Tits, ass, God and drink induced psychosis

Friday brought with it all manner of shennanigans. The choir I sing in performed our first concert. As I walked smartly down the aisle in our local church behind my fellow choristers I noticed my husband and friends occupying the last three rows on the bride's side. Their cheering and whooping wasn't consistent with the rest of the audience but I loved it. I was immensely, tearily grateful that they had all come to support me on a Friday night. Most are in young families so paying for a ticket to listen to something they wouldn't normally is a stretch. They stood up and waved their arms around, cheered and clapped loudly. Their energy was fantastic and roused us all into giving our very best performance. After the concert, the choir wandered out into the night under the full moon, trying to gasp in oxygen after expending the energy from every cell to sing a glorious anthem written in celebration of the monarch's coronation. Each of my friends tripped across the lawn to hug me and say hello. It was then that I realised they were, to a man, absolutely plastered. What an impressive effort after spending the last two hours in church.

We skipped off to the pub and formed a merry bunch at the bar. When the bar closed we realised we hadn't had nearly enough to drink so repaired to the world's least glamorous strip bar. In our happy little troupe were a couple of members of the choir who cut a fine dash in their bow-tie and tails. We pole danced (some better than others), drank beer and laughed. Although I have known my friends here for less than three years and some for barely three months, it felt like we were on some sort of naughty school trip. There was a distinctly 'all in the same dormitory' chumminess as we linked arms, hooted at each other's jokes and swapped drinks and cuddles all evening.

As our littlies were staying at their grandparents for the evening, the morning was a highly relaxed affair. The husband and I chatted and relived the evening's events and I nearly burst with love for him when he told me how proud he was of my singing in the concert. I lay back in the spa pool and my mind lazily recalled the taxi drive home, the beans on toast and large glasses of water. But my brain went cold as in a flash I recalled my next movements.

My neighbour had generously leant me a black bustier to wear for the concert. She tucked a safety pin under the zip so it wouldn't fall down. It's a gorgeous little top which she has had for ages and looked after lovingly. Sadly it fared much worse after a mere four hours in my care.

Following baked beans on toast at 2am I tried to get undressed to go to bed. Unable to undo the saftety pin holding the top up, I tried to pull the garment over my head. As I became more entangled and trapped, I began to panic. I felt my chest constrict against the fabric and followed the single remaining course of action. A pair of scissors cut a rough but effective escape down the length of my friend's beloved bustier. I carefully placed it in the bin (to 'hide' the evidence) and wandered off to sleep deeply.

Twin1

Older than her sister by 20 minutes, twin1 is the boss. She has a steely spirit -she wins most toy-tug-of-wars, can cry the longest and hardest and knows when to sit back and when to dive in. When she was a baby she was often poorly - she suffered from eczema terribly and definitely preferred to sit on a lap and be cuddled rather than explore. At nearly two years old there is not so much of a whiff of the sickly infant about her. She can target the make up pocket in my handbag and deftly locate the more expensive items. Lancome's Juicy Tubes are the favourite, presumably because they are glue like and smell of watermelon. She gawps in awe of her big brother and despite being the smallest of the three, can hold her own in any sibling scrap.

I love her humour and can see so much of her big brother in her. Although my girls are identical twins I often think twin2 looks very much like my family whilst twin1 has a strong resemblance to my husband's side. She is a glorious little thing and I adore her.

Twin2

Tempted as I am to regale you with the story of my being run over as I skipped tipsily through Soho on my 30th birthday and the subsequent farcical drama, I have reminded myself that one of the reasons I started to write the blog was for my children to read about themselves and our family life. With that in mind I thought I would write a post on each little chiddler. In reverse age order. So, twin2, you are up first.

Twin2 loves:

TV, sucking her fingers whilst tickling her ear, spending time in the bathroom with the door shut so she can quietly unwrap all manner of sanitary products and shove them down the toilet, cuddling, walking straight out into the ocean, shouting "don't" whilst pointing at other toddlers in a menacing fashion, saying "pardon me" after she has burped and consuming vast quantities of anything leaning towards edible.

She will happily share food with twin1 or the lad. I love her sunny disposition. Although the little twins have spent a sizable portion of the last two years bawling, twin2 has a calmness which pools out from her little being. She has always waited her turn with goodwill. Her ability to eat almost anything is rather impressive. This morning I found her in the bathroom squeezing violently strong, mint toothpaste into her mouth. Upon my entrance she guiltily chucked the tube on the ground and jogged past me. Gorgeous little thing she is. I love her to bits

Ouch

There is a wild storm hovering over New Zealand. Yesterday the husband woke up worried about the house he is renovating. I had to work all morning so he packed our 3 into the car and drove the hour up the coast to check on the house. As the children fought in the car, he clambered all over the roof attempting to tie down the tarpaulin as it whipped around him in the screaming wind and rain. His mood was surprisingly chipper when he walked back in the door. He then won his weight in brownie points by organising a babysitter and booking a table for dinner.

Our romantic evening ended up being a lively dinner for us and four friends, Cadillac martinis and collapsing into bed at 2am. Fun and a half.

This morning I broke my toe. I failed to negociate the sofa and gave it a hefty kick. It's rather inconvenient for the constant dropping down to knee level that motherhood necessitates. The husband's advice as I writhed around on the floor, clutching my blackening little digit and trying not to sob? "Run it off, Ruddy".

Hallelujah

It has been a long, long time since I scratched any kind of musical itch. When I was young I played the clarinet, the piano, the violin, the recorder (which I adored) and sang in the school choir. Over the last couple of years I have been yearning to play music. My dodgy arm makes singing a much more favourable option than other instrumental pursuits. The sound a group of people make when they drop their jaws and let rip has always moved me.

A few months ago I joined the Scholars Pro Musica. The choir was formed and is conducted by a young English guy who is deeply passionate and knowledgable about classical music. When I met him to audition I expected him to tell me I wasn't right for the choir. The music is ancient, ecclesiastical and complicated. The ability to read music well was imperative and I worried that I was way out of my depth. The audition comprised singing along to a few scales which I belted out with twin1 on my hip (she gazed in surprise at my face during the entire process).

For the first few rehearsals I sank towards the back of the alto section, mouthed a few words and wallowed in utter confusion. It was disheartening. The nineteen other members of the choir seemed much more on the ball than me. It has been 25 years since I last read music and the pieces we we had to learn were challenging.

It has been exactly the kind of challenge I need. Engaging my fusty cells up top, I have snatched the odd half an hour here and there to learn the music. You Tube has been invaluable and we are lucky that our conductor goes out of his way to help. When I pootle off to choir practice on a Sunday evening I'm usually absolutely exhausted but I love it. It makes me feel elated yet balanced. I love being in my choir. Each voice combines with the others to produce a magnificent wall of sound. The beauty in this sound is extraordinary. It makes me want to cry whilst singing.

My 'off switch' is faulty

"I won't be late darling, I'm just going to have 2 glasses of wine, have a quick chat and come come" I said as I hauled on my skinny jeans and high heels last night. Come midnight I was guzzling Corona in a Brazilian bar and elbowing aside the singer of the band to show them how it's done.

The art of shit parenting

I won't be winning any mothering awards this week. Yesterday I got the children ready to go out in the car. I told the lad to play in the front garden but not to get in the car. He, of course, got in the car and rearranged the dials, switches and indicators from the comfort of the driver's seat. I leant over the verranda which is at the top of a flight of stairs and overlooking the garden and bellowed at him. I had left the keys in the ignition from an earlier trip so was keen for him to make a smart exit. As he hopped out he smartly pushed the lock down and slammed the door. My rage put me at risk of a stroke and I screamed 'for fuck's sake Dusty'. Unfortunately my pulpit served its purpose well and carried my rage down the street so that everyone could get a lesson in how not to parent.