Walkies

So, gone are the leisurely dog walks, spontaneous dinner reservations and lazy weekends spent in a haze of drunken socialising, replaced with a quick turn of the local playing field, never being arsed to eat - let alone go out to eat, and weekends still spent in a drunken haze but only after 4pm, and alone, as our friends were now avoiding us as though we had a red cross on the door. I'd said goodbye to brushed hair, plucked eyebrows and white jeans and hello to elasticated waists, big knickers and a determined hair sprouting from my chin. Ah, the joys of motherhood; I always knew it was a daft thing to do! Just getting out of the house to walk Heather before lunch became my only objective of the day; despite being woken with the birds, it was an objective which proved more erratic than my hair. Once or twice I actually managed it, with the help of Fifi and the Flowertots and a strategy planned out in meticulous detail the night before. It went something like this:

• Be rudely awakened at 5am and discover I'm not Anna Friel or a lesbian and it had all been a dream.
• Feed Tuna whose screams were that of someone else's baby when I was Anna Friel.
• Go back to sleep while Tuna feeds and hope for a recurring dream (but maybe without the lesbian bit this time).
• Be woken again at 7am having only managed a dull dream about cutting my fringe with a pair of nail scissors - oh wait, that wasn't a dream.
• Give Chicken her Shreddies and attempt to eat a bowl of Bran Flakes with Tuna (a permanent resident of my hip) slapping at my spoon as though food is for other mothers - not hers.
• Feed Heather and watch her sneer at the offering as though it were rotting slug slime rather than Nature's Best lugged back weekly from the homoeopathic vet.
• Spend the next hour wiping Shreddies off Heather's back and Bran Flakes out of my hair. Empty and re-load washing machine.
• 9am (already!): Attempt to put Tuna down for her mid-morning nap. (I still hadn't learnt to ignore Gina Ford.)
• 9.05am: Give up and resign myself to another shower-less day.
• Top and tail Tuna while Chicken amuses herself by poking her in the eye under the guise of scientific experiment before noticing Heather has snuck off with another shitty nappy.
• Retrieve nappy, berate Heather and Chicken for having given it to her in the first place.
• 10am: Dress Tuna before placing her in bouncy chair to amuse herself while I dress Chicken.
• 10.05am: Remove Tuna from bouncy chair and attempt to dress Chicken with one hand.
• 10.10am: Try to catch Chicken.
• 10.30am: Give up and bring in Fifi and the Flowertots in all her distracting glory.
• 10.45am: Review Chicken's attire and delude myself that no one will notice that the dress is on back-to-front.
• 11am: Make another attempt at putting Tuna in bouncy chair while getting myself dressed.
• 11.05 am: Remove Tuna from bouncy chair and hastily dress myself while she screams herself sick on the bed.
• 11.10am: Review my attire and delude myself that no one will notice my dress is on back-to-front.
• 11.15am: Suffer fall out from termination of TV while coaxing Chicken into the bathroom to brush her four teeth by promising a resumption of TV later in the day.
• 11.30am: Attempt to brush my own teeth while Tuna slaps at my toothbrush firm in her belief that clean teeth are for other mothers - not hers.
• Fill bag with spare nappies, baby wipes, Sudocrem, crayons, paper, snack boxes of raisins, water cup with the non-drip lid, sun cream, plasters - sod it - put in the entire First Aid Kit.
• 11.45am: Frantically look for sun hats and Chicken's shoes while Heather whines like an air raid siren in anticipation of her walk.
• 12 noon: Strap them into Phil and Ted's while drowning out Tuna's screams (who won't stop until we're on the move) with Steppen Wolf's 'Born to be Wild' on a loop in my head.
• 12.10pm: Leave the house and take just one deep drag on the cigarette I have carefully positioned in a tin box by the gate before crunching it out and returning it to the box to await tomorrow's deep drag.

Day in day out, my predictable bullet point list varied less than Margaret Thatcher's hair do's. I was lost in my belief that it must be possible to get up, dressed and out before the Shreddies stopped working their magic; I mean, we now had cameras on Mars, advances in medical science were unprecedented - surely it wasn't too high to aim? Apparently, it was. Before I'd even the chance to un-clip Heather's lead, Chicken would shout she was hungry. But faint heart never won fair time to walk dog; out came the snack box of raisins while we dashed around the field in the hope it would placate Heather enough to buy me a guilt free afternoon.

But what was it all for? Had I not had a dog I could have been spared all that anguish, accepting our days would begin and end with only the garden as our contact with the outside world; being lazy by nature the thought was certainly appealing, but also suicidal. Walking Heather gave our days structure and purpose (albeit haphazard) without which I may as well have given in to that determined hair on my chin and allowed it to grow and grow until it could eventually strangle me, a fate I might have welcomed without some semblance of a daily routine.

 

If the point to having children is to make you appreciate the simple act of getting out of the house with your clothes on the right way round and being able to eat your breakfast without it ending up in your hair, then I was getting it like a sharp stab in the ribs. Surely, it begs the question - why didn't I stick to dogs?

 

Water

Chicken was twenty two months when Tuna was born. (They are so called because chicken and tuna are the only foods they will jointly eat now, sparing me the chore of providing two meals or alternating starvation.) Chicken had shown only mild curiosity at the hospital, (having not yet recognised Tuna as the new play thing I had so selflessly provided her with.) however, once back at home, her mild curiosity turned instantly to disdain when she said, "Why that here?"
"She's your new baby sister, remember? You visited her in the hospital," Bob clarified.
"Don't want it."

Suddenly an image, clear as day flashed into my mind. It was of me, my face a rippling undulation of wrinkles accentuated by a thick smear of red lipstick as though applied with my feet. I was trapped in a room full of dolls all clamouring for tea.

"Back in a minute," I announced and ran out of the door, into the car and straight to Toys R Us. I returned shortly after with a brand new Baby Born complete with car seat, feeding apparatus and more changes of outfit than Sue Ellen Ewing.
"Here Chicken, look what your baby sister's bought you, isn't she generous?" I said enthusiastically pulling the bribe with its many accessories out of the bag. Her eyes stood on stalks and immediately rushed for the doll in a state of apoplectic excitement exclaiming, "Have it, have it!" as she ran, arms outstretched. However, I wasn't willing to hand over the goods until I had achieved the desired result. I tightened my grip on the doll's arm and said, "You know it's from Tuna don't you?"
She looked to Tuna cradled in her grannie's arms sleeping peacefully for a change, before looking back to the doll and repeating, "Have it!"
I persisted in basic but loud vocabulary, "Present from Tuna - not daddy - not me - Tuna. You understand, yes?"
She eyed me suspiciously before eventually conceding, "Yes."
"So now you like Tuna, yes?" I prompted. (I presume that's what you would call, 'leading the witness'.)
"No!"
"Then you can't have it!" I said lifting the entire bag above my head like a petulant child. (The image of me as a mad, wizened old woman was a compelling force!)
"Martha!" Bob and my mum snapped in unison.
Of course I knew my behaviour was irrational, so I begrudgingly handed over the present, but not before I said, "Here, it's yours, but you do like Tuna now don't you?"
"Martha!"
"Okay, okay," I resigned. I watched Chicken toddle off to play with her hard earned toys and shouted one last attempt, "Remember, Tuna bought it for you!" but her ears were already deaf.

Looking back at the photos now, there are a number of Chicken cuddling Tuna and even one of her kissing the top of Tuna's head, either the camera really does lie or my memory is somewhat fuzzy, because days filled with screaming and petulance seem to prevail in my memory banks. Tuna would scream if not in my arms and Chicken would respond to my seemingly single focus by belligerently refusing to do anything I asked of her. My demands were not unreasonable; I wasn't asking her to prepare a family roast dinner.
"Don't unscrew the cap of that two litre bottle of water, you can see I'm feeding Tuna and completely powerless to stop you. I said don't! No! - Don't tip it upside down and allow the contents to pour all over the floor. I said don......Why you little ****!" I mumbled under my breath as she stood splashing in the lake she had created. "No, no, don't take off your nappy! I said don..........." As I was pinned to the sofa with Tuna guzzling happily, I had to sit back and watch the show as Chicken now splashed in her own wee as well as Evian. The drama continued when Heather decided the indoor paddling pool looked like her sort of fun and joined Chicken in splashing it up the walls and furniture, before drying her wee soaked paws on the sofa where she leaped on her retirement from the game. In the meantime, my mouth had dried up like a lizard's eye ball (the norm with the onset of breast feeding, hence the water) intensified by the vision of my precious water supply seeping between the floorboards.

With delirium brought on by dehydration, I thought I heard a knock at the door. Sadly, it was not my imagination as Heather quickly confirmed by leaping from the sofa and barking manically. I slunk into the cushions hoping that my silence would send them on their way.
"Mama, mama, door, mama!" Chicken began shouting as she toddled, bare arsed between the front door and the sofa, skilfully avoiding Heather as she too felt the need to alert me to the knocking door which I could only have missed if I'd been dead!

I was now faced with a decision. Do I allow whoever it is at the door to believe I have left a toddler home alone with a manic dog or, do I get up and answer the door? I chose the former; until that is, I was greeted with the peering face of the health visitor squinting through a gap in the curtain, at which point, I waved cheerily as though I had been expecting her all along.

I laboriously pulled myself up from the sofa with the hungry Tuna (who didn't share Chicken's picky eating habits) still nestled in the crook of my arm unperturbed by the chaos ensuing around her. I opened the door, "Hi Martha, you were expecting me weren't you?"
Shit! Was I? "Yes of course, come in; ignore the mess, it's not usually like this, we've just had a little accident." Chicken was now naked, sprawled flat on her tummy and splashing in the remnants of her paddling pool like Jacques Cousteau laughing as her splashes made Heather sneeze.

The health visitor gazed upon the scene with undisguised concern before turning to me and saying in a tone reserved for the recently bereaved, "We're here to help you know? Anything, anything at all." Really? I thought, Could you clear up this mess then? She continued, "And there are people you can talk to - about anything. We understand it can all get a bit much at times and we don't want you to suffer in silence."
I suddenly grasped her inference; if the kids and dog were tipping me over the edge, they were there to take them off my hands - NO! "Thanks, thanks," I spluttered, keen to reassure her before she called in the SS. "It really isn't usually like this, it's just that Chicken got hold of the water you see, it's a funny story when you think about it." Her countenance turned from concern to pity in one slick movement forcing my words to halt in my throat. There was little left to say except, "Thanks, I'll bear that in mind."

Once she'd gone, I convinced myself she was racing back to base to write a damming report on my state of mind and it would only be a matter of days before the ominous knock would come to take my children away. I called Bob who thankfully talked sense into me as I sobbed, "Why didn't I stick to dogs?"

Tuna

To begin at the beginning is the only way, or reading this will make no sense today. Percy Street is where you go, so get a move on and don't be slow!

Before long, I was back hovering over the toilet, pregnancy test poised ready for action. When I was faced with the familiar blue line, I have to admit, I was just a little bit scared. Pregnancy was new and exciting the first time round, but now I knew exactly what to expect and I wasn't sure I had it in me. I always knew I wanted to give Chicken a sibling, primarily as a play thing, I'd had enough of the tedious dolls tea parties and making amorphous blobs out of Plasticine, but was that really a good enough reason to have another child?

Chicken was thirteen months when the blue line confirmed the suspicion and I was still far from having the parenting thing licked. How would I fair adding another pair of legs to the equation? The act itself had not been a conscious decision; out with the extra loose boxer shorts and healthy snacks and in with drunken nights when Bob was occasionally allowed to take advantage with a begrudging, "Oh get on with it then and hurry up!" I'm glad it happened that way as I'm not sure I could have ever mustered the courage otherwise; sentenced to a life squashed onto a midget chair with my knees under my chin asking Barbie if she takes sugar with her tea. I chanced a rebellion once by saying, "You know Barbie doesn't take sugar? She doesn't even drink tea - because - SHE'S PLASTIC!" All Chicken said in reply was, "Silly mummy, sit down."

I found it ludicrously easy to ignore Bob while I wrestled with mummyhood, allowing him to evaporated into nothing more than a snoring lump in the bed and someone who cooked my meals (I know, wasn't I spoiled?). He became the silent partner and watched from the wings my obsession with Chicken border on madness with not a breath of criticism. Being a measured character, he suspected correctly that any intervention would have almost certainly resulted in a nasty incident involving a rolling pin and a trip to A & E, so he sensibly left me to it while I devoted my time to Chicken's well being with hardly a nod towards my own, so the thought of two of them sent my bonkers barometer to its limit. I imagined myself leaving the house in nothing more than my Marks and Sparks knickers and bra having forgotten to get myself dressed. But more than that, I seriously worried that I couldn't possibly have room to love another baby - certainly not as much as I loved Chicken; how could I when I felt my love stores were operating at full capacity already? How was I supposed to love and nurture two kids? It was hard enough keeping my eyes on one, and I had two eyes! Oh shit! Why didn't I stick to dogs? (Can you imagine if I'd had twins? I would have been carted away faster than you can say loony bin!) Despite my fears, I had no choice, it was happening regardless, so I waited anxiously for the birth ruminating on whether padded cells were really padded or just cushioned and whether straight-jackets were still legal in such institutions as I was sure that was where I was destined to end up.

My due date came and went once more. Chicken had been five days late, but this one really took the piss by going five better than her sister and hanging on in there for ten days! (Mind you, I couldn't blame her, I would have been reluctant to be released into a world with me at the helm as well!)
You'll be pleased to read that I'm going to spare you any more tales of poo popping labour, suffice to say, I had my epidural booked well in advance and took along my own Andrex. I'm happy to report that was an unnecessary precaution and I was soon looking at another baby girl plonked onto my chest - Tuna was born. To be frank, she wasn't instantly pleasing to the eye, as the photos attest. Firstly, she was blue, with rivers of black hair plastered to her scalp and blood red lips. My first thoughts were, bloody hell, I've given birth to another Muppet! Her face was screwed up into the most angry of expressions while her eyes remained steadfastly glued shut in protest at the light. She was clearly none too pleased at having been dragged out of her warm and cosy haven and demonstrated her displeasure with a blood curdling scream - a scream she exercised thoroughly until she was one year old and had learnt to walk - I kid you not; she had me reaching for the fag packet almost before I'd left the hospital!

So, what of the love I feared I could never share? Although she did her utmost to test me - with her unconventional looks and powerful lungs, I felt my heart pump and swell until it seemed the size of a pumpkin, instantly ensuring there would be plenty of room to accommodate our latest addition (a bloody good job too because she didn't make it easy), I was besotted at first glance.

What I hadn't predicted, and was pleasantly surprised to find, was that we had provided Chicken with so much more than just a play thing (not that Chicken saw it that way, she welcomed her like a verruca!). Far from adding to my obsessive anxieties, she in fact relieved them; the microscopic lens I had permanently trained on Chicken expanded to a wide angle, affording her a little freedom to grow and explore away from my suffocating, controlling tendencies - a practise which could only have spelled doom come her teen years. I'm not saying I relinquished control completely; let's just say, I would still be insisting on holding Chicken's hand when walking up and down stairs (even now at the age of ten!) had Tuna not come along to divert my attention. I had to let go and leave some things to fate; it physically wasn't possible to be at their side every minute, and neither of them have fallen down the stairs.

Putting my neurotic approach to parenting to one side, I believe the greatest gift we've given them is each other. They'll each have a sympathetic ear to chew on when I won't let them join Facebook or stay out longer than 9 o'clock. We still have a couple more years until we're at that point, but I can hear them now, "God, Mum's such an unreasonable cow!" If I'm escaping with only being called a "cow", I'll be happy, but this is my projection into the future, so I'm biased. There is one thing I'm sure of though; when that time comes, I'll definitely be shouting back, "Why didn't I stick to dogs?"

Stoned Love

Of all the things to pause my blogging,
This time I don't deserve a flogging,
A surprise trip to Paris did beckon,
Complete with The Stone Roses while they broke "right into heaven",
When 40 I passed some years before,
Romantic gestures cannot be ignored,
So, I'm sure you'll all agree,
It was worth missing a blog from me!

That was to be my post this week until I decided to share something with you and perhaps canvass opinion along the way. My question is: do we have the right to tell our partners how we like them to look or do we put up and shut up?
I made the catastrophic mistake of telling Bob I'm not a fan of the pregnant gut he's adopted in recent years during what I believed to be drunken, light hearted banter post a superb Stone Roses gig; but what I should have done was gouge out my eyes instead - the consequences would have been far easier to deal with. As far as I'm concerned, my choice of words were not necessarily explosive; had I said, "Slim up fatso or I'm off!" I would not have been surprised to receive a slap in the chops let alone a verbal retaliation; but I didn't. Although, I was rather drunk and perhaps my memory is favouring my version of events, but the whole incident has brought about the question.
Bob and I have been together for twenty four years, I was barely out of long socks when we met and obviously time, children and family deaths have all contributed to the wear and tear on my earthly bones; however, although I don't strive for the size 8 of my twenties, I do try to maintain a certain standard; not quite Bo Derek but not Bella Emberg either; but whatever I'm doing, it seems to be working well enough for Bob. The point is - I'm working on it, not least to remain appealing to Bob, but to help ensure my health and strength for a couple more decades to come.
We all know that men are from Mars and women are from Venus so I don't expect us to always see eye to eye, but when it comes to physical appearances, surely they should take as much interest as us - it is their body after all. I've seen so many men morph into mounds simply because they lack the discipline to put down the bacon butty and reach for the banana. Of course women are not immune to such bouts of weakness, but in mine and Bob's case, I have abstained from enough fatty snacks to maintain a descent BMI, why can't he?
Don't get me wrong, he's not in danger of being winched out of bed by the fire brigade anytime soon; he's not in need of a gastric band or a wired jaw, just a little bit of self-control when in the company of a biscuit tin would go a long way.
Now, I cannot defend my timing seeing as we were in Paris, having just seen The Stone Roses give one of their best performances of their career (in our view), and it was especially poignant as our first trip to Paris together twenty four years earlier had been to see The Stone Roses at that exact same venue, and the whole thing had been organised by Bob, including child care, unbeknown to me (just stone me and get it over with!). A day trip to Hiroshima on the 6th of August 1945 would have been similarly ill-timed, but I'm struggling to see why I can't take an interest in my husband's girth without triggering the row of the century; especially as our numerous years together should already be proof enough of my love and commitment. I'd like to think it's just Bob and his super-sensitive ways, but on our return from Paris, I mentioned the faux-pas to my mum who had a similar reaction to Bob, thus ensuring I alienated two members of my family in my pursuit of optical pleasure.

So, do we put up and shut up? Is it necessary to fancy our partners years into the relationship or do we accept and settle? Personally, I think a bit of both. I don't expect Bob to still look like the David Hasselhoff (honestly, I'll show you the photo! - Or maybe it was just his orange shorts which bore a likeness.) of his youth, but similarly, I'd still like the urge to jump him from time to time. I'll tell you one thing for nothing - I wish I'd stuck to dogs!

I know to comment you have to sign up to Google + and for many the thought of yet another social network link is just too much, and I don't blame you; but if you'd like to drop me a line you can do so at marthatidvyl@gmail.com I'd love to get your views - so long as you all agree with me of course!