be.  They are powerful, intelligent, and interesting.  They are part of the team, contributing as much as the men in the story.  Jehane, the doctor, from the Lions of Al-Rassan, Catriana from Tigana - they are women who have opinions, personalities and skills that push the story forward.  And, nearly uniquely in the fantasty genre, they have not had to undergo a terrible sexual trauma to scour away their feminine weakness.  They are simply stong people, and it's so refreshing to read.

There are other authors who are getting there.  Brent Weeks has had several strong women who've gone through the rape crucible (Viridiana, Karris White Oak), but finally seems to have written a women who is both a bad ass and has escaped the "de-womanizing" process (Liv Danavis).  Katherine Kerr's Gill goes back and forth - set on her path as a conflicted love interest, but eventually arriving as a power in her own right.

But generally, female characters exist to reflect the male protagonists.  They are virgins or whores, sweet or evil, love interests or vindictive exes.  And it just gets a bit boring.  Most real women are somewhere in between and equally complex as the men with whom they interact.

It fills me with hope that writers are realising that, as women have related to male heroes, so can men relate to female heroes.

Are there any writers that you think write great women?  Who do you recommend?

Thoughts on Boston

On Monday, someone as yet unidentified did something terrible in a city I love at an event that I respect.  I am, of course, speaking about the bombs planted at the finish line of the Boston Marathon.  It was an act of egregious cowardice, of hate, of evil against ordinary people celebrating the extraordinary achievements of the athletes running.

I lived in Boston for two years.  Boston is where I met C, my darling husband, during the 2000 presidential elections.  In 2010, we returned for a vacation and C ran the Boston marathon, not quite breaking the three hour barrier that was his goal.

I grieve for Boston, for all of those affected both directly and indirectly by the bombings.  But I know that Boston has a spirit of determination and I have faith in the resilience of humanity that we will recover from the tragedy.

This was my first "twitter disaster" - I learned about it via a tweet.  Crazy information and misinformation was flying around the internet.  It has, more than anything, brought home to me the power, the advantages and the disadvantages of the rapid flows of information in the world today.

In 1996, I was living in Paris when a bomb exploded on the metro.  It was on a line I used, at a time I might plausibly have been on the RER.  When I heard, I phoned my parents immediately to reassure them that I was unharmed.  The bombing had not made the US news, so the response was much less ecstatic than I expected.  No relieved praising of God, just a calm "Oh, I'm really glad to hear."

Again, in 1998, a bomb exploded in C's home town, causing some of the worst causalities in the Northern Ireland troubles.  When C told me the name of his hometown, Omagh, he paused pregnantly, expecting a reaction.  I spent the summer of 1998 teaching French in the woods of Minnesota.  I don't know for certain whether the bombing made headlines in other part of the US, but I know that I stared blankly at him, waiting for him to continue on to whatever he was going to say next.

I contrast that with the 24-hour news cycle now.  Endless press speculation, endless commentary to fill an imagined void, to satisfy the interest of observers when, really, there is no new information and some of the invented stories are harmful, pejorative, or simply cruel.  Social media facilitates the good - information appeared nearly immediately letting Boston residents know where the could donate blood to replenish stressed supplies - and the ugly - made-up stories about the death of a child from Sandy Hook in the bombing using old, unrelated photos.

In 1996, following the bombing, I had to make a decision.  Would I start walking to my classes instead of using public transportation?  I considered at length and decided that I would continue on as I had before.  To do otherwise would be to let "them" win.  I still remember the stickers that officials handed out on the metro in the following period - "attentif ensemble".  And I still feel that same resolve today.  We will attend the Boston marathon again (assuming C qualifies again).  I will watch with my children.  We will remain defiant of those who would take away our joy in the world.

Post holiday blues

Today is the end of my holiday.  We had a rather extended Easter, with C taking a little bit of time off work for a staycation.  We did a lot of work sorting out the house - we will soon be able to get a car into the garage, the garden is in good order, and all the flatpack has been constructed.  The interior designer will pretty much finish her work tomorrow.  We will have curtains and all.

The weather is appropriately gloomy for end of holidays, an extension of the longest winter of my life.  I swear, even in Boston, it was getting warm before April!  I am dispropotionately sad at the end of our family time, considering we have been a plague house.  Itsyboo had a tummy bug that meant I had to eat his Easter egg.  Miss A was epically car sick the day we dared a trip to the sea side.  We learned that poor Coco has a yeast infection in her ears (I had to both cross my legs and cover my ears at the news).

But despite all the vomit and yeast, it was so lovely to spend time together.  It will be fun to recount for a while how Miss A had to have lunch wearing daddy's jumper, then got a new designer outfit from the only kids' clothing shop we could find in Rye.

It's especially great that it says Joules all over it, so everyone knows that I can drop a bomb on kids' clothes

Normally, I confess the kids are outfitted via donations from friends topped up with bundles from e-bay, but given the fact that I was going to buy a new outfit, I did go for the most gorgeous one there.  Her leggings, which I have utterly failed to find a photo of, have a print to die for. C, who does not buy the gift clothing in the family, nearly choked at the till.  Good times.

So now, on a day so grey that I have all the lights in the house on even though the curtains are open, I am back to business.  I had the kids fed, the dog's ears cleaned and medicated and the hot tub fiddled with by 8 am.  We played all morning, then had a fabulous home-cooked lunch (chicken, mushroom, and pea barley risotto).  Now we are fleeing to London to the afternoon because, seriously, what can you do in this weather?  This is not what I moved to the countryside for...

I still love it, though.

Indoor snowfall

One of the hardest adjustments I am having to country life is that I don't see my dearest C as much as I used to.  This is partly explained by the commute - but as it's only 20 minutes longer than it was in East Dulwich and he is often over an hour later than he used to be, it's not the whole story.

I expressed some frustration yesterday at the current state of events - he plays football Monday nights, so doesn't get back until after I'm in bed.  He left early for work on Monday and Tuesday, so I was feeling a little single-parentish...

This morning he decided to stay behind a bit to see the kids and to help clean up the living room - we have just had all of our light fixtures put in, so there was a stack of packaging that needed to be taken out.

C's "helpfulness" this morning led to me uttering, for perhaps the first time in my life, the words "what on Earth possessed you?!?"

There was some polystyrene in the pile that C had let the kids destroy.  There were little dots everywhere.  He looked a bit bewildered at what destruction he had wrought.  We eventually got it mostly cleaned up, but there are still little dabs clinging to the dog's ear, Itsyboo's sleepsuit and in my hair.

I have, however, learned my lesson, and will neither complain about not seeing enough of C nor allow him to tidy unsupervised ever again.

Our new addition

Yesterday, the kids got a surprise that was better than birthdays and Christmas rolled into one.  Coco arrived at our house.

Coco Doonbeg Dilnot

 

Coco is a ten year old Irish Water Spaniel, who loves long walks and tennis balls.  She loves children, which is more than we can say for our other family pet.

 

I am the only child and pet you will ever need. Why do you insist on introducing others?

 

Pangur Ban is understandably disgusted that, in addition to having two small children, we now have a dog.  She is currently haunting the upstairs of the house giving us dirty looks.

 

We had a great first day, going on a long walk across the fields, playing lots of ball and trying to stop Itsyboo from feeding all of his food to Coco (because it is apparently hilarious to give her toast and fish fingers).

 

Life here will clearly have its downsides for Coco, though.  The endless rain has turned everything to mud and, for the foreseeable future, Coco will have to get hosed down after every single walk.  We hope that this will be the worst thing that ever happens to her!



Gumbo!

*Hello?  *taps microphone* Is anyone there?

Yes, it has been a very long time since I have blogged.  I can't really think what I was doing in the last month that prevented me writing, but it was clearly very important.  As an apology, I will give you the recipe for my slow cooker gumbo which turned out awesome.

Yum yum yum!

The family is slowly adjusting to life in the countryside.  We dealt with a surprise snow storm yesterday that, even more surprisingly, is mostly gone today.  The playroom is slowly getting brighter and brighter as the layer of snowfall that blocked the light from the slides off an crashes to the ground in the slightly alarming ice-sheets.

Winter is GOING, please?

The decoration is still not done, but we are settling into routines.  Cleaners are nearly twice as expensive here as in London, so rather than pay someone almost £20 an hour I have been cleaning my own house.  Shocking, I know.  However much I used to complain about cleaning the house BC (before children), it was a doddle compared to my labours now, especially since Itsyboo feels compelled to mount the vacuum cleaner and ride it like a tiny cowboy any time I try to clean the floors.

A fabulous new butcher has opened on the Tonbridge high street, alleviating some of my longing for Lordship Lane's amenities.  It was from this shop that I got the key ingredients for my awesome gumbo.  Are you ready for the recipe now?

Slow cooker chicken and sausage gumbo

6 bone-in chicken thighs, skin removed (preferably free-range, organic)
4 tbs flour
4 tbs sunflower oil
packet of smoked sausage
medium onion, chopped
medium green bell pepper, chopped
two ribs celery, chopped
250g okra, chopped
4 garlic cloves, minced
400g tin tomatoes
500ml chicken stock
90 g brown shrimp (optional)

Preheat the oven to 200C.  Pop your chicken thighs in for 30 mins.

Combine the flour and cooking oil in a small pan over a med low heat to make the roux.  Cook, stirring constantly, until the roux is the colour of a pecan or a hazelnut (thanks to my actual Cajun friends for the reference!).  Set aside.

Slice the sausage in 1cm rounds and brown.

Put the roux, sausage, onion, pepper, celery, okra, garlic and tomatoes in the slow cooker and stir well.  Add the chicken thighs, nestling in to the vegetable mix.  Pour chicken stock over the contents of the slow cooker.  Add seasoning to taste - I didn't use any salt since I was serving this to the kids for lunch and the sausage gives it a moderate amount of seasoning.

Cover and cook on low 12 hours or overnight.

Remove chicken thighs and shred the meat, discarding the bones.  Return the meat to the slow cooker and add brown shrimp if using.  Give the contents of the slow cooker a good stir.  Cook on low for another hour to heat through or until you are ready to eat (I let it go another three hours).  The vegetables should be collapsing, the chicken and sausage meltingly tender.  If not, let it cook a little longer.

Serve with long grain rice and a salad for a delicious meal.

Winter is Coming (if you feel like waiting around for a while)

Season three of Game of Thrones is nearly upon us.  I'm reasonably excited about the show, but far less so than season two.  This is strange, because I love me some fantasy.  It's been my favourite genre since I was small, and more than one person has accused me of secretly being a teenaged boy.

I pondered the reasons for a while - it used to be that a mere whisper of "Winter is Coming" would give me chills.  I love the cast's performances.  I love the sets and the costumes and the lighting.  The directing is great.  I know how the story is going to turn out (for the show, at least), so I mostly just appreciated the artistry of the show and seeing how they'd diverged from the original novels to make it accessible to television audiences.

But the urgency of my feelings about the series is gone.  I realised that George R.R. Martin lost me with A Dance of Dragons and I'm not all that worried about when the next book will be out.  I have lost a bit of interest in the conclusion.  Partly it's the fact that I can't stand whipping myself into a frenzy given the general time gaps between books, but mostly, I have realised, I can't stand Daenerys.

It has always been reasonably clear that Cousin George (as we refer to him chez moi) is setting Daenerys Targayen up as the great heroine of Westeros.  But I have always read her scenes feeling like I'm eating my way through a giant plate of brussels sprouts (my most hated vegetable) - theoretically it's good for me (or the story), but damn if I don't hate it.

And for those of you who want to tell me that brussels sprouts are delicious if you just cook them with a little butter and bacon, you are only confirming to me that no one actually likes brussels sprouts.  Sand would taste delicious if you cooked it with enough butter and bacon.

So I find myself startled to realise that I really don't care when Winds of Winter comes out, and if Daenerys becomes queen of Westeros, then by God, I pity the people she rules.  But she will most likely get distracted by someone she decides to save along the way and will eventually arrive in Westeros ten years too late when the White Walkers have already eaten everyone.

I am, however, waiting with bated breath for a few other sequels.  I am on the verge of finding Brent Weeks' phone number and calling him weeping to let me know what happens in the next Lightbringer book.  Does Liv have to break the halo to do what Koios wants her to do?!?   I want to go hold Patrick Rothfuss' hand until he finishes the next Kingkiller book (metaphorically, obviously, since typing would be hard if I wouldn't let go of his hand).  Why is Kvothe in such an enormous sulk?

The truth is, there are legions of great fiction writers out there, and while I enjoy Cousin George's writing, he's only one of the people you should be reading.  Go out there, find some new authors and enjoy.

PS: I did read My Boyfriend Wrote a Book About Me.  It was like hiding in a toilet stall while people outside gossip about someone you know.  Dirty, but fun.  I had to shower afterwards.  And I know more about Chad's pubic hair than I ever wanted to.

What's my age again?

I keep having these moments where I realise that I am now properly grown up.  I often forget (not deliberately) exactly how old I am, having settled in my mind simply on early 30s.

They included things like seeing someone who used to be part of my weekly pub quiz team take a role in national politics. The birth of my children.  My tenth wedding anniversary.  My mother's retirement.  Hearing a friend from grad school on the Today Programme as a pundit.  Finding out the title of the book I wanted to read referred to a guy I ate lunch with every day in high school.

It is apparently not a very flattering portrait...

 



I heard about this book ages ago.  And thought it would be a funny read.  Then today, I read a piece in the NY Times that made the startling connection for me.

 

I was a smart kid and sat with other smart kids.  You might even go so far as to say we were the nerd table.  Except that I think there was at least one other table of equally smart kids who probably worked harder in school than we did.  It is, however, hard to reconcile the teenager who drew a lot of muscle-bound superheroes in his notebooks with the author of Average American Male.

 

With added controversy for your reading pleasure!

 

But hey, we all grow up, don't we?  It wasn't even the most surreal of those moments - the prize for which goes to someone who was talking about their polyamoury on facebook.  I had a moment where I thought "he can't be polyamorous, he's only eight years old!" before I realised that the man in question had been eight years old at the same time I had been eight years old and had presumably aged at an identical rate.

 

The weirdest part of the article for me, though, was when they printed his age.  "35?" I thought.  "He can't be 35 because I'm only... aww crap."

The new supervillain in town

All is quiet in the house.  Miss A is having calm quiet time in her room.  Itsyboo, having slept a bit on the school run is resolutely not napping, but cooing away in his room.  I am doing my lesson planning (clever me!).  On the baby monitor, I hear a small crash.  I pick it up to look, and the temperature in Itsyboo's room jumps from a balmy 20 degrees to 27.  The heat alarm starts beeping frantically.

Our central heating is warming the house up, but not that much and not that quickly.  There can be only one explanation.

Itsyboo is eating the baby monitor.  It's only a half hour after lunch, so you'd think he would be satisfied.  Two and a half fish fingers, four sweet potato "chips" and a handful of peas cannot sate the...

...BITINGEST BABY EVER.

Yes, that's how he kisses.  He made another baby cry today while showering him with affection.

 

Don't be fooled by the angelic face - this baby means biting business.

 

Coming soon to a playgroup near you! (If you live near Tonbridge, that is...)



It's my job

When we put the house on the market in August, I got in to some bad habits.  Before then, I had planned activities very carefully for the three days a week I had Miss A.  We had a rota of painting, baking and gardening that we did during Istyboo's morning nap.  Istyboo mostly just needed interesting things to look at, so was pretty easy to keep entertained.

During the whole moving house process, my primary concern was keeping the house in reasonable shape for potential buyers.  We often had viewings every day and evacuated the house at the weekends.  I made the most of the fabulous East Dulwich infrastructure.  We had the fabulous local parks (especially Goose Green, tiny but brilliant), the libraries, and playgroups, all within walking distance and all guaranteed to keep my house sparkling and tidy.

One of the advantages of the new house is the play room.  I finally have a place where all the toys live.  We do lots and lots of free play, so it normally looks like this:

Why, yes, we do tidy up every evening.  Why do you ask?

Now that we are (mostly) settled in, I feel like I should start planning activities again.  I like a plan and find it much easier to make a big mess if I've planned it out and made sure I've got all the necessary stuff.  I have Miss A all but two mornings a week, so there's extra time to fill.  Also, Itsyboo needs more stimulation these days and I'd like to make sure there are some age-appropriate activities for him.

I came to the conclusion that, as a stay-at-home mum, I should really be doing something akin to a weekly lesson plan.  I've done lesson planning before, during the five summers I spent working at the amazing Concordia Language Villages (my kids are so going there when they are older).

Mildly embarrassing photographic evidence here.

 

There are so many fabulous resources, too.  My favourites are Imagination Tree, the Artful Parent, and Rainy Day Mum, but my twitter feed is constantly pointing me towards new ones.

 

So this week, my resolution is to start my weekly lesson planning.  We will have fun!

 

What are your favourite at-home activities with your children?  Are there any sources of inspiration that you'd recommend?  I look forward to your tips!

Codebreaking

In any close relationship, you develop a code that lets you communicate politely even when you would like to strangle the other person.  It's a delicate art, but necessary for the long term stability of the pairing.

For the last couple of days, I have had flu with fever, chills, aches and the lot.  I blame the children.  It's the kind of ague that would have kept me out of the office.  Now that I'm at home with the kids, that's not an option.  However, it did spark our first "code" conversation of the morning.

C: "If you're so sick you need me to say home from work, just let me know"
      "Please don't ask"
Me: (sceptical) "You could stay home from work?"
                          "Yeah, right..." 
C: "Not really, I've got this thing and this other thing and a very important lunch."
     "I don't want to stay home"
Me: Nods head
        "I kind of want to die, but you go right on ahead."

Our second code conversation happened as I was trying to get out the door to get Miss A to nursery.

Me on the phone: "Darling, have you seen my keys?"
                             "Can you check your pockets as I'm pretty sure you have both sets of keys?"
C: "I haven't... Oh, wait... They're in my pocket..."
     "Dammit, I'm going to miss my train..."
Me: "Seriously?"
         "This is like the third time you've done this.  Why do you keep taking all the keys?!?"
C: "I'll come home..."
     "Why can't you just magic up a spare set or call a locksmith or something?"
Me: "OK, hurry, please."
        "We are already running late because I've been tearing the house apart looking for my keys.  I may need to kill you."
C: "It was an honest mistake, you shouldn't get mad at me."
     "I refuse to be held accountable for not paying attention to how many sets of keys I have in my pockets."
Me: Deep breath
       "Scratch the 'may'..."
       
I can't wait to see what we find to talk about tonight.

It could be worse...

Friday was not an easy day.  The morning started out like many mornings recently.  Miss A slept in and I had to wake her up to get to nursery on time, which didn't go down well.  Itsyboo is in a rather clingy stage so every time I set him down to try to do something, he wailed.

Mum, how dare you try to make me breakfast?!?

 

I eventually did make it out the door on time.  Miss A's nursery is about a half hour walk for toddler legs.  She wasn't happy about going and wailed nearly the whole way there.  I knew she'd love it when she got there, so I gently cajoled her along.  We were within a few feet of the school gate when I ran into the nursery manager who was dropping her child off at the primary school.

 

"Nursery is closed today, didn't you know?"

 

"No..."

 

"We sent out an e-mail."

 

"I didn't get an e-mail..."

 

"Whoops!  We must have forgotten to add you to the list."

 

So there I was, a half hour from home with a screaming toddler and no chance of stopping somewhere warm.  We had something like a forced march home, which made me wonder how people who actually have to do forced marches, or flee a terrible situation, get their toddlers to cooperate.  Cajoling, bribery, distraction, nothing was working to stop the tears and get feet moving a little more quickly.  I mean, seriously, how do people do it?

 

We finally made it home and had hot chocolate and Winnie the Pooh, and suddenly the cold and snow were beautiful, peaceful, and most importantly on the other side of the window.

 

Our first Kentish snow

 



 



 

Expectations v reality

My to do list:

-put Christmas decorations away (as we lumber towards Valentine's day, they are looking more and more inappropriate)

-put together flatpack bookshelf (I had it rush-delivered two weeks ago - money well spent)

-unpack some boxes (hopefully I will find my nephews' Christmas presents... and our landline phone... and, well, I forget now, but a lot of stuff that would be pretty handy)

-clean house (as the saying goes, cleaning with children is like brushing your teeth with oreos)

-put away washing (C "did the laundry" by putting in the machine, asked me not to touch it because "he is doing it".  I have to come downstairs to get dressed every morning as I have no clean clothes in my bedroom)

What I will actually get done:

-cuddle unhappy baby

-reassure daughter that there is enough room on my lap for her too

-referee elbowing match between children

-put everyone down while I recover from elbow to the nose

-pick up unhappy baby

-repeat