Breaking things on ski trips

by Mothership on March 19, 2009

So.  Five days to go, not including the travel day home.

I am very worried about the remaining time, not least because Four and One have already broken several items in the exchange family’s house including:

  • A bed
    (by jumping violently on it repeatedly despite being told not to and then threatened with bodily harm)
     
  • A window blind
     
  • Several cutesy cowboy style wall hangings from their baby’s room
    (‘Buckaroo!’ “Lil’ Cowboy!”)
     
  • A 4’ tall glass vase that had been carefully put away but they still managed to find and shatter.

 

This house is a brand new build so everything is gleaming, amazingly tidy – or at least was until we arrived – and full of artfully placed matching decorative items and tasteful black and white photographs arranged in clumps (I’m sure that’s not the right interior design word, but I’m not a Martha Stewart Living reader).
The owners are devout Christians so there are a lot of crucifixes and bibles everywhere and all the children’s books are on the religious side.
It’s a bit like staying in Jesus’ Pottery Barn.
Four loves it. If she had her druthers we would be living in a house where everything matched, all was brand spanking new and would come from the Touch of Class catalogue.
This place makes me feel slightly anxious and guilty, though, like a sinner with dirty shoes in a show home with white carpet.
I read one of their books to One today about a caterpillar called Hermie the Wormie who felt bad about himself because he was an ordinary caterpillar but God kept reassuring him that he had a plan for him, it would all be okay. And then he turned into a butterfly! It was very sweet. But you know, God has not done that for me yet. In fact I feel like I was a butterfly before and I’m growing steadily into a worm. Was that part of His plan for me? I’m not enjoying this journey. I’m hoping there will be a better ending.
Clearly I need to investigate the bookshelves further. 

It is also full of the noisy kind of electronic toys that speak and sing in loud American accents which thrill the children. We don’t have any of these at home as I consider them the aural equivalent of water boarding so my two are making up for all the deprivation by hitting as many loud buttons as often as they can before we go home again.

I wonder how the other family are getting on at our house? Apparently, according to my neighbour they are incredibly nice. I hope they are not disturbed by the copies in both English and German of  Das Kapital on the shelves..

I am hugely relieved that I decided to clean out the kitchen cupboards before they came because I discovered a boll weevil infestation in all of our flour packets and had to chuck them out – quite disgusting! I am so glad that the other family did not find it before me – the shame of it! Although perhaps I could have asked them to do an exorcism..

 

We had planned a family outing to go sledding this afternoon, but due to the gross destructive nature of my children, I shall be spending the time with a bottle of superglue and a screwdriver mending the damage they have caused thus far.

 

Ah, family holidays!

 

 

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Snowtown Mail

by Mothership on March 18, 2009

Here we are in Snowtown, Colorado!   BRRRRR!!

Husband took pity on me and allowed me to sleep half of the first day away which was incredibly nice of him. Then he took Four skiing this afternoon and I got to stay in the house with One while he napped and I happily played on the computer and drank hot chocolate, so actually the holiday so far has been rather decent.

Later I went to fetch the snow bunnies and it was very touching to see the pink cheeked joy of father and daughter after their bonding stretch of frozen fun. They were very hungry and Husband declared he needed a burger and fries immediately so we went in search of a suitable restaurant. Unfortunately everyone else in the resort area also had the same idea and nearly everywhere we went had a long waiting time which didn’t work with the squirmy preschool velociraptors so after a couple of frustrating attempts we ended up at Denny’s – the 24 hour all day breakfast chain  – which was a bit disappointing to Husband, but the children were ecstatic as they got to order ‘alien pancakes‘ with maple syrup and disgusting drinks out of environmentally unfriendly plastic cups with squiggly straws. 

We came home to the news that Natasha Richardson has died from trauma after a ski accident, which is incredibly sad. I feel awful for her family, especially her two young boys. I wonder how Liam Neeson is feeling, especially. He was not the most faithful of husbands (this I know from personal experience, story for another day).

I have told Husband that I want him and Four to wear helmets from now on and he has pooh-poohed the idea, but I am not letting that child out of my sight without the appropriate headgear. I will not be able to force my spouse to wear one against his will, but at least I can up the insurance policy. This might be some small comfort in the event of the unimaginable, but I doubt a big payout will cuddle me at night and lie to me about my hair looking nice.

I also have a bad feeling that our insurer is AIG.

Crap.

By the way, just found out I am #61 on the top 100 British Parent Blogs. This astounds me as, though British, I am very far from my beloved homeland. Also I had not even heard of half of the ranking criteria which I suppose qualifies me as a genuine e-half-wit, but I’d better raise my game as they’re going to keep updating it.

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Packing Hell

by Mothership on March 16, 2009

  


The Stair Case

Originally uploaded by neverbeengroovy

The house is strewn with items of clothing, none of which is a) warm b) mine or c) clean. My packing deadline was six hours ago. The cat is not yet at the feline flophouse and I’m still in my pj’s. Not so good.

I have spent the day eating bread and butter, drinking cups of tea and frivolously twittering although I did spend a productive half an hour arranging the furniture in the dollhouse in a pleasing manner. I wouldn’t want our guests to think our dolls were poor housekeepers.

Husband has just telephoned to tell me he is checking in for our flights online and how many bags do I think we will have? Is that under my eyes, I want to ask? And currently the answer is none, or at least none full. I have a few suitcases open on the floor but they are all empty except for some dust and cobwebs and abandoned coins of indeterminate heritage.

I know there is an underlying psychological reason for this. It’s not very deep. It’s quite superficial actually. I don’t want to go.
I want to go back to bed and pretend that this isn’t happening.

WAHHH!
However, I’m putting some starch in my upper lip and sucking up the misery.
A giant bag of chocolate-chip infused trail mix (healthy! It’s been proven!) has assisted me in this selfless endeavour.

Later..

Husband came home and ‘helped’ me pack. This consisted of pulling out one horrific item of clothing after another from one of his mysterious boxes with oblivious delight, explaining exactly how much fun I was going to have kneeling down in the slush, making snowballs, getting wet, rolling around in ‘nature’ etc. Nothing matches. Everything smells slightly mildewy and stale or of old people and tomato soup. I am supposed to be grateful for and excited about this attire.

This part of the day was particularly difficult for me as earlier twitters only served to remind me of my former life in which I gaily gadded about Town (no, dear one, not A town like I live in now, but TOWN for real), laughingly rejected the advances of glamourous and desirable suitors, and had adventure after adventure in madcap, stoner musician style.

Now I am being forced to try on smelly old trousers with a hat that belongs on (and quite possibly to) a homeless person and being told that they SUIT ME! 

I could just weep. I know I married this man because he did seem to be the one person I dated who was unaffected by my appearance, so I thought it was bankable that he would not be saddened (unlike me) when it all went haywire with age.
But I did not at any point forsee him trying to dress me like Worzel Gummidge. 

Somebody please, please kill me now.

I will write again from the winter wonderland of Colorado when I have internet, chocolate and some peace. In the meantime, keep an eye on the news for giant avalanches in that part of the world.
They will have been caused by my screaming.

 

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Anything for the Weekend, Sir?

by Mothership on March 15, 2009

Friday was crap.

I planned to have a peaceful time alone in bed (office) with the cat and the computer, many cups of tea and the three packets of Girl Scout cookies that were delivered last night, which nobody else in the family knew about. Instead, a man came to cut down a dead tree with a chainsaw, Husband came home and insisted we go out to lunch to ‘talk about things’ and I had to go back to see the hairdresser to explain to her how much I hated my hair so that she would agree to change it and not charge me even more money.

This took up almost the entire day, caused considerable stress, a number of tears and the net result is that I am no longer speaking to Husband, will have to pay more money to have worse hair and I had to share the cookies with the children.

It’s not fair.

Now it is the weekend and any chance of solitude, let alone with the cat or the computer, is a laughable fantasy unless I stay up until 100 o’clock which will result in dry-socketed misery and minute-by-minute calculations of how long it is until the offspring go to bed again so I can ostensibly rest but in fact will stay up too late again and the whole cycle begins afresh.

Oh, and next week we’re going on a ski holiday which is about the stupidest thing I’ve ever agreed to do. I think it was my inner masochist that gaily went along with the idea of a house swap in Colorado. The real me was trying desperately to shout “No! No! I hate cold, snow, heights, puffy jackets, and any type of sport that requires equipment, instruction or has been associated with yogurt. I’m not going”

But the masochist had locked me in the trunk with the Gimp so the rest of the family didn’t hear me and they went ahead and booked the flights.

Saturday;

Best to draw a veil…

Suffice to say apart from dance class, only reliable bright spot in life, it was fairly grim including the cleaning out of both cars which was so disgusting I cannot bring myself to write it down. I care for my readership too much to alienate you with a description.

I do give a shout out to Mrs. Trefusis who, on this day, offered a glimpse of hair salvation in form of hairdresser referral. Might require trip to London but quite frankly would consider intergalactic travel at this stage to correct terrible mishap.

Sunday:

I have been left at home alone for a couple of hours, ostensibly so I can ready the house for our upcoming house swap, but I am actually using the time far more sensibly by looking desolately in the mirror at my ruined hair and drinking many cups of tea.

We have agreed to exchange houses with another family with children of a similar age who live in a ski resort town in Colorado for a week. They are anxious for some SoCal beach time and we (apparently) are very keen to go and ski and have some snow time so this is going to be wonderful for all concerned. It’s a good idea in theory – both parties get free accommodation and in our case free use of their car (with child car seats!), there are toys, cots and child-proofing at either end, a whole house to enjoy which is great because you really need a kitchen with little kids, in fact it would all be marvelous if I actually wanted to go.

But I don’t.  I’m just going along to be a good sport (anyone sense oncoming failure?)

Four is beside herself with excitement. Some weeks ago I bought her a little hat and some gloves which she has never had before (no need around here) and when I go up to check on her at night I have found her fast asleep wearing them and often nothing else – quite hilarious. Husband was raised in the Alps so he’s very keen to get on the mountain and yodel or whatever. I am going to skulk inside drinking hot chocolate and getting fat.

Poor Bagpurrito has to go to Cat House Hotel (yes, it’s actually called that – like a bordello for felines) for a week so will have terrible abandonment issues when we return and will have to be taken to kitty shrink for analysis.  I also have to pack for the entire family which is completely beyond me. I have absolutely no idea of what to take. I did borrow some ski stuff for the kids but have nothing warm for myself. Maybe if I only take flip-flops they won’t make me go outside?

One comforting thing about the trip, though is that they do have wireless internet so I will be able to report back from the field on a daily basis.

We leave on Tuesday.

I’ll give a packing update tomorrow  – I expect you’re waiting with baited breath for that scintillating list-like post!

If you have any advice to impart, please leave it here

(Nb. It does not have to relate to ski trips, I’m up for anything.)

 

 

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Sickly post

by Mothership on March 12, 2009

 

Sick toddler. Fever of 102, no other symptoms .. yet.

Waiting for the proverbial shit to hit the fan and the big one to catch whatever it is that the little one has.

So, in all likelihood, I will be spending the next few days tending to one flopsy whiner (aged 1 ¾ ) ,one whingey wall-bouncer (aged 4 ¾) while I, myself, will be pursuing a line in resentful sink-mutterering. Husband will be practicing evasive urgent meeting attendance.

 

That’s it. Nothing to see here. Move along, please.

 

If you really wanted to read something new by me , though (she said, pathetically, looking up with what she hoped was a winning smile) you could pop over to Bambino Goodies where they have posted my most recent piece. 

 

In the meantime, I console you with the much promised photo of Bagpurrito.
(Can’t see it? Click again on the title of this post. He will appear as if by MAGIC!)

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Fantasy Plastic Surgery

by Mothership on March 10, 2009

Today, for some uncomfortable reason, I seemed to spend quite a bit of time pondering the subject of aging.
Upon reflection I think I’d really rather not participate in that venture. It doesn’t seem to be much fun. I’m going to ask my mother to write a note to excuse me.

The first person that I discussed the matter with is some years older than me and she revealed that she had just reached the point where she realised that she could not pass for young any more, even in good lighting, and supermarket checkout guys no longer flirted with her. She said that this was hard to accept. She is happily married with a child, but she did not anticipate the pain it would cause her to be sexually invisible, how she had taken for granted her youthful beauty and how she would mourn its passing.

This struck a chord of deep, cold fear into my heart.
I am not at that point yet, still fighting it off.
But that terrible day is going to come for me. And for you.

Oh my GOD! (Scrabbles frantically for drugs, sun block, expensive unguents, gun to shoot self etc)

Later in the day I took Four and One to play with some other children of their ages and I sat chatting companionably with their mother, a very nice, natural sort of woman who is a few years younger than me. Suddenly, without any prompting, she revealed her sadness that that having children had aged her face and body beyond recognition. She confided that she was considering Botox to erase the frown line between her eyebrows. Did I think that was shallow? (I assumed she meant her values, not the line but the answer anyway is no.) I found this charmingly naïve and reassured her that I thought it was just fine and she should do it at once. An ounce of prevention being better than a pound of cure etc.

Then I took a stroll over to Belgian Waffle‘s site and saw that she was rolling around the floor in fits of wailing inadequacy brought on by some pratt’s list of what you should have achieved by age 35. Most of it seemed amazingly trite to me, and a glimpse of the narrowness of the imagination and life of the columnist, but it did have the effect of making one aware of the ticking of the old clock and the limited number of days left before I “sniff the bucket”, as my Great Auntie Hazel used to say

All this talk of mortality, aging, dwindling youth, and missed opportunities led me, inexorably, back to thinking about my incredibly boring hair, the subject of one of my earlier posts.

I can feel myself working up to a dramatic and probably ill-advised change.

I used to have fabulous, improbable starlet hair. You know, long, blonde, thick, bouncy, sexy, and completely artificial looking. Nobody has that colour hair unless they are a something that ends in -star (pop, rock, movie, porn, etc)

Now I have housewife highlight hair. It was all that falling in love bollocks and wanting to please Husband with the natural look.

I think I’m over that now. Both the pleasing Husband bit (sorry, Darling) and the natural look. It’s not fabulous and I don’t look younger, cuter, or have any more friends because of it. Hate it. Hate it hate it hate it hate it!

I feel extra annoyed when people tell me that they like my hair and it suits me. How do THEY know? I think it would suit my personality better to have completely unsuitable hair, actually. And if I have giant dark roots poking out, well so much the better. What more fitting way to express my inner being than that?
Did someone say trailer trash?
Bring it on!
Did someone whisper mutton dressed as lamb?
My signature style.

It’s not really that I think I can go back and recapture the past, my erstwhile youth.
It’s more that I have this feeling that I really will grow old if I don’t reclaim something vital about myself, even if it’s as simple as a headful of mad hair.

Perhaps this is what they call the midlife crisis.
Instead of getting a sports car and running away with a 19 year old I am going to dye my hair an inappropriate colour and make plans for minor cosmetic work. It’s actually one of my favourite (oh, so unfeminist!) pastimes:

Fantasy Plastic Surgery

Other people play fantasy sports and make up teams, I think up all the procedures I would have, in theory, if I had the time, money, inclination, and a guarantee that I wouldn’t end up like the Bride of Wildenstein. 

Currently on the list:

  • Botox. Restylane, Sculptra
  • Breast lift to restore position prior to infant decimation (no augmentation, size ok)

For Future use: 

  • Facelift (timing dependent on supermarket checkout boy reaction)
  • Brow lift (to make eyebrows arch elegantly as they actually never have done)
  • Do something about veins on hands when they start looking like granny claws
  • Whatever it is that Madonna has, because she does not look 50,and is maybe better looking than when she was young.

This is not an exclusive kind of game, so you’re welcome to play. And playing Fantasy Plastic Surgery does not commit you to any kind of procedure nor to condoning them in real life. I, myself,  am unlikely to do any of these (mainly for financial reasons, but also because my lack of cash ties in neatly with my feminist principles).

If you had the world’s scalpel at your disposal, and nobody would know your secret, what would you have done?





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Dora O Dora! I liked you better smaller

by Mothership on March 7, 2009

I have spent considerable time and effort sheltering Four from becoming a victim of gender stereotyping.
I’m not denying her her femininity, we have plenty of fairy and princess crap around here, let me tell you, but I have gone out of my way to make sure that none of the big media corporations got their mitts on my girl and started telling her what to think, at least directly.  That’s one of the reasons we don’t have a TV in the house and also why I banned those vacuous Disney princesses and their conspicuous lack of common sense or sisterhood from our midst.  I wouldn’t even let her choose a Cinderella sticker at the dentist the other day for enduring a tooth cleaning. I made her get the boring ‘Mr.Toothy’ one.
Poor child.
It was so clearly inferior. Even One knew it.

I’m aware that I’m a big fat killjoy. I know she’ll hate me when she’s older, just like I hated my parents because they never let me watch ITV. I thought it was because they were snobs and considered it common. Now I know they didn’t want me watching ads. but in my head it got confused with people that had egg and chips for ‘tea’ and called the cinema ‘the pictures’.
(Note: I do not share my parents’ views on egg and chips or nomenclature so please invite me round, I’ll accept most gratefully.)

So I had selected one character I considered slightly less ghastly than the rest and allowed her to pledge allegiance to Dora the Explorer, the world’s most adventurous preschooler.She’s seen a couple of episodes at the neighbour’s house. She had a copy of Dora in German (back when we had the telly)
“Guten Tag! Ich bien Dora!! Ich liebe die Karte!”  She even has one or two of the little Spanish bilingual books. 
I sort of liked her. Or at least I didn’t hate her. She was curious, brave, she actually DID stuff, not just sat around painting her fingernails and matching her puppies to her cushions. Plus she looked, in as much as a cartoon can, like a small child rather than a tiny, improbable woman. For all intents and purposes she was a good role model.

Until now.
Today I read a press release that chilled me to the marrow.

DORA GROWS UP!

Ok. I get it. Elmo has been a toddler for 10 years, but no matter, Dora needs to move with her core audience. She’s going to go to middle school and become a tweenager. I don’t know quite what happened to grades K-4 but apparently she’s so smart that she was able to skip them. Anyway:

Q. Is she becoming an honour student, the valedictorian of her class who is going to lead a group of 7 year olds up the Amazon to save the rainforest from unscrupulous logging?

A. No

Q. Is she going to climb Everest with the help of her trusty Map, accompanied by Boots, now less naughty and latterly invested with the wisdom of the Great Apes, to rid the famous summit of trash and give us all a lecture on pollution and global warming?

A. No

Q. Is she going to sail across the ocean preventing the bottom trawling and use of poisons in coral reefs which are permanently destroying our oceans and marine life?

A. No. She is not.

She is getting a weave, a miniskirt and internet access.
Yes that’s right. In the autumn, you will be able to buy the all-new, Dora the Whorer doll marketed at 5-9 year olds, who comes complete with her very own USB connection so she can hook up (geddit?) with your computer. They don’t mention exactly where the port is but I have some suggestions.

Oh, and she’s getting fashion too so you can change her outfit and her jewelry
(Wait. Jewelry? WTF?! I’m guessing Scott of the Antarctic didn’t wear earrings and matching bangle) and log it  on her website. Now that she’s older, all that bilingual learning and map reading is going to come in really handy for navigating the world wide web and the corridors of her middle school so she can find Diego’s friends and give them a blow job.
Isn’t that what 35% of middle schoolers are doing these days? I’m so excited for her! And for all the five year olds that are going to be getting her for Christmas.

That will be Four’s peers, entering Kindergarten this year.
That is who this toy is for. Oh goody! Another fuck-me training doll.

But seriously, folks. Don’t we have enough of these? 
Barbie, Bratz, Hannah Montana effigies..

Dora was the last, the only hope, and now they’ve ruined her. 
Will those bastard companies ruin my girl too? Will they ruin yours?
(Don’t get me started on the thongs for 7 year olds and the suggestive t-shirts)

And what will our boys think? Come to think of it, I wonder what will happen to Diego? My guess is he’ll be alienated and confused, start playing Dungeons and Dragons and stop being able to relate to women for the rest of his life. Who can blame him?

I look around me and I see sensible, clever parents who ought to know better buying into this crap.
“It’s only a toy, just a game” they say.
But I don’t think that it is.

I think that Dora is not a game, not a toy to our girls. I think she’s real and life-sized.

And come fall she’ll be busy selling herself on the corner for $60 a time.

 

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The Blog Gimp

by Mothership on March 5, 2009

I started this blog so I would be able to keep a record of the little moments that occur with the children that I would be bound to forget. I thought it would be full of delightful little anecdotes and sweet reports of charming things my offspring had said and done, the hilarious occurrences in the daily life of a young family.

What I failed to take into consideration was that I, not my fictional self,  was part of this family and that it was not going to be possible to divorce my intrinsic darkness from this process and indeed the sullen, sarky-voiced nihilist in the trunk I have been sitting on, hard, since we moved to Stepford, (or in fact since I married Husband – hah! Fooled him!) was going to come hurtling out onto the page, like the Gimp, as soon as she thought the coast was clear.

Hello, World! She says. Who can I shit all over today?

I do manage to restrain myself most days, partly because I was fool enough to tell a few people that I know the URL, but I spend quite a bit of time holding down the delete button when some particularly satisfying piece of gratuitous nastiness trips out. It is harder, though,  to make myself do this when I find a superlatively eloquent phrase that describes my target with vicious accuracy.

The glee! The glee! The second-hand, passive-aggressive, demonically cackling, unrepentant, absolute and resolute delight in being much more horrible than I would dare to be in person. It’s quite exhilarating, you know! It’s what enables me to put on my apron and whip up cupcakes with a smile in my pink Kitchen-Aid mixer that I cunningly bought to disguise myself as a proper mother when I moved here so the other people would think I’d assimilated. Yes, along with those whimsically shaped cake tins I’ve purchased  in droves. Hundreds of them. One for each thought crime. That’s why their house is bigger than mine.

I think that if I were involved in ‘good works’ I would probably not have time to think bad thoughts. However my rather long history upon this earth has shown that I’ve gone to extraordinary lengths to avoid doing any kind of real work, good or otherwise so perhaps we can deduce that I’ve actually expended quite a bit of effort towards ensuring I am free and clear to think the bad kind of thoughts. This makes me feel rather cheerful in a nasty sort of way.

Oh dear, I do hope Husband isn’t reading this. He’s so shockable and he does like to think the best of me. Honeymoon over?

If you’re reading this, Husband, please leave me a nice, reassuring comment! Please? Pretty please??

I am never quite sure whether Husband reads my blog or not.  He might be a silent LURKER.

I just had to take a short break from writing this to take Bagpurrito to the vet for a vaccination which terrified the poor darling, and do you know, I think the man was drunk? I have a sixth sense about this kind of thing having spent my formative years with an alcoholic. Kind of like my own personal booze-dar.  He was perfectly coherent, especially when talking about professional matters such as the cat’s mild chin acne (stress related, should disappear now he’s at home with a ‘nice family’ – little does the fool know, ha ha ha ha ha, lightening bolt, thunder, cackle cackle) but when he started to talk to me about more personal things – we have friends in common – he started repeating himself, blinking very slowly and laughing at his own jokes-as yet unmade.
A little disturbing?
Maybe, though, he wasn’t drunk, but merely testing the animal sedatives on himself which would make him almost noble or at least excuse him as naturally curious?
I think I will take Bagpurrito elsewhere if anything more serious than spots on the chin comes up, though.

So, back to the Gimp.
I find that she is most likely to want to come out when I am writing something fairly innocuous.
Like the other day when I was waxing lyrical about adverbs for Bambino Goodies.

It’s not that I didn’t mean it. I did.

I liked that piece and it was all very wholesome and cute, in its way.

But, like Reta, the protagonist from Carol Shields‘ Unless, sometimes I can find

“that my writing is just the teensiest  bit darling”.

That’s when I want to get out my AK47 and blow everyone’s brains out.

Especially mine.

But not exclusively.

Told you I was nasty.

I have literary Colombine massacres in my head. They’re such fun and so very cathartic.

And because they take place in a contained, virtual space I don’t have to mop anything up afterwards (so DONE with cleaning – how much fucking Play-Doh did I pick off the dining room floor today alone?).
And as for doing time, aren’t I already doing that? I’m trapped in here with a psychotic madwoman and nobody’s going to let me out any time soon. Well, they might give me a day pass if I get hold of some strong psychotropics but the FDA is so miserly with that kind of thing and my once-strong network of unorthodox suppliers is an ocean and a 10 hour time difference away.
Sigh..

I think that is enough excitement for one evening, Gimp.

Back in the box. More jolly japes tomorrow. I might let you out later to leave anonymous comments on Rush Limbaugh‘s website if you’re really desperate. Otherwise go to bed.

She’s a good girl, really..

Now, what kind of cupcake would you like?

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New Neighbours

by Mothership on March 4, 2009

We are getting new neighbours.

Technically, we’re getting new tenants because we have an apartment above our garage that we rent out, making us a kind of latter day Peter Rachman, but we prefer to think of them as neighbours.  After all, these people will be literally living on top of us.

For the last year we have been incredibly fortunate to have the World’s Best Babysitter, (WBB), and her husband, the world’s Second Best Babysitter,(SBB) in the flat.
This could not have been a more perfect arrangement from my perspective. The BB’s were close, they were incredibly flexible about timing, they would invite the children over to play with their very friendly Corgi – huge, as we are never getting a dog (I clean up enough shit, thank you very much), and we all completely adore them.

Some other fantastic facts about the BB’s:

WBB is an amazing cook but is poor at judging the amount of food she needs to prepare.

This works out very well for me.

At least once a week we would be forced to help them eat the extra portions so as not to let her delicious creations go to waste. (I’m just nice like that.)

WBB is completely incapable of leaving any room untidy.
 It upsets her. She likes to clean. I’d go out, leaving the house in an, ahem, less than pristine state and return to find it almost unrecognisable with sparkling surfaces and glistening appliances. Sometimes you would literally have to wrestle the dishcloth out of her hand and make her go home. But sometimes I would stand there and just watch her. (I’m just not nice like that.)

SBB does hilarious animal imitations to amuse the children.
 When they have gone to bed we make him do them to amuse us. He does not charge extra for this.

The most important part of having them here, though, is that they have become like part of our family. I have come to regard WBB almost as a younger sister and it’s not entirely clear that One is sure which one of us is his mother.

So everything was going along swimmingly between us all and then they did something unbelievably selfish.

They got pregnant.

Can you believe it?

A lovely young couple, recently married, who adore small children actually had the audacity to think of having their own baby instead of spending all their spare time looking after mine!

I tell you. Some people spare NO thoughts for others!

Disgusting!

At first WBB insisted they could stay in the attic bedroomed, spiral staircased, apartment of 1000 steps until the baby was walking, but we knew, even if she didn’t, that she’d be forced to reconsider.
Then last week SBB came down to tell us they had found a perfect little house to rent just a few blocks away, and they would be going in two months.

For us, finding tenants would not be a big practical problem – it’s a lovely apartment and always easy to rent out. But how on earth could we replace the BB’s?  Four and One were going to be devastated, and seeing relative strangers come and go from what used to be a welcome space was going to hurt.

I put an ad on Craigslist with some photos and within minutes had several replies.

The thought of answering and subsequently showing lots of people the flat made me want to take narcotics and lie in a dark room so I made a policy decision to deal with only one at a time and see what happened.

The first email was from a very nice-sounding woman who wanted to come by and see it immediately.
I couldn’t face that.
I put her off until the next day as I was too busy lying in bed feeling overwhelmed.
She turned out to be a newly single mum with a small dog and a little boy, aged 5, who was with her part of the week and with his dad the rest. She really wanted to stay in our school district and she was anxious to find somewhere affordable, friendly and homelike for them all. I told her about the deathtrap stairs and that the flat was cold in winter and boiling in summer but I couldn’t seem to put her off, no matter what I said.

They came the next day and fell in love at first sight.

She, with the apartment, and the boy with Four , who appeared to reciprocate. One was taking a nap or I’m sure the dog would have been involved too.

They decided to take the apartment and will move in the day after the BB’s move out. 

While we can never replace the BB’s, it seems as if we might just have found a perfect solution all around. The apartment will still be a source of friendship and fun, but of a different kind for the children – they’ll have a new playmate and there will still be a dog. We’ve given a home to some people who are really happy to have found the apartment, and we have gained some neighbours who will enrich our lives in new ways.

 For me, it’s a reminder that no door ever closes without another one opening, and for all three parties involved there are exciting new beginnings.

 But not everything changes.

I would like to reassure WBB that I will still be over frequently to relieve her of her extra portions, so she need not worry on that account.

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Carnival – not just for Lent

by Mothership on March 3, 2009

I’ve got absolutely nothing to say today because my head is a bowl of mush.

However, there are lots of good posts by other people over at Thames Valley Mums in the British Mummy Blogger Carnival, so I suggest you wander over there and have a look.

I haven’t read all of them yet myself but I did particularly enjoy one that illustrated the hidden connection between Teddy Bears and Hookers.

Curious?
Head over here  http://www.thamesvalleymums.com/2009/03/3-march-best-of-the-mummy-bloggers.html

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