I think we might need to section Mummy

For some time now, perhaps 400 days or so (give or take) the twins have been bawling their little eyes out and clinging to me as one would to the last dry mast on a sinking ship. That is until 10 days ago (exactly). I took them to a friend's house a week last Sunday afternoon so we could chin wag and drink cold Coronas. Imagine my staggered, mildly suspicious surprise to see them totter from the car to her front door and play with the toys, giggle at the older children and generally enjoy themselves in a way that makes parents pleased to be parents of such well behaved children. My chum noticed the lack of histrionics too. I barely dared to breathe of the change to anyone else in case I cursed it. Two other friends have remarked upon the uncharacteristic calmness of the girls this week too.

I'd like to say their turn in behaviour was down to the suggestion my sister in law made some time ago when I was looking for an au pair. She wondered if they wouldn't benefit more from daycare rather than reinforcing the clingy behaviour by bringing another mother figure in. The lightbulb popped in my head at the obvious genius of her suggestion and I bustled them off to our local preschool. The first few weeks at dropping off and picking up time the girls managed to give the soundtrack to 'Texas Chainsaw Massacre' a run for it's money but of late they toddle in and out quite happily, used to their new routine.

More likely the reason is this. The twins have watched in beady fascination as they pushed me to the raw, ragged limits of patience and just as I tipped, spinning eyed and gnashing over the edge of the abyss they decided they were bored of that game and started to behave like gorgeous little angels.

As far as developments go, this one's a whopper. To celebrate, the husband and I are going bowling this evening.

Are you sure?

Last night we went out for dinner with some friends. I overheard the husband saying "in a couple of years, we may have another baby. It's possible." Instead of spitting my wine out in blusterous, indignant rebuttal I tilted my head to the side and smiled in consideration.

What is wrong with us? I can't believe we would even consider it knowing how hard it has been and still is. We are clawing our way to the surface slowly and yet would consider submerging ourselves further with another baby.

In other, more exciting news you can buy clothes and shoes from Matalan on line www.matalan.co.uk

Dusting off the cobwebs between my ears

Last week was extremely busy. I started to feel slightly panicked at what I have taken on. For some time now I have been desparate to do some work. The challenge was to find something both enjoyable and which fit around my little family. Freelance writing looked like the most likely candidate to fit the bill. A friend suggested I start writing a blog to practice writing. It has been no hardship writing this little diary. It's rather addictive actually. A few weeks ago I was lucky enough to meet the editor of Simply You magazine who very kindly gave me the most fantastic opportunity. In September I will have two pieces published in this New Zealand fashion bible. I'm so excited! My clever brother has built me a website so now I can officially say "I'm a writer."
Last week I had a taster of what I hope will happen more often - I had deadlines to meet. The almost obsolete cogs of my brain clunked into action and managed to pull two more articles from its murky depths for Look Magazine. Such intense mental activity after a 4 year break necessitated a boozy, cackle filled lunch. So that's what I did from Saturday lunchtime until 11pm that night.

Across a crowded room....

Homesickness does not seem to be abating even after nearly 3 years. Instead of writing about all the things I miss about home I'll write about something I love about New Zealand.

Deep in the remote depths of the South Island lies the town of Queenstown. It sits at the edge of Lake Wakatipu and is guarded by the craggy Remarkables. Its personality and character are vast for such a small place. It's known worldwide for being the centre of the adrenaline universe and if you've been there, chances are you'll have lobbed yourself off the edge of something. The beauty of the place is beyond words. In my own tiny universe it is particularly special for this was the place I first set eyes on the husband. It was an auspicious start. I stood at the edge of the dancefloor in The World Bar and watched him arms aloft, eyes closed, punching out the beat as he tottered to the bar and order two Coronas only to discover he had lost his wallet.

Aah, sweet mystery of life

Last week I went to see a medium. Nearly 10 years ago I was riding pillion on my friend's motorbike. We had a head on collision with another motorbike and both my friend and the other young driver died. Ever since then I have wanted to talk to Wiz. It was as if our conversation stopped midway and I was left, slack jawed, waiting for someone to press play so we could continue. For months after he died I would get a taxi to the graveyard in his pretty little village, sit by his grave in the cold, grey air and chatter to him. At first it was just a mound of freshly dug earth. After a while his gravestone was added (Richard Wilson, Wiz, truly a star). Flowers came and went, new graves were dug, the earth settled, the weather grew warmer and I continued to visit. I loved it. In the loneliness which followed the accident, I felt comfortable and less hollow sitting on the gravel and wet grass by his body. Sometimes I just sat and listened to Harry Potter stories on my walkman (the big bang to my nut had affected my ability to read - the words wouldn't sit still on the page for a good year). When the cold had seeped into my bones and made me stiff I would amble over to the pub adjoining the graveyard and drink a hot chocolate in the corner, studiously ignoring the interested stares from locals who were all in sad shock at losing Wiz.

The medium said "There's a young man here who'd like to talk to you". She asked me if there was anything I'd like to ask him. For 10 years I've been having a one way conversation with Wiz. I have whiled away a great many hours fantasising about talking to him, playing out scenes in my mind where were would talk about what had happened and the affect it has had on our families. I looked at the floor and could feel an enormous surge of energy billowing through my organs and blood. It felt like some of Wiz's soul was inside my body. I couldn't articulate even one word in response.

Mummy sick came out of my bum

On Sunday evening I was rushing around at 6.50pm, trying to do a few last minute jobs before choir practice at 7pm (that's right, folks, choir practice. I am a member of a chamber choir - the Pro Scholar Musica). The lad sauntered into the living room minus his pyjama bottoms. "Mummy, sick came out of my bum".
Barely looking up I replied "darling, please don't say shit, I've told you that word is just for adults."
"No mummy, SICK came out of my bum". This got my attention and I followed him into the toilet. Peering into the bowl my shoulders sagged. Indeed, I understood why my son had described the pale brown lake as sick. More disheartening than the troubled state of my son's bowels though was what the beige custard was coating. The little twins are obsessed with all things toilet so we try to operate a strict 'closed door' policy for bathrooms. They had capitalized on a window of opportunity when a door had been left open by shoving as many toys as they could into the loo. There were pools and puddles of bum sick over everything. Fifteen minutes and half a bottle of disinfectant later and I was warbling in church. I hope I get into heaven.

Cry Me A River

The little twins are 19 months old. At birth they rated about average on the crying scale. They have progressed to having some of the most frequently used tear ducts in the southern hemisphere. For the first 7 or 8 months I could let the sound of dual screaming wash over me whilst plodding on the with the required tasks in the correct order (make food, shovel food in, wipe up excess, undress screamers, soak in bath, lather in 'no tears' shampoo, laugh at the irony, notice that my laughter is drowned out by warbling twins and so on and so forth). At 15 months old my patience was starting to be stretched. At 19 months I can barely string a coherent thought together. Sometimes I feel like my brain merely functions to be irritated by the sounds of crying or try to stay calm despite the crying. Soon the very last shred of patience will dissolve into my own screaming.

I'm writing this on a Friday night, drinking a glass of wine and watching old episodes of Sex And The City. The silence is gorgeous.

Lad

Enter the new man. Let's not make any bones here. He is still as wilfull, cheeky and cocksure as he ever was but there is a whole new 'lad' about him too. The last year has been a battle. The preceding hour of each meal and bath was enough to feel like your heart had been replaced with lead and that your endeavours would yield a higher success rate if you had attempted to climb Mount Cook backwards in the dark. 'No' was his favourite word and I felt like my parenting was turning him into a Dark Lord.

Luckily it seems he has tired of/grown out of this behaviour. He is now the kind of person who bounds to the table with the first call of 'dinner's ready' and is earnestly teaching his little sisters to carry their empty plates to the sink. He stops at each road to wait for me before crossing and plays generously with his mates. I love his ability to stand up for himself in an articulate, inquisitive manner.

As of this week the little twins will be starting at nursery for a couple of afternoons per week. I asked the lad what he would like to do with me. Come Thursday we'll be slurping hot chocolates and watching planes take off and land at our local airport. I can't wait.

freedom

going to the pub on a Friday night with husband and chums
breakfast in a cafe on Saturday morning with the husband
SATC2 on Saturday evening
walking on the beach with the husband
reading English Grazia on the sofa
sleeping for 12 straight hours

That's right, a whole weekend without my children. My lovely, saint like Aunt and her generous husband offered to have the 3 of them for the weekend. We just picked up the happy little sunbeams this afternoon after an utterly relaxing two days. I couldn't be more grateful

TimeGod

Time takes on a different form when the whole package of 24 doesn't belong to you and you alone. It started when the lad was born but is much more noticeable now with the twins thrown into the mix. When the babies were little tinies the Time God held out his hand and gave me twins who slept all the time they weren't feeding. With the other hand he snatched back a good chunk of the day by making feeding time last nearly 2 hours. How I used to long for the day when I wouldn't be pinned to the sofa by milk addicts. A few months later a clever girl showed me how to balance a bottle of milk on a teddy sitting on each twin's chest. I could have wept in gratitude. Cha-Ching! A few more precious hours. As they became more adept at holding their own bottles I was able to wander off and do a few jobs. Perfect. The Time God then woke from his reverie, sniffed at my relative freedom and made sure those little twins needed their mother to spend a significant portion of her day settling them into high chairs and spooning tiny spoonful after tiny spoonful of carefully steamed and pureed vegetables into their mouths. The rigidity of their needs has driven me a bit nuts over the last year. When they get to about 3 years old then spontaneity happily trickles back in. We'll be pootling off to the beach at 6pm armed with sausages and bread in the late afternoon heat of summer, eating roast dinners all together surrounded by friends as hoards of children make dens in the garden and race down the drive on their bikes.

Both twin1 and twin2 are now up on their feet and walking all over the place. It seems to have brought their 'twinness' to the fore. I get such a kick out of seeing their beautiful little curly tops bobbing round after each other. Although they come from the same egg and so should be perfectly identical, their faces are quite different. Trying to differentiate them from behind though is another matter entirely. It's a good job they are so adorable looking as their screaming, scrappy fights for attention are reaching fever pitch. This very morning I spoke to a lovely girl who would make the perfect au pair for us. She's not available until August though and I fear the husband and I may have been sectioned by then. The search continues.