Parental Playcation

August. August is wedding anniversary month.

Him Downstairs and I have reached a big milestone. Kind of. It's been four years. (We've moved countries and had two kids in that time. It feels muuucccch longer!) What's the traditional gift for year four? Oh yes. Four years is Fruit or flowers. He'll be pleased. He always buys me flowers anyway on our anniversary, so for the first year ever, he'll have hit the traditional gift nail right on the head. He'll get double points if he throws in a bag of Granny Smith too eh?

We survived our First (Paper) without much of a hitch. He gave me a card, so technically he also hit the jackpot with that one. He got me flowers too. I got him a photo of our boys blown up into a nice frame. I was following the paper trail.

The Second (Cotton) didn't come with sexy cotton undies for either of us. I got flowers again, but that year he took heed and didn't dare get me a crappy bunch from the 7-Eleven. Can't remember now what I got him. Whoops. Dinner out probably.

Third: Leather. I'd totally forgotten about traditional pressies by this point and believe it was a last minute dash to Borders to get him a book token. Terrible I know. And what did he go and get me? He bloody well pulled all the stops out and made me a wedding album on blurb.com that is the most beautiful picture album I own. He even scanned all the messages from our guest book into it in a very arty fashion. I felt dreadful when I opened it. My gift to him looked supersizededly crap.

But our main tradition with wedding anniversaries is my leaking eyes. You see, as the 19 August dawns, I usually wake up so melancholy that Him Downstairs (HD) is visibly offended. The supposed happiest day of our lives together has me bawling by breakfast and finishing off a box of Kleenex for tea.

I can't help it. I've tried to be chipper, but so far, smiles have been infrequent on that day.

Before you all think I'm madder than a box of frogs, let me explain.

When we got married it was a month before we left the UK. Therefore our wedding was the last big get-together of all our family and friends we would have for, like, ever. It was a great wedding (except for the British summer weather we had: the rain and the more rain that came). But every year when I reflect on that day, I just get all weepy, not because I married HD (though I understand his growing paranoia) but because it makes me think of all my girlfriends back home and our families and how much fun we used to all have together. And how much I miss them all.

I don't help myself. I usually rig up our old portable British TV and whack on the wedding video, so I can feel utterly depressed before bedtime. While I'm sobbing in front of the TV, HD goes and hides the laptop, so I can't then book myself a one way ticket back to England. Our bedroom is hardly a passion palace on anniversary night. More, soggy sheets for all the wrong reasons.

However, for this anniversary, the big t-adaa f o u r t h (!) I am/have turned over a new leaf. Kind of. I have to be honest here. I am actually flying away from him on our wedding anniversary. And taking his children. To Spain. To see their grandparents for three weeks. Ouch. Happy anniversary darling!

Yes, that was his reaction too when I told him what dates I was going away.

But it was so much more expensive to fly the next day, truly. So really, I'm doing him a favour and saving him money by leaving him that particular day. And he loves to save his pennies...

Anyway, to redeem myself and to make up for the past three teary anniversaries, I went all out this weekend to surprise him with a fabulous early anniversary gift.

I took him away.

Without the kids.

To a very fancy hotel.

He waved the boys off at lunchtime on Saturday and spent a while pottering round the house, before I called him. I was outside the beauty salon, where I'd just had my first bikini wax in about five years.

"So, you're still alive then?" he quips down the phone.
"Just. But am not sure it should be as red as it is. It bloody hurt."
"Come home and show me..."

This is exactly the response I was expecting. He's all about wax this, wax that. On me. Wave a bit of wax at his back hair and he runs a mile. He's still babbling on down the phone about did I go for the 'Brazilian' or the 'Playboy,' when I inform him I did neither. Just the 'bare minimum' needed for three weeks in a swimsuit, and, if I could get a word in edge ways I'd like to tell him to pack his bags as I will be home in 20 mins (after the obligatory quick solo jaunt round Gap, J Crew and Banana Republic) to take him off for the night at the swanky Royal Park hotel in town.

What was his response to my surprise announcement?

"Oh right. Cool."

'C o o l'???!!!

I was more speechless than during my bikini wax.

If he'd phoned to tell me he was taking me away to a beautiful hotel for the night, I'd have been jumping up and down, shrieking with excitement. (I don't get out much and HD has never surprised me with an impromptu treat, but if he did, the first thing I'd actually really do is, faint.) But, my point is, for a second there, I wished I hadn't bothered.

The wax had even been booked that particular morning so he had a little extra anniversary present. I would've normally left it until the day before I fly.

Anyway, "Don't sound too excited," I said to him.
"No no," he replies. "I am. I just wasn't expecting it."

Fair point. He was, after all, expecting the anniversary tears. And probably a row. They often go hand in hand when we're meant to be having a highly romantic time together without our children.

So I limped home with red eyebrows (also freshly waxed) to match my red bits and bless him, he'd already packed his tidy whites (FCUK boxers) and had a smile on his face.

Our first stop on the way to the hotel, was a romantic trip to Home Depot (B&Q) to chose paint colours. See, he does know how to show me a good time, doesn't he? He announced he will paint our bedroom while I'm away. I'm a very lucky lady.

Surprisingly, this passed an enjoyable half hour. We held hands and shocker, didn't have a cross word or a moody silence.(Normally part of the course of any shopping trip together.) We also didn't have to chase two small people round the store constantly. Bonus.

There was a minor leak in our love bubble when we then decided to stop off for a sunbathe and swim at the pool. The kids and I are members, HD is not and due to overcrowding, they were not letting any guests in this weekend. Bang went our romantic child-free dip in the pool together.

I was in a grump about this. He was madly suggesting alternative ideas to try and cheer me up (trip to Target aka posh TK Max, anyone?) and avoid any potential arguments lurking around the corner.

But after a tiny moan about the swimming pool, I got over myself and we decided to go check into the hotel early instead.

Wow. Big love bubble of loveliness restored.

What a room.

What bedlinen. I don't think I've ever (knowingly) slept on Egyptian cotton before, but now I am forever converted. "Oh God, I suppose you'll want to go and buy some of these now won't you?" he said. Such a bloke response to the female cooing over sheets.

The heat and humidity had exhausted us, so we made use of the bathroom's amazing shower and fluffy bathrobes, before we settled down to read our books and have an afternoon snooze.

Come on. This is our fourth anniversary, not our honeymoon.

After a couple of hours, where, OK, I did give in to his advances, despite the unattractive post-waxing blotches surrounding my thighs, we felt majorly decadent and ordered chocolate cake on room service.

Trying to look exactly like we'd never ever touched each other when the waiter arrived, I positioned myself with my book and attempted a scholarly rather than slutty expression.

Don't think my ruse worked. The smalltalk the waiter made was cringe worthy, though am sure he has walked into worse than a stray sock leering at him on the floor.

We dressed up for dinner. No splodges of ketchup on our collars. No. We even ironed our outfits.

HD ordered a mangotini and I an Irish coffee on the terrace bar and we savoured every last moment of it being sipped in peace. It was almost like LBC (Life Before Children).

Then I remembered I hadn't told my friend to make sure she got Cheeky up for a midnight wee, so I phoned.

My heart ached for a moment when I heard them giggling and saying, 'Night night' to me in the background, but then the waitress appeared and my need to be me for the evening and not Mummy, overtook me.

We wandered into town, again hand in hand, (it was all getting a bit Mills & Boon) and sat at a pavement cafe, watching the world go by and enjoying our meal. No crayons at the table. No booster seats needed.

We drank Mojitos. The drink we always drank together during Life In London. The drink that got us together. The drink we shared at our wedding breakfast.

It was all going well, and I think my Hubs finally relaxed in the knowledge that this could be the first anniversary with his wife, where she wasn't blowing her nose constantly.


Well oiled by now, we wobbled onto another bar for a couple more retro drinks (Malibu and Orange. Me. Lager. Him) before those Egyptian cotton sheets were a-calling and we made our way back to the hotel. I was up for doing shots back at the bar by now. My drinking glasses well and truly on.

We could hear live music when we got back, so thinking there might be a disco, and what the heck, wasn't it about time we forgot we were mid-thirties and strutted our circa 1991 moves, we followed the music into the bar.

It was more lounge singer than DJ, but still, it'd have been rude to walk straight back out, so we sat down and ordered a drink. The most expensive Baileys we've ever had. (Couldn't afford shots. I had been planning more along the lines of the price of a shot of Mad Dog in Wolverhampton, not a Marc Jacobs keyring.)

Anyway, the end of our evening out was made all the more enjoyable by a newly engaged couple looking like a comedy Anna Nicole Smith and Steve Carrell who slow-danced their way around the bar. HD and I were hoping for a bit of Oasis and Blur, what we got was an earful of the singer's Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston set-list.

I don't think we did a very good job of hiding our laughter at the mismatched couple. Hopefully they thought we were just very happy for them. Ahem.

"She's obviously marrying him for his money," I was blithering on, when HD said, possibly a bit loudly, "And he's marrying her for her tits!"

Taxi for two anyone?

We were pathetically drunk, by now doing our best Mariah sing-alongs at our table. And truly, I didn't care who saw us. I think there was also a very teenage snog somewhere between the bar and the elevator. But, thank God, at least we didn't get up and dance.

We had fun. Loads of fun.

And when we snuggled up in our posh sheets at the end of the night, I knew how lucky I was to have found Him Downstairs, and for once, I wasn't crying about it.

The next morning Mr and Mrs Hangover joined us, but it was worth every Advil. We ordered breakfast in bed (Eggs Benedict and a pot of tea) because we didn't dare face the restaurant in case Big Boobs and her Small Fry were there. We laid-in until 11am and wore our sunglasses as we checked out.

But the biggest surprise of our anniversary weekend ended up being on me, when we got back home. I opened our case to find we'd acquired a few extra 'gifts'. HD had packed us:

2 pairs of towelling hotel slippers
1 toilet roll
1 box of Kleenex
3 hotel monogrammed envelopes
6 sheets of hotel writing paper
1 hotel monogrammed pen
1 mini bottle of L'Occitane shampoo
1 mini bottle of L'Occitane conditioner

He hadn't got me the posh sheets though had he? No. He'd gone for the loo roll. Loo roll! When I scolded him for being so pikey, he said,

"Between you jetting off to Spain and that hotel bill, we can't bloody afford bog roll now can we? Happy anniversary!"

Ahh. Back to reality. Happy anniversary my love. Happy anniversary.

Remind me again, where on those traditional anniversary gift lists, does it say, 'Toilet Paper'?

The Invisible Fence

Fences.

They can be picket, stockade, basket weave, ranch, lattice or tongue and groove. They can be made from brick, wood, concrete or stone. They can be living. If you chose green Arborvitae as your screening, it becomes your hedge. But whatever you plump for, one thing's a dead cert: fences have style, form and function.

They keep your bl**dy neighbours out!

To fence or not to fence, seems to be the most personal of homeowning choices in my locale. If you live downtown (i.e in one of the super-charming but super-expensive Desperate Housewives style homes near the 'high street') you will have a fenced in yard. (Garden). If you live in one of our sub-divison neighbourhoods (i.e. a posh estate) you tend to only have a fenced in yard if you have a swimming pool. You don't want your neighbours stumbling onto your property and drowning after all. No-one can afford that lawsuit.

Or, like us, you live in a sub-division where some people fence parts of their back yards, with the more subtle Arborvitaes (Leylandii) hedging (!) their bets as to whether their privacy is restored and it'll stop next doors bl**dy kids from running through their yard, on their way to catching the schoolbus.

Believe me, it doesn't.

I think we even have a sub-division law about fences. But I've lost that paperwork. Oh dear.

What a load of tosh.

And now I'm getting really steamed up, because I am in the midst of a fence-craving. I am going to say it out loud, shout it from my rooftop. (Okay, from my laptop then.) "I miss my English fences!"

Why?

Because, one of the joys of my street has also become a curse.

I live with kids similar age to my boys, either side of my house and across the street. This is, most, of the time a real joy. The neighbourhood is safe and they all run from one house to another playing in the back yards and generally having a great time. I like the fact Cheeky and Monkey have friends on our street. I like my neighbours. It's just some of their kids that annoy me. And their lack of fences.

Because we're all open plan, the little boy on one side of us, can just wander into our yard, whenever he hears my boys' voices. Even if he doesn't hear them actually, as soon as I unlock my back door, most mornings, I can hear him calling their names in a desperate bid for playtime.

We never come downstairs all washed and dressed, so I have to usher my kids away from the kitchen, so they don't hear him calling, and I don't get caught in my skanky undies. When all I really want to do is have my morning cuppa outside and let the kids run in the fresh air.

This charade is really starting to pee me off.

Take last weekend. No major plans. Nice family time at home enjoying the sunshine. I'm pouring the milk on my Weetabix, standing in my bra and pants, when the little boy next door, waltzes into my kitchen and says he's going to play in the basement with my kids. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Er, morning.

The weekend continued with me constantly either watching him or dragging my kids back from his house, when all I wanted, was for the four of us to spend some quality alone time on our own property. Turns out, we had to leave the house to have alone time.

This wouldn't have happened if we had a fence.

Then there's the little girl on the other side of us. Let me just call her The Terror. Ok, TT for short. Sounds nicer. She is only 6 after all.

She and my eldest really like each other. (Personally, I wish he could've picked more of a looker to be infatuated with, but there, I am that shallow.) Needless to say, they play really nicely together. She's even more bossy and ballsy than him.

But again, I can be happily pushing the boys on our swingset, enjoying quality Mom/Mum-Sons time, and suddenly, there she is, swishing down our slide and tempting the boys away with promises of a ride in her Barbie Jeep.

Or, we'll be enjoying our tea al fresco on the patio and I can see her hovering, right on our boarder, waiting for the boys last mouthful to go in, so she can leer them away for a game of tag or a princess tea-party.

It's got me so riled, that the other week, I took action. I went straight to the garden centre at Home Depot (B&Q) and spent too much on 25 Arborvitae and promplty got Him Downstairs to plant us a hedge to keep TT out.

It worked. Except now she just hovers behind the trees, waiting to pounce. In three years, when the trees will have grown, we won't be able to see her. I am watering them like mad.

Wish we could do the same on the other side of the house, but it's not so condusive to do a hedge there.

Not that most people take notice of our new hedge anyhow. TT's grandfather, who own the house next door, just pushes his way through the leaves to get round and into his bit of our front yard, and the other day, a guy turned up at his house to do some yard work. As he walked across my yard, I asked him if I could help him. He said he was here to see my neighbour. Because I hadn't had enough caffeine yet, I said, " But you're in my yard! You need to go round to his house."

He looked at me as if I was mental. (Maybe I am.) Hopped over one of my baby trees, and announced, " Well, now I'm not in your yard!"

I was dumbfounded.

This whole lack of fences round here, sent one of my expat Brit friends so crazy, she upped and moved. To one of the posh downtown fenced-in houses. I sometimes wish I had her budget to escape.

Maybe I'm just being a cranky ole thing, and I should embrace this quirky, free-land for all suburban US-style of living but, for fences sake, whatever happened to knocking on a front door and asking if you can play?

Summer Lovin'?

Summer's over according to the stores. All the beach brollies are on sale, the swimsuits have 50% off and the shelves are full of long-sleeve Tees and back-to-college room accessories. Purple beanbag and orange desklamp anyone?

Personally, our summer's just getting going.

And by getting going, I mean, summer in the context of that time of year when you're meant to have the time to lounge about in your back garden, catching up on gossip mags or watching the Katie Price/Piers Morgan interview on YouTube (because secretly you're gutted you don't live in England and could have seen it on British TV.) Your kids can run around in their underpants splashing each other in the paddling pool, before popping in for an popsicle and you don't have to live by a schedule. Summer. God love it. Well, who knows if he/she does? Maybe not so much by the amount of rain the almighty has drizzled on us of late.

Suffice to say, I am enjoying not having to chase the boys round the house, waving toothbrushes and pants at them, screaming, "We're late for school. Get dressed!" Or trudging round the supermarket every Thursday morning as I do in term time, as it's the only time in the week I only have one little Monkey with me to deal with, rather than two pulling copious amounts of candy off the shelves.

Not that school's just out for us. No blooming way. Cheeky finished pre-school in May. Yes, M A Y. So we've already done 10 weeks of vacation. And there's 6 1/2 more to go. Not that I'm counting.

But we've packed so much into the first half of the holidays, that I've barely had time to unfold my sunlounger and kick off my Havainas.

We've done, swimming classes twice a week. Cheeky can now:

• Hold breath underwater


• Float unassisted on his front


• Float unassisted on his back


• Kick 15ft with face in water


• Paddle 25ft on back


• Log roll unassisted. (? Exactly, but this has nothing to do with floating turds or branches apparently.)


• Swim 25ft on front with face in water

I'm very proud and am swiftly trying to get him into the next class up so he can master Breaststroke and Whip kicks. What is a 'whip' kick by the way? Totally selfishly, the better he can swim, the more I can sit by the pool watching and cheering him, rather than get in myself and be dive-bombed by him, his brother and the other 30 kids all enjoying the often freezing water.

Other summer activities so far have also included Pre-school camp. He came home clutching:

• A cardboard pizza (" We did cooking today Mummy!")


• A touch and feel textures book ("Look, this is as squishy as you Mummy.") Cheers!


• A 3D self portrait. (" I wasn't sure if I had a black hat Mummy, so I made it brown.") He has neither. Bless.


• A necklace. (" It matches my T-Shirt!") Ahh, a stylish man-accessory. I've taught him well.

We did 'Safety Town' mainly because it was only $45 for eight days and a mere bonus that he'd get to learn all about safety in the park, home, on the bus, road, in the car and stranger danger. He came out of each class waving certificates congratulating him that he can now:

• Call 911 in an emergency. When he wanted to practise this at home, I said we can only call that number if we were in danger or Mummy had collapsed from too much Merlot (joke). He asked, " Is not being able to find Boba Fett's Slave 1 spaceship an emergency?"


• Know his own phone number and address. Hmm. Not sure he totally deserves that certificate as clearly the teacher filled in his phone number for him and he can only write the numbers 4 and 5. Obviously we dont have a two digit phone number. But he can rattle off his address. Though he sings it like the bad rap his Mummy has taught him, to help him remember it. Hey, I live near Detroit - it's all about the music here.


• Spot poisons. He had a little stick with what looked like a hedgehog on it, that he ran around the house waving at the bleach, dish-soap, fly spray, mozzie repellant and.... Mummy's perfume. Charming.


• Stop, look and listen before he crosses the road. At last, he finally pays attention to traffic.


• Knows red means 'stop' and green means 'go'. This is all very well, except in Michigan you can turn right on some red lights. So now, when I do such a turn I have Mr Traffic Safety in the back, yelling, "But it was red Mummy, you can't go. No!" Plus they teach the kids safe ways to drive (come on, they're only 4 and 5). So now it's like driving with my Mum in the car; "Two hands on the wheel please!" Oh make an exception Officer.

They had a graduation ceremony at the end of camp. Yes, we are in America after all. It was actually very cute and all the kids from the two classes did songs with safety themes and demonstrations, like how to drop and roll if you're caught in a fire. He's very proud of his prowess at that maneouver. My video camera whirred and many snaps were taken and duly sent back to the grandparents in Europe.

No sooner was Safety Town over and we were madly cleaning house for the imminent arrival of Grandparents and Aunty from the UK.

The boys were mostly excited at the prospect of plane-spotting at the airport and raiding Nanna and Grandad's luggage for the much-hoped for arrival of a Millennium Falcon and an At-At. Yes, we're in full Star Wars obsessed mode. But the joy on their little faces when their rellies arrived was priceless.

With the family safely back home with us, I went into full Housewife/Short-order Cook/Entertainment Director mode and their two weeks with us passed in a happy blur of beach trips, ice cream and picnics in the park. We also managed a family en masse vacation to Northern Michigan, where despite them bringing over their pesky rainy English weather, we managed to enjoy lots of nature trails, boat trips, bug-hunting and the spectacular that is the 4th of July celebrations. No, we didn't wave our Union Jack. Thought that might be a tad inappropriate.

Having family to stay is always bittersweet. Sweet because obviously we miss them, but also they always bring a stash load of UK yummies for us to enjoy. This visit we got extra lucky because apart from the usual PG Tips teabags and Colgate Smiles toothpaste (I'm no fan of US fruity kids toothpaste) we got:

• Custard Creams (Bit like the white Oreos for you US readers)


• Birds Dream Topping (A de-lish kind of British Miracle Whip)


• Hula Hoops (Hoop shaped chips)


• Mint Club biscuits (Mint and chocolate cookie bars)


• Walkers French Fries, salt and vinegar flavour (Fry shaped chips) Him Downstairs has seriously hidden these under our bed, so the kids don't snaffle them!


• Minstrels (Chocolate candy - bit like a huge M&M)


• Revels (Little milk chocolates with different flavours inside like, orange, toffee, raisin, coffee. The orange ones are all mine. You hear?!)


• Mint Viscounts (Err, I love a bit of mint and dark chocolate in a cookie bar format.)


• Paracetamol (Like Advil. Does the best job for Menstrual cramps in my book.)


• Covonia cough medicine. (Looks like blacktop tar, but 'tis the best cough elixir I've ever found.)


• M&S Percy Pigs (Seriously the nicest chewy fruity candy in the world. Ever. Fact.)


• Cadbury's Buttons (Little disc shaped milk chocolates. A kid winner.)

So now our treat box is over-flowing and we shall be rationing them out until the next lot arrive.

The visit went well. Better than expected if I'm honest. I'm not the easiest of daughter-in-laws and one wrong step and I'm about to strike you off my Christmas card list. When I went back to England earlier this year, theirs was the house I was least looking forward to visiting. And whoops, I probably made that abundently clear. However, life is too short to hold grudges, especially when you only get to see your family for a fortnight once or twice (if you're lucky) a year. So, I shock off my niggles and welcomed them with a good daughter-in-law smile.

You could probably feel their relief all the way back in the UK!

Anyway, the boys thought three new playmates in the house was the best summer present ever and they duly set about completely exhausting their relatives. Nanna was heard to say she needed another holiday after spending two weeks running round being Luke Skywalker or Obi-Wan on demand.

But with them now safely back in England, despite their horrific 7 hour delay at Detroit airport(It's no Heathrow. Once you've done one gift shop and bar, you've kind of done them all. But hey, they didn't lose their luggage) we can finally relax and enjoy the rest of a schedule-free summer.

Of course, next week, the boys will have driven me mad and they'll be back in summer classes and day camps, but for now, I'll just try and live the Stay-at-home and play with my children 24/7 dream. Cue TV on for them and bottle of wine opening and eyes down for a dose of Hello magazine for me!

No, summer's not over. It's only just begun....

Does size matter?

'If only I'd put on a mere 3lbs in ONE year!' I grumbled to myself today in the pediatrician's office. Three pounds!

I was there with Cheeky and Monkey for Monkey's 3 yr check up. Him having just had a birthday 'n' all. And bless his very little cotton socks, it seems Mum/Mom's double cream added to the macaroni cheese, hasn't done much for his weight gain, but jeez-Louise, it's not done me any favours either.

I blame the kitchen.

No, I blame Him Downstairs.

For giving me the kitchen.

Ha! If he'd not surrendered to my incessant whinging about my crap-to-cook-in-former-kitchen, (perfect for opening up a bag of salad greens and tossing a baby carrot on top) then I wouldn't be in the Nigella mess I'm in with my waistline right now, would I?

Anyway, that's another beat-myself-up-about-my-crazy-lack-of-willpower where desserts are concerned dialogue, that, frankly, am closing my ears to right now. For the record, since the 3rd birthday party, and the last crumb of fattening ice cream cake I will taste for a while, (sigh) I've put the Nigella cookbook to the back of the cupboard and it's been fruit and salad overload for me. Yawn. I mean, yum! Raw food all the way. Does uncooked brownie mix count as diet food too?

But, back to the doctors. My pint size second born has gone from 23lbs to 26lbs in 12 months. He's also grown a 'whopping' 1 1/12 inches. I fear a future for him as a jockey and not a quarterback. And him, an American boy. Tiny Tim in a world of the supersized.

However, from the way he battles with his big brother, I think he'll be able to hold his own in the playground somehow.

"How does he eat?" asks the doctor.

"With his mouth and a fork!" Am tempted to quip back, but instead I plump for the more acceptive, " Well. For a toddler. He loves his meat, fruit and veggies." Was I reading a script?

I fail to mention his penchant for all things chocolate and candy related, as am not in the mood for a lecture of the cavity inducing nature. I've already been in the exam room for an hour and the boys are starting to climb the walls. Literally.

So, we proceed to let the doctor poke and prod him and Monkey is given a clean bill of health despite his total refusal to pee in a cup for the doctor. We have enough challenges trying to get him interested in peeing in the potty, let alone a tiny plastic recepticle, thank you very much.

"And you stopped the bottle a long time ago didn't you?" The doctor asks.

I avoid looking at him as I nod enthusiastically, whilst keeping my fingers crossed behind my back.

Oh! Another Suri Cruise I hear you cry. Always dragging that bottle around. But, no, we're not that bad. Quite. I did try and take the bottle away. Honestly. We did the whole 'Now you are three, the bottle fairy's come to take your bottles away to babies that really need them' routine. And he looked me in the eye and burst into tears. Well, being a total softie Mum/Mom, I couldn't take it and promptly told him the fairy said he could have his morning milk in it for a few more days, until they pop by for it at the weekend!

I know! How many good Mummy points did that cost me then?

You see, he's my baby and I guess and there's some little things I'm finding hard to let go of as he grows bigger. When he does perform on the potty, on the outside I'm cheering him. On the inside I am crying, 'Don't grow up yet!'

The fact he is so small and looks like a 2 year old doesn't help.

Again, I blame Him Downstairs. He's the one with the skinny genes/jeans afer all.

This is my last summer with Monkey by my side full-time. Pre-school and a whole world of other outside influences beckons. Plus, hopefully a few more pounds. So, what the heck if he's tiny and I baby him a leetle too much? I want to enjoy every last second I have with him cuddling me and cosing up together, before he goes all Darth Vadar on me. It's not going to last forever. He eats. He sleeps. He grows (a bit). He's fine.

After all, they say the best things come in small packages don't they?

Long time, no blog....

OK, so I haven't turned to jelly and been gobbled up. I'm alive. Just! I realise it has been a very long time since I last posted anything, and today, after more than one friend nudged me in the blog direction, I'm finally hitting the keyboard again.

First, I have to say a big thank you to the many bloggers who commented on my last post. It was comforting to know i wasn't alone in my struggles with Cheeky, and I'm pleased to report we have seen an improvement in his behaviour and love is once more, all around. Yeah, we'll see how long that lasts.

So much has happened since I last posted, and that's why I haven't posted. Ironic really, that when life changes up a gear and you have more to write about, I wrote so little. However, that's my excuse.

Yes, we did make it back to the UK. I survived the 8 hour flight on my own with the two kids and journeyed my way round England, with only a few emotional upsets.

It was great to reconnect with old friends, great to see my kids connect with their kids and only to be expected that there were a few clashes - the boys did after all have to get used to a whole new house, new kids, new routines, new beds, new food, every four or five days. I applaud them for how versatile they were over those three weeks. I don't however applaud them for how jiffily there were every night I was sharing a bed with them!

So it was an utterly exhausted Mummy that flew home and embraced the comforts of home and and a bed with just me and Him Downstairs in it!

The other big change we all had to get used to was the new kitchen I came back to. I highly recommend getting the hell out when doing a home remodel. The pictures show the devastation I avoided whilst I lounged in England, scoffing M&S clotted cream rice pudding and drinking tons of Ribena. Whilst Stateside, my poor husband, struggled to find the microwave to heat his instant mash potatoes amongst the debris.

He was nervous as hell when I cam back, in case I didn't like the new kitchen. Is he mad - look at it! What's not to like? It was the best homecoming gift, ever and I blame the kitchen totally for my lack of blogging recently. For I have been cooking up a storm. It's been Nigella this and Nigella that, as I work my way through her Nigella Express cookbook. I never realised that cooking could be so enjoyable. Followers of this blog will understand what a big deal this is for me - I mean, I used to go into a cold panic at the mere thought baking something edible for Bookclub.

Now, well, maybe it's time to turn my baking into a business a la Trudie in the TV show, Mistresses. (Another lure keeping me from blogland, now it's on BBC America). Am no doubt getting carried away with myself, and thinking up another crazy Mom-Millionaire scheme, but it doesn't hurt to have dreams does it? Especially when your husband works for the doomed auto industry and every month we pray that he gets his paycheck.

Anyway, all in all, I write to say, am back. I will endeavour not to leave it so long until the next post, but I also have to confess, I've rather enjoyed my time away from the computer. I mean, crikey, I've actually talked to my husband of an evening (shock!) We've even manged to get-it-on a lot more regularly (he's currently on medication for the shock of that one!) And most unlike me, I've played a lot with my children, even though this has meant immersing myself of late into the world of Star Wars. Yawn. I mean, yeah!

But, yes, you know me, and this model wife and mother behaviour cannot possible last. I have 16 weeks of summer holidays starting soon. Being Chewbacca for that long, will no doubt have me sprinting back to bogland, as will all the BBQ marinades Him Indoors thinks I will be able to make, now I've turned into Nigella.

I have been known to act in my past, but these roles are far too much for this Mom/Mum to handle 24/7.....see you on the dark side again soon.

The Pain of Motherhood

"The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness."

French novelist and playwright, Honore de Balzac.

In my last post I wrote about the overwhelming stress I feel because of all the things I have to do before I fly to England next week. I'd like to update you that am feeling much better now, but my 40 inch, 40lb firstborn, Cheeky, has done little to cheer me up.

We are told about the joys of motherhood all the time, but what about the pain? I thought motherhood was tough when he was 15 months old and he was crying as I held his screaming newborn brother in my arms. But, boy I think I was mistaken.

Cheeky and I have hit a wall in our relationship.

The 'terrible twos' have been and gone and his tantrum voice has gained strength with every year passed. Now he is four, and lately, more often than not, I am going to tread on controversial motherhood ground here and admit, that we are not the best of friends.

Honore de Balzac better be right and somewhere in my heart I will find forgiveness, but today my heart has been heavy. Cheeky's put it through the ringer.

Every little thing I've asked him to do has been met with a "NO!" From getting dressed, to brushing teeth, to eating breakfast to getting in the car, to getting out of the car. Walking across the parking lot to school was a full blown hurricane of a tantrum, culminating with me being told to "Go away!" as I tried to kiss him goodbye at the classroom door.

I hurried back to the car to have a good cry.

Even his favourite milk drink and snack I had ready for him when school ended, was met with a sullen response and shouting when I refused to play a DVD for him to watch in the car.

The tears once again pricked at my eyes.

Then there was this afternoon's playdate at his favourite indoor playcentre.

I sat there feel ashamed he was my son as he shouted at his friends, bossed them about and threw tantrum after tantrum when the games didn't go his way.

I've lost count of the times I've apologised to my friends for his behaviour and listened as they've told me, "Don't worry - all kids are like that sometimes."

But that's the point. Sometimes I feel that my eldest is becoming like that all the time. And it's breaking my heart and breaking me down.

I love him. Of course I do. But lately he is pushing me away more than he is coming to me for cuddles. Time after tantrum, day after day, I try to hold him. Try to calm him down. Kill the bad mood with kindness but again and again he throws it all back in my face.

By dinnertime tonight, I wilted and couldn't take anymore. He rejected the food I cooked. (Okay, so I'm not the best cook, but the rest of my family ate it.)He spent most of the meal on and off the naughty step and even my mild mannered husband had had enough. Cheeky was reprimanded big time for speaking badly to both of us and the evening ended with him screaming and fighting his way through bathtime and getting all his Geotrax toys taken away.

Right now, that big pile of clean laundry I've yet to put away, is looking like a great place to hide from him.

I'm sat here, blogging relieved he's finally asleep. That's not right is it? Or is this how we all feel at times?

Before the boys grew into toddlers, and I held them in my arms cooing and covering them in kisses, I couldn't ever imagine not liking them, even for a second. Today, I wonder what emotional hell tomorrow will bring and how I will get through it.

I want our relationship to work. I want that so badly, but I am worried I am messing it all up. What did I do wrong? What happened to my sweet natured little shadow? The little blondie who told me he loves me,"More than Thomas the train." (That's BIG love!)Is this what I'm in for, for the rest of our lives together?

Now, with a trip back to England on the horizon, I am so worried that he will demonstrate this terrible behaviour in front of my friends. Friends who haven't seen him in over two years. Friends who I want to like my child, not recoil in horror.

And there, sitting on the sidelines, soaking up all this drama, is his little brother, Monkey. My sweet quiet but determined 2 1/2 year old, who hangs on his brother's every word. I am praying hard he doesn't copy everything he sees.

Tell me, is it normal not to like your child all of the time?

Heeeelllllp!

This is exactly how I feel today and it all started with Ikea.

We had to go there yesterday to return some of the kitchen units we purchased back in November. Normally, I love a day out at Ikea - saddo that I am. The kids get to play in the child care centre for an hour while me and Him Downstairs can browse in peace and we all get to enjoy their meatballs and fries for lunch. But yesterday, I found myself plodding round, annoyed at the crowds that got in my way, annoyed that Cheeky kept stepping in front of the stroller, annoyed that Monkey wriggled whenever I strapped him into the stroller, annoyed that I'd forgotten to put make-up on, (I actually didn't look that different to 'The Scream'. Yes. Not a good look.) But mostly, I was annoyed at how reasonable Him Downstairs was being. Am more used to the comfort zone of arguing with him all the way around Ikea.

I am officially crazy I know. But when we discussed buying new storage bins for the boys playroom, he was so bloody reasonable about it, I told him to "Drop it!" and I refused to buy them. I haven't even got the excuse that it was 'that time of the month.'

When we got home and I realised I'd forgotten to buy diapers, milk and bread I wanted to weep. I did weep.

All quite unreasonable behaviour really. But in my defense, I need to explain my current state of mind.

Next week two major things are happening:

1. I fly on my own with my two little boys back to England for three weeks.
2. My kitchen, laundry room, lounge and part of my garage are being ripped apart and re-modelled.

To get to where I need to be for these two events to go smoothly, I have so much to do that am feeling completely overwhelmed. I haven't even brushed my hair today so far, such is my angst. The idea of having your new kitchen put in while you're away is, on the one hand good planning, as God help my mood if I was to be here trying to entertain the boys while the builders rip out the heart of the house. But, on the other hand, it adds way more work for me in the run-up to my trip.

On top of the usual holiday washing, packing, shopping, etc I have to pack up three rooms in my house, shop for paint, tiles, light fixtures, appliances, doors, windows and counter tops. All in oh, the next five days.

On a regular week I struggle to get all my chores achieved by the weekend, so I'm starting on the back foot with this lot already. I feel like I did just before a big essay was due at college or a deadline loomed at work - bit my bit my brain shuts down and my body goes into slow motion. I can't seem to achieve any of the things I'm meant to do and days pass where I get nothing done. Then, the last few hours before said deadline, I pull all the stops out. Burn the midnight oil and get it done by the skin of my teeth.

I think I thrive on the adrenalin rush of being a last-minute-Lucy, but it does nothing for my complexion or my nerves.

Today, I have a huge list of 'Must-dos:'
1. Buy milk.
2. Buy diapers.
3. Buy bread.
4. Call bank.
5. Put clean clothes away (I have two overflowing baskets full on my bedroom floor)
6. Put a white wash on.
7. Change boys bedding.
8. Find out about Cheeky's passport renewal before new visa goes in it. (Might have to drag him to passport office in Victoria, London. Not a happy prospect.)
9. Confirm OBGYN appointment - time for PAP Smear. Yuk. Mustn't forget to do this.
10. Buy birthday cards. Mail birthday cards. Oh crap. Buy more stamps too.
11. Do list of dates Cheeky will be out of school for teacher.
12. Clean my bathroom. If I can find it under the dust and grime.
13. Clean kids bathroom. (Him Downstairs left all their hair and dirt clinging to the tub again after the last night's bath. V annoying.)
14. Take new jumper back to H&M because Him Downstairs said, "It's exactly like all your other jumpers."
15. Lose 7lbs so I look nice and skinny for my UK debut. (Not going well on this. I just ate banana cream pie for breakfast. Yes. No milk left.)
16. Get leg wax and pedicure because one of my friends back home says we're taking the children swimming during my stay. (The worry over exposing my hairy winter bod is keeping me awake at night.)
17. Get dressed.
18. Get the boys dressed. (Guess these last two should be top of this list.)

Oh and I can add another one to this lot too. Cheeky just said to me:

"Mummy, you have a hole in your pyjamas!"
"Yes. I do."
"Mummy I really think it's time you went and got some new ones."

If only I could find the time eh?

I want to be a motivated Mum, but sometimes it's all too much and I just don't know where to start. I've also just looked in the fridge and there's bugger all in for lunch. I am officially rubbish. I want to cry. I couldn't give my children cereal for breakfast today as I used the last of the milk for their morning drinks and my tea, and now all I can offer them for lunch is one yogurt to share, some cheese crackers and a square of Milka chocolate.

Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish Mummy and Housewife.

Hiding under the duvet and leaving all my tasks to rot into the recesses of my memory sounds like the favourable option right now.

Trouble is, I don't think the boys will let Mummy throw the towel in. I've landed myself the only job I can't quit. Someone let me go stand in a field and scream....