Please may we have some snow now?

I realise that for most of the rest of the country, this is going to look wilfully perverse... but...

I really want some proper snow.  Everyone else has got it.  Why can't we?

Separated at 13 months

Big change in the lives of A and S.

They have been separated.

A few weeks ago the nursery asked me what we wanted to do when they turned one and got too grown up for the baby room (pause for a bit of weepy nostalgia at the thought that my babies are too grown up for anything).  They have two 1-2 rooms at our nursery and after (if I'm honest not very) much thought we've decided to split them up.  It's only for two days a week, and we both felt that this was the only way that the carers would ever really internalise them as two separate individuals with different abilities, likes and dislikes.

So, two days in, how was it for them?  Twins do, after all, have a special bond.

Well...

...I don't actually think they've noticed.  They were certainly much more delighted to see L and me than they were to see each other.

So much for that special bond.

But I also think, so far, it's going to go well. Certainly the carers have already started picking up on things which S does (loves posing for the camera) and A doesn't.  And that A does (can just about stand up - it's amazing what two days of peer pressure will do) and S doesn't (she tries bless her, but with less success).

And if the point of being a parent, whether of twins or not, is to bring up a well-rounded individual (or in my case three) then surely this is a good first step? 

Good day for a media star (with a sting in the tail).

I have, today, made my debut in the national press!

I (and this blog) get a mention (albeit brief) in an article by Gaby Hinsliff (about whom you may remember I raved a couple of months back) about the age-old, same-old, yadda yadda, yawn, but somehow can't stop thinking about it question of balancing work and kids.

Which is funny because it (or at least my buying of the magazine - available at all good newsagents, and less good: given that I bought it from one of those funny little shops in the tube) came at the end of one of the rare days when I've lurched from exasperation to joy and ended up feeling as though I have actually got the balance right. 

This morning was, as is often the case, faintly horrendous; nothing dramatic: S has a cold and is miserable, L didn't want red tights, ice skates more appropriate than going-to-work-must-still-look-like-a-professional-woman shoes (although I was very grateful for my zimmer frame/pushchair), tube full of sweary people cross with the weather and taking it out on each other.  Same old, same old.

Work was fine: nice to see everyone after Christmas, glow of generosity at giving them all the (obligatory) maple syrup candies, stuff to do but not too urgent, actually knew the answer to a technical question when asked.  Just another day at the office.

But the thing is, I was out, I was free, I could banter with my boss without having to interrupt myself to wipe a nose, or break up a fight, or find a missing sheep (or child).  I could have a cup of tea.  I could wander (aka shuffle, remember those shoes) out at lunch time and peruse the sandwich shelves of three different emporia before settling on a slightly unsatisfactory wrap, rather than wolfing down the leftovers from three different plastic plates.  I could just be me. Not someone's mum.  Me.

I had to leave early to get the girls so that the nursery staff could get home, and when I got to the nursery all three of them were in splendid moods (A and S's first day in separate rooms - huge success all round), and we had a lovely time shuffling back along the road home, singing. Literally.  The residents of West London know me as the local loony...

And I know that what made me happy today, and what, by extension made me a nice person to be around at work, and a good, happy, relaxed mum rather than the crotchety, short-tempered, no I haven't got time mum that I can also be (and am, more often than not, if the truth be told) is those six hours I spent without them.

Which is why they're important.  And that's why I realise that if this two day a week thing doesn't work (you'll notice there wasn't much actual work in my day (don't think my boss reads this fortunately)) and if we do find the perfect house in Middle-of-Nowhere, I do still need that Plan B. 

Which is why it's a bit of a b*gger to come home to an email saying that the millinery course might have to be cancelled.

Picture copyright Red Magazine, clearly.

How much is enough?

Tomorrow is the first day of the working week (snow permitting).

Well, at least it's the first day of my working week.

You see, as of tomorrow, I'm working, by the tolerance of my employer, a mere two days a week (Thursdays and Fridays) and while I thought it was what I wanted, I'm worried that it just isn't going to work.

From the happy halcyon days of Whistler I was thought "Whoopee! Only two days a week in the office! It's going to be great!", yet I woke up in a cold sweat on Monday night:"Oh help! I've got to fill three days with the little monsters this week, what on earth am I going to do with them!" and now, having had three very good days, jetlag notwithstanding, I'm praying for snow to shut the nursery so I don't have to go in...

Which is all, quite frankly, just me being typically dithery.

But I do honestly wonder if it really is going to be possible for me usefully to do my job in two days a week.

When we were away, we were sitting round the table and I was talking about something I had done at work before I had L.  My mum said "Oh, right, that was when you had a proper job".  That's as against, in case you'd forgotten, the exact same job I do now, only at a higher level and while simultaneously looking after three small children.  But I do wonder if maybe she was, sort of, right, and if there comes a point when actually you do need to devote a bit more of your time and your energy to your job than it seems I'm prepared to...

But then that way lies the jump I'm not yet ready to make, and until then, my employers are just going to have to take what they can get.  And I'm just going to have to hope they'll continue to think it's enough.

Oh Canada!

It was amazing!

I don't want to get all gushy, although it might make a nice change from my usual whinging, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to.  At least about Canada, Canadians and skiing...

First a week in Whistler.  I can't quite yet believe that we managed, with the three girls in tow, to have four full days skiing, but we did and it was amazing.  To someone used to skiing in a tiny wee village in France with about six lifts and ten runs, Whistler-Blackcomb was utterly beyond all of my expectations.  The width of the pistes, the efficiency of the lifts and staff, the friendliness of everyone, the vast number of ladies loos everywhere you stopped...  And to top it all off, I skied well! 

Having fairly quickly come to the conclusion that this was my holiday and that therefore however much B wanted to launch himself off sheer cliff faces, I wasn't in the business of scaring myself silly, I spent my four days flying down friendly wide slopes, arms outstretched, wind whistling over the top of my helmet*, huge grin on my face.  Can't be bettered.

And all this with free babysitting, cooking and cleaning....

Christmas itself was, well, sort of just another day on the slopes with a lot of presents for the girls and one each for the adults (we'd done a not-secret-at-all Santa which worked out really well).    

Then on to Vancouver Island to stay with my brother and his wife.  I don't imagine I'd ever have visited Vancouver Island were they not living there and I feel very lucky to have done so.  Where we were, on the very southern tip of the Island, is a temperate rainforest, and coming there from the snow was, almost literally, like being hit with a wall of green, an assault on the eyes that took several hours to get used to.  And yes, it rained.

The thing I found odd about Vancouver Island is how beautiful the scenery is against how utterly hideous much of the architecture is.  Admittedly many of the houses are built in what I presume is the local vernacular - clapboard style - which is (or can be) attractive, but most of the other buildings seem to be chanelling the low-rise strip mall look.  There may be some very sensible tsunami-surviving, or rain-repelling or otherwise practical reason for this but driving through it feels a bit like being in the title sequence of a film about the misery of American suburbia - as you pass yet another Lube Center (and, incidentally, can you really build a business on engine oil?).

But that is, perhaps, to complain unnecessarily.  We were very lucky to be there at all, and I'd definitely go back to both Whistler and Vancouver Island (although I admit the presence of the lovely S&T is the biggest draw there).  The best bit is that I think the girls had, in many ways, a better holiday than all the rest of us.  They had 7 adults giving them constant attention and presents too.  Coming back to home and just boring old Mummy has, I imagine, been a bit of a comedown.

The downside?  Well, not a downside as such, but 12 days with my family deserves a post all to its own...

*three years ago it would have been "wind in my hair" but three children later I've somehow become very aware of how much I need to stay alive.

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.

BA 0085 - a survivor's tale.

When I look back, it is with wonder that we survived at all.  Yet I also know that there were only a few moments when failure seemed inevitable and, that, wonder of wonders, we did in fact survive; marriage, family and (sort of) dignity intact. 

The bad:
A vomiting, copiously, orangely, and without warning, about six hours into the flight out.  Not good, although I can't fault the staff, who, despite the fact that they should have been enjoying an extra holiday courtesy of Unite instead of mopping up our puke, were gracious and helpful, and amazingly tolerant of the fact that we'd totally trashed their bassinet.
S screaming.  And then screaming.  And then screaming a little bit more. For a solid two hours on the way back.  For about ten minutes I was nails and stuck to my guns ("ride it out, she will go back to sleep eventually, if you get her out it'll just make things worse") and then the stewardess came and asked if everything was ok, the man next to us offered to see if he could calm her down and my sister glared very obviously at me and I gave in.  Mistake.
L refusing, in classic L fashion: body rigid, head back, lungs inflated, to put her seat belt on.  Every time.
And to top it off:
Two hours sitting on the tarmac at Heathrow on the way out because it was too cold to take off, only to discover, when we got there, that our bags were still, you guessed it, sitting on the tarmac at Heathrow...
 
But, as I say, generally, the good bits outnumbered the bad.  L was (seat belt aside) amazing. On the way out she sat and watched the tv for about an hour and a half before saying "I want to go to sleep now" and doing just that until I woke her up when we were due to land.  And on the way back just the same, apart from the fact that the sleeping was done on the floor rather than in her seat. Quite frankly, if I'd thought I would fit, I'd have joined her.  As for A and S, they were pretty good too. It was hardly A's fault she was sick, and otherwise she slept throughout, and as for S screaming, I guess that if someone had offered me two hours of screaming out of two eight-hour flights, I'd probably have taken it.  Whether the people around us would have done is, of course, a different question...

So after asking for hints and tips, in the end, none of them were necessary.  But for next time, I will know:

• Take every single thing you can possibly think of to entertain them. Even if (like us) you never use any of it, you'll be glad you had it just in case.
• Ignore the air hostesses except when absolutely necessary.  Apparently it's unsafe to let a child sleep on the floor of a plane because the oxygen masks won't reach that low down (the fact that you'd probably choose to pick your child up to put the oxygen mask on her rather than letting her suffocate seems to have escaped them).  I said "Oh right, thanks" and did nothing about it.
• A whimper is better than a scream. If your child is whimpering, ignore her. If she's grumbling, ignore her. If she's yelping, ignore her. If she's really properly going for it, you might have to pick her up.  But until then, just hope. And don't make eye contact.  With child or fellow passengers.
  
• Normal rules do not apply, especially over food.  L ate what she wanted and ignored the rest.  In her case this was yoghurt and chocolate biscuits.  I can't imagine that it did her any harm.
• But the converse of that is that if babies are in a routine, stick to it as far as possible. We were lucky in that both our flights were evening (ish) so we just dragged out the routine so that A and S were having their bedtime milk as we took off. Cue no painful ears and they both fell asleep during take off, and in the case of one baby each flight, stayed that way until landing.
• If all else fails. Drugs. In this case Calpol, but anything else that works would do...
• And finally, sadly, don't think it's all over when the plane lands. You've still got the jetlag to come.