Just not good enough.

Excuse me while I get a little grumpy and self-pitying.

Seriously. That's a warning.  If you're looking for uplifting, inspiring or happy, click away now.

There's nothing actually wrong at the moment, but at the same time nothing's actually quite right either.

I've worked solidly today, not stopping for lunch, or B, who's here working too and periodically wants distracting for five minutes: reading files, analyzing missing areas, emailing people who might have the information and getting to within half an hour of having to pick up the girls with nothing actually to show for it other than a table covered in pieces of paper which are no longer in their orderly piles and will probably take longer than the available half hour to clear up.

There's nothing wrong, we all have days like that, and it probably will actually turn out to have been quite productive, when these people get back to me, but for the moment, it feels not good enough.

Once I've got the girls I've got some lovely people coming round for kids' tea and adults' drinks.  The thing is, I really like these people.  In a really sad way, I want them to be our friends. We've been trying to arrange a meet up for months and this is the first time it's happened.  Only B arranged it. And he's arranged it for 5 pm on a Friday evening, when I'm tired, the girls are tired and our standard children's supper is eggy bread and baked beans.  And of course I can give the lovely people's children eggy bread and baked beans, but it's hardly impressive is it? It doesn't say: I really like you and I went to lots of effort for you.    It says, Well, that's fine and it'll do, but it's not really good enough.


There's no food in the house either.  It's been cheese sandwiches for lunch all week. Which is fine because B's working in the office while the builders are here, so it's only me, but it still hardly the mybodyisatempleandababygrowingtempleatthat regime that I'm apparently supposed to be following is it?  Plus there's only so inspirational I can be for supper with half a manky swede, two leeks and a bag of pasta...


I'm cross with the builders too. It's their fault. They were brilliant and superb for the first two months, but the pace has slowed and although what they're doing is still of fantastic quality and they're pleasant and smiley and tidy it just feels like things aren't happening as quickly as I'd like them to.  I can't help feeling that some of that's my fault too - they want me to make decisions, which I can't, because samples don't arrive, or B and I suddenly find we really care about the precise shade of floor tile and put off a decision because it's easier than arguing about it, or I find something I like but I can't rid myself of the feeling that if I just spent another ten minutes on the internet I'd find something I liked more, and cheaper  - and I'm just getting to the stage where I want it done.

I don't feel like a good mother at the moment either - I can't get through five minutes without asking the little ones if they need a wee; which is understandable, but doesn't make for fun parenting, and L's driving me mad.  I came down the stairs with a load of washing this morning to find her going up. I said "Downstairs please L, it's time to go to nursery" and, well, and she solemnly kept going up.  And I could have screamed and shouted, but instead I just felt utterly defeated.  If I can't get her to do something as innocent as go downstairs when I want her to, what hope have I got with the big stuff?

I'm a rubbish friend too. We were supposed to be down South this week, seeing people we love. We cancelled, for all sorts of very valid and understandable being utterly exhausted reasons. And I know they understand, but it doesn't stop me feeling bad. As does the 73 unanswered messages on my facebook, and the not quite so many, but just as important ones in my inbox.  Because these people matter to me, and I'm not treating them like they do.

Let's not get on to being a wife either.  Pants with Names made me laugh this week recounting that her son had told her that he wanted to marry someone just like her when he grew up. Only less grumpy.  The problem is I suspect B feels rather the same...

And I just feel rubbish.   My legs need waxing, my toenails need painting, my eyebrows need plucking and all my trousers are falling down.  And the girls don't care, and B doesn't care (is that a good thing or a bad thing, I never know?) but it still adds to the general disgruntledness.

In the grand scheme of things that matter, this blog is pretty low on the list, but I don't feel like I'm doing that well either.  I'm not proud of it at the moment, and given it's another one of my babies, even if not one that needs its bottom wiped, that bothers me too.

And my chair I'm re-covering isn't working, and I'm a year and a bit behind with the photographs, and the bins all need emptying, and I've got to work out what we're going to eat next week so that B can go to Tesco's at the weekend, and it's L's birthday next month and I have no idea what we're going to get her, and can't even begin to think about a party, and I've got a baby coming in two months and I don't know where all our baby stuff is, much less whether its still useable, and I still haven't filled in the paperwork for the person who's going to come and help us when the baby arrives, and I haven't got the washing out that I put in at 7 am this morning and, and, and...

..and, as previously discussed, it's ridiculous and selfish to feel like this when there's so much worse going on in the world. Shut up Harriet. Get over it.

Sorry about that.  Consider it my contribution to Muddling Along's Ranty Friday...

Naming of Parts

I've had this going round my head recently:

LESSONS OF THE WAR

To Alan Michell

Vixi duellis nuper idoneus
Et militavi non sine gloria

I. NAMING OF PARTS

To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,

To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica

Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
          And to-day we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
          Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
          Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
          They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
          For to-day we have naming of parts.

It's by Henry Reed, and he wrote it in 1942.  It has been much parodied (Cakes, Harry Potter (allegedly, although I couldn't find the link), private parts) but despite that I'm not sure that it's lost, for me anyway, any of the power it had when I first read it, aged probably about 13.

Because, and I'm no literary critic so I may be totally wrong, but I've always felt it was about how we often find ourselves focusing on the stuff that doesn't matter, the transient, the trivial, the just plain unimportant.  And at the moment, I'm blogging about poo, and potties, and breech babies, and thinking about paint colours, and fabrics, and whether wooden door knobs are nicer or less nice than metal ones, and whether I really do have to consult B on what wallpaper I choose, or whether the door should go there or *moves two inches to the left* there.

And I'm ignoring the stuff that matters.  Because while I'm blogging or wiping, or choosing or dithering, in Japan we still have no idea how many thousands are dead, and in Libya people are being shot, or raped, or torn apart by dogs.

And I find myself getting incredibly stressed about the fourth wash of the day, or the exact colour of the skirting boards, and then coming too, getting cross with myself and saying utterly sanctimonious things like "Well, does any of this really matter, when entire cities can be washed away in an instant?", which not only makes me sound like some sort of priggish 1930s Angela Brazil heroine, but is also quite insulting, when you think about it, to the builder, who was only asking if I'd chosen the floortiles, and whose livelihood this is, and who is doing (thus far) an excellent job.

I mentioned this to my mother, who was here last weekend, and she, with the common sense for which my mother is famed, said, "Well, yes, but you can do something about what colour your walls are, and you can't do anything about the people who are still homeless in Christchurch."  She's right of course.  I can't do anything about it, but I still somehow feel guilty that my energy and time is being consumed by something so much less important.

So I sit and I stew and I get cross with myself for getting on with my life as though nothing has happened, even though I know that not getting on with my life helps neither those in need elsewhere in the world, or those sitting in a wet puddle on my kitchen floor.

And really what I need to do is get over myself, find one practical thing I can do, do it*, and then step away from the internet.

*************************************************

*Such as gather up the monthly donations I have been failing to make since October and make them to the Red Cross in the knowledge that they are doing amazing work in all the locations I have mentioned and many more.

Poem taken from http://www.solearabiantree.net.  Thank you.

Two days, two girls, two potties.

It's started.  We are officially potty training.  In an ideal world I'd have left it until the Summer, A&S will be two and a half by then, and it'll be warmer (i.e. not actually snowing, which it currently is) and so they can run around with no knickers on and wee in the garden.  But I'll also have a newborn, and I realise that there are limits to what I think I can manage, and simultaneous potty training, breast feeding and sleeping in three hour shifts seems to be taking masochism a little too far.

So.  The theory is that we start now, and they're done by the end of May.  Or something.

I had this great idea:  we'd start with just S.  She seems more ready than A - we've been plonking them on the potties before the bath for a while now, and S has definitely worked out what she's supposed to be doing.  A is more excited by the fact that she gets to wash her hands afterwards (which does have its upside, but isn't actually getting anything moving down below).  So on Wednesday, on my morning with just S, I took off the nappy and on with the brand new pants. 

It took seven minutes for her to have an accident.

It took a further twenty four minutes for her to have a really nasty, throw the pants away, use a whole packet of wipes accident.

We had three further accidents and one success before A and L came home.  

A took one look at S's new pants and insisted on having some too.  So much for doing them separately.

Here's how the first two days went:

Accidents:  S: 8   A: 1

Successes:  S: 5  A: 2

Daytime hours spent in nappies due to naps and midwife appointments: About six

Smarties eaten:  S: 8  A: 5  L: 3 Mummy: 0

Squares of cooking chocolate eaten:  Mummy: 6 (and a bit. Maybe)

Bottles of wine opened before lunchtime: None. I'm pregnant...

Actually, I stopped counting on Thursday evening after the first two days and since then (famous last words), S hasn't had an accident at all.  A, who seems to have an absolutely cast iron bladder that, if they weren't genetically identical, I'd say she must have inherited from her father, hasn't had many, but not many successes either. I'm not sure what she's doing with it, but am choosing to tell myself she must be sneaking off to the loo when I'm not looking...

... I live in hope.  Wish us luck.  It took six months for L really to crack this.  I suspect it's unlikely doing two at the same time is going to be any quicker.

Grammatically correct

It is half past eight.  L is two and a half.  She is also jet-lagged.  She should have been asleep hours ago, but I am forgiving her because of the jet-lag and ignoring the fact that she is actually having a rather noisy "picnic" in her bedroom.

But I couldn't ignore this:

"Dingle Sheep and I need a poo".

Proud? You bet.

Picture from Agnesandcecil.co.uk.  Thank you.

How to lose friends and alienate an entire Boeing 747

First a word of warning: If you are flying to Vancouver this Christmas and are planning on sitting in economy on the daytime flight on 19 December with BA you might want to change your flights.

(voice of doom)

Because we are going to be on it.

And when I say "we", let's not forget that that includes two just-one-year-olds and a partially potty trained toddler.

By way of background, and before you think I'm insane or ridiculously extravagant to be even thinking of doing such a thing, my brother and his wife now live on Vancouver Island.  We haven't seen them (obviously) since they went in August and I'm missing them.  Plus (and here's where the not ridiculously extravagant bit comes in) if we go now, when S and A are under 2, we don't have to pay for them.  This is a big deal, so with trepidation and gritted teeth, we've booked.

It's going to be amazing.  Be prepared to be jealous, because my lovely parents have booked a chalet in Whistler for the first week and then we've got a few more days with S'n'T (brother and sister-in-law) in their house.

But first we've got to get there.  I think that I've done everything right so far.  I've pre-booked the seats, so that B, L, I and my very long-suffering sister are in a block of four, with S&A on the drop down bassinet/bouncy chair things in front of us (my parents, wisely, are flying business). I've checked whether I can take "proper" milk through security (I can't, so I think I'm going to have to come up with some scheme involving empty water bottles and a rather odd request at Pret). I've got L excited about the flight and being able to watch lots of telly (all normal rules clearly out of the window). My friend KH is going to lend me her flying bag of goodies (she's South African and has done this lots with her 2-year-old).  I've got a shopping list of stickers and new books and colouring pens...

So that's L sorted.  But what about S&A?  They'll be just one.  Very active, very mobile (though not walking) and very likely to get very bored very quickly.

I've already decided I'm going to have to

a) dress them identically in the hope we can play on the cuteidenticaltwins thing and
b) apologise in advance to the entire plane in the hope that that draws their fire.

But what else? How on earth do you entertain two one year olds for ten hours....?

How to un-potty-train a toddler and make an entire family miserable in under three hours.

Today (so far) has not been my proudest day of parenting.

I've written before about how L was (and is) half potty trained.  She wees on the loo, but she poos (deliberately and in a totally in control of her bowels manner) in her nappy.  No nappy, no poo.

I've had lots of good advice about this, both through the blog and otherwise, and the general gist was: don't stress about it; she'll do it when she's good and ready.  Did I take this good and wise advice? Did I hell...  It's a bit like waiting for nail polish to dry, or a scab to heal - you know you should leave it alone and let it do its own thing but somehow you always end up with smeared nail polish, oozing scabs and an un-potty-trained toddler.

So anyway, this morning we took some of the more practical advice:

Us:  Ok L, where do big girls do their poos?
L: On the loo.
Us: and where do babies do their poos?
L: In a nappy
Us: and where do you do your poos?
L: In a nappy
Us:  So you're a baby then are you?
L: No
Us: Well if you do your poos in a nappy you must be a baby.  Do you want to wear a nappy the whole time? (Tee hee, of course she won't, we've won! Hooray!)
L: Yes.

Oh.

So anyway we put her in a nappy (good parents are always consistent), and spent the next three hours telling her that she still could do wees on the loo ("I don't want a wee") and not letting her do what she wanted because:

Babies don't get to choose their own socks ("Do you want to put your knickers on?" "No")
Babies don't get to walk to the swings ("Do you want to put your knickers on?" "No No")
Babies don't knock on the knocker when we get home ("Do you want to put your knickers on? "NONONO")
Babies aren't allowed to play with playdough ("Do you want to put your knickers on?" "NO!!!!!")
Babies don't get stories read to them ("Nononononononononononononononononononononononononn")

Of course we (like the good parents we are) remained calm and good natured throughout.  So calm and good natured in fact that the morning culminated in her being marched upstairs, forced into her pyjamas (still in the (weed in by this time, naturally) nappy, and shut into her bedroom (babies have their door shut) without any lunch.  S and A decided to join in with the wailing. I considered doing likewise.

The story ends (or perhaps middles) happily though.  She is now in bed (with no nappy on* - like I said, consistency, that's the secret of good parenting), chatting happily to her "friends", with the promise of a trip to Mothercare world to choose a new potty specially for poos and some new knickers when she wakes up.

Wish us luck.

*Actually, after all the above, the no nappy is her choice because "Molly doesn't wear a nappy in bed".  Molly is four.  I think we may be seeing a lot more of Molly in the weeks to come.

Poo - viewers of a sensitive nature may find some scenes distressing

I'm not sure what the dictionary definition of "potty-trained" is, but assuming it's along the lines of "has control of bowel and bladder movements and can relieve oneself when and where one wants",  L is potty trained.

It's just not working out quite how I'd like.

We did it in June - we were staying in a house with a downstairs loo and no carpets so it seemed wise.  She was great.  We cracked the wees pretty much straightaway with the help of some haute couture Iggle Piggle pants, and the poos seemed fine too.  She's still in a nappy for her nap and at night so the fact that we occasionally had a poo in a nappy didn't seem to be a problem.

Only now it's the end of October, and we don't seem to have got any further.  It's not that she can't control it,  she's in 100% control (which I think maybe the driving force behind it), it's just that she does her poos where and when she'd like (in her nappy, five minutes after I've put her to bed) and not where and when I'd like (on the loo, at a time of her choosing).  Oh and yesterday she tried to clean herself up too....

I've resorted to the parenting books (not normally my preferred reading unless I want to feel more guilty than I already do), and they say helpful things like "it is important to find out the reason your child is doing this".  How do you do that with a 2 year old?  L is pretty articulate, but I don't think she knows why she's doing it, much less has the vocabulary, or self-awareness to put it into words.

We've had lots of conversations about it, so she knows that she's a big girl, and big girls use the loo and she knows that babies use a nappy, and she's not a baby, and that her friends use the loo; and she agrees and smiles and goes on her own merry way.  We even resorted to bribery:

Me: "L, what could I give you that would make you do a poo on the loo"
L: (thinks hard, for the most outlandish and exotic thing she can imagine) "a lollipop"
Me: (very relieved, having been slightly concerned at having to explain acquisition of a puppy to non-dog-loving husband) "well, as it so happens I have a lollipop downstairs, if you do a poo on the loo, you can have a lollipop"
L: "I don't want a lollipop".

Right.

I know, because I've learned this over the last 2 1/2 years, that this too will pass, and when she's 15 she won't still be in nappies, but I just can't see how. Presumably at some point she will just decide that she's ready, but oh, don't I wish she'd do so soon!