Week 89- broken bones, Peppa Pig and An Officer and a Gentleman

Turns out I'm more hardcore than I realised.

I thought I was tough, getting through childbirth with my bits still pretty much intact.

But, turns out I've been walking round with a bit of broken bone in my foot. And I don't even remember doing it.

I fell over my foot on my walk home from work.

Who does that without a drink?

They weren’t high shoes- more Tom Cruise's elevators than Naomi Campbell's nine-inchers.

There's something so toe-curlingly embarrassing about stacking it in public.

I’d go so far as to say, falling face down in a car park, with only a couple of fellas in a white van pointing at you for sympathy, has to be up there as one of life’s absolute clangers.

And there’s only one outcome.

Have a quick cry.

A quick, ugly-faced, cry.

Then pick yourself up, and hobble to the bus stop.

The next morning, as I attempted to get up, I couldn’t put any weight on my right foot at all.

I sat, wincing through the pain, at breakfast, as Nancy attempted to climb onto my leg to play ‘horsey, horsey.’

I could only hop to move.

Now, hopping isn’t the easiest way to get about at the best of times.

But hopping, carrying a toddler, is like the parent version of Total Wipe Out.

Ben took me to A and E after dropping Nancy off at the childminders.

The closest we could get to the door was miles away, so, after attempted to hop for about 10 metres, I asked Ben to carry me.

I had a vision of An Officer and A Gentleman.

The reality - being picked up by my midriff; like a Scottish log thrower, and deposited at reception.

And after a prod from the nurse. An x-ray. Another prod. And a look at the x-rays. It turns out a bit of bone had already chipped some time ago.

Like, years ago.

There was literally a bit of bone, disconnected, floating about it my foot.

Wowzers. Totally grim and completely fascinating at the same time.

So, turns out hopping about with a toddler is tricky.

But, attempting to carry a toddler with crutches, is near on impossible.

You also can’t push a pram with crutches. Which means you can’t leave the house.

To go to the shops. To the park. To see friends.

And there’s only so much Peppa Pig you can watch before you’re silently willing Mummy Pig to tell Daddy Pig to do a bit more round the house.

So. I’m hardcore. Possibly.

But good at playing creatively when a bit of me is out of action? Possibly not.

Please don’t let me ever break anything.

Or it’s going to be Boresville central in this flat.

BRIGHTON FRINGE - Mummy dance-offs and surviving the festival with kids

Experiencing Brighton Fringe with your kids is exciting and exhausting in equal measure. There is so much to choose from. Over 600 family-friendly events throughout the four weeks, in fact.

So, thank you The Warren, a fab pop-up venue tucked behind raucous West Street, for providing the perfect oasis.

With an enclosed fairy-lit garden, two venues and a bar, it’s the perfect place to take a pitstop – whether for a pint, a play with the little ones, or both.

The programme looks pretty impressive as well, for children and grown-ups alike, which is no accident. Nicola Haydn, from Otherplace Productions, which runs The Warren, flags up how important it is to have events that appeal to all ages, ‘because parents should enjoy the children’s shows too.’ Hurrah!

If your child is over eight, then The Wrong Crowd’s The Girl with theIron Claws, a story of a girl who dares to follow her longing, on 21 May, is cited as one to watch at this venue. 

It’s a tough one trying to find the time or energy to go out dancing when you have young children. And when you do, there’s the little niggle that kids have stripped you of any sense of rhythm and you’ve swapped raving for the ‘baby rock’.

Baby Loves Disco, 27 May, is the perfect solution. 

It’s clubbing.

But not as we know it.

Set in Brighton nightclub Audio, the bar is transformed into a childproof space. Disco and pop are played by a club DJ, with the entertainment ranging from musical statues to a mummy dance-off.

Seriously. A mummy dance-off.

With cocktails as prizes.

There’s even a chillout area, complete with play tunnels and circus tents.

HijackFamily Fringe looks worth a gander, too, with nine days of shows, 25 May-2 June, curated for 2-12 year olds and their families.  We are promised theatre, film, comedy, dance, music and digital, at Komedia and other venues across the city.

So take a deep breath, get the rice cakes at the ready, because we’re going for a family-friendly four-week extravaganza.

Just as long as I win the mum dance-off, we’ll be laughing.

Week 88- Fake tans, double glazing websites and walking home without your trousers on

Any free moment to get stuff done when you have kids is totally precious.

The things I can get done in ten minutes now, would probably have taken me a good two hours, pre-Nancy.

The panic takes over.

The realisation that if you don't hang out the washing in the short time when she's having a nap, it will sit in the washing machine for another couple of days, until it starts to smell like the boy at primary school that no-one wanted to partner up with for country dancing classes. For example.

So when Nancy's grandparents came down for a couple of days, it was like, woohoo, let's sort out EVERYTHING.

Which was a tad ambitious.

I now realise that:

a) you can't set up a website in a morning, unless you want it to look like you're selling double glazing.

Which I'm not.

And,

b) it's important, no, essential, to listen to the instructions from the woman at the salon before going for a spray tan.

It was the wedding of one of my dearest friends at the weekend.

I've been going on for over six months about doing some exercise to look how I wanted to in my bridesmaid's dress.

And then suddenly it was two days until the big day.

And a bit late to even crank up the Slendertone.

So I thought a bit of colour might do the trick. Especially as I'm so pasty I was a bit worried I was going to look like an uncooked human sausage in my beautiful pale pink dress.

So I made an emergency booking at the treatment rooms a few streets from my flat.

Nancy was hanging off my jeans announcing she'd done a poo, so I only half listened to the list of things the beautician told me to remember to do while on the phone with her.

And the next day, I left Nancy happily playing with Granda and Nana as I rushed to make my appointment.

It was a bit Ghostbusters, the whole experience. Getting into a dome shaped tent while I had fake tan fired at me through what looked like the Proton Pack that Ray used to zap the Marshmallow Man.

But it was when she came back to check on me as I dried myself with an industrial hair dryer, that I realised I'd over looked something.

'Have you not brought anything loose to wear like I said on the phone?'

I told her I hadn't.

'Well you can't put your jeans on,' she said, 'coz it will make your legs go all streaky.'

Ah.

'And you can't wear your shoes either, have you not brought flip flops like I said?'

Nope.

'Right, well I don't know what to suggest.'

There was clearly only one solution.

I'd have to walk home, barefoot, in my pants, clutching my jeans and shoes, like some kind of simpleton who'd forgotten how to get dressed.

I don't know what was worse.

The fact I looked like I'd been on holiday to Jamaica.

Or that my nextdoor neighbour who'd said hi whilst washing his car as I'd left the house, was now greeting me sans trousers on the way back in.

So I've made a bit of a promise to myself to do things a bit slower.

Or at least listen a bit harder.

Because I might be getting things done quickly, but Im not sure how productive it is if it means waking the streets half naked to do so. 

Week 87- Michael Rosen, safety nets and toddlers on leads

We took Nancy to see Michael Rosen this morning as part of The Brighton Festival.

She loves We're Going on a Bear Hunt, so I thought it would be a right treat to see the man himself performing it.

And it was.

For Ben and me.

Turns out the green food bag clip used for keeping the rice cakes fresh suddenly became massively interesting.

As all the children were shouting out, ‘I’m not scared!’, Nancy was shouting, ‘open it, open it!’ as she thrust the clip at me, which I did, for her then to close it, hand it back to me, and the cycle continued.

It was an alternate version of opening an expensive birthday present, and thinking  the wrapping paper is by far the best part of the gift.

I’m quickly realising that you can’t second guess a toddler.

They are a law unto themselves.

And for that reason I have invested in some reins.

Nancy sees something she fancies, and she’s off.

Pegging it down the aisle of the supermarket, or squiggling out of my grip when we’re walking along the pavement.

Or worse still, having a full on tantrum, lying on the floor, going rigid - the works. Which is a right laugh when you’re on your own with her.

So I thought reins would be the answer.

She feels independent, like she’s walking around on her own.

And I have hold of her at the other end.

But I’m not sure how I feel about it. Without over thinking everything, is it not a bit intrusive, keeping a hold of someone like that, however small they are?

While schlepping along on the seafront, I saw lots of people walking dogs, and I felt a little bit like I’m walking Nancy too. It is attached to a ladybird bag, but I still basically have her on a lead.

But then we went down to the sea, and at the water’s edge, Nancy made a run for the nearest wave.

Shoes and socks on, along with the only pair of trousers I’d packed.

She fearlessly threw herself at the sea.

And I totally shit myself.

But then remembered she was attached to me via the lead, and we were back in control.

I don’t want to be the panicky mum who’s kid turns up at school packed with remedies for everything and a letter saying she's not allowed to take part in team sports, just in case...

But I also don’t want to watch Nancy hurl herself in the open sea, when she is still mastering the ‘kick, kick, kick’ bit at the swimming lessons.

So maybe it’s OK.

Maybe it’s not controlling someone; it’s just providing a safety net.

And I guess that’s what you do throughout their lives.

Give them the opportunities, and see what they like.

And if all else fails, give them a green food bag clip.

Week 86- high heels, self-confidence and thinking about joining the gym

I spotted Nancy in my bedroom looking at herself in the full length mirror, wearing my high heels, having draped one of my bras round her neck like a pashmina.  

She was saying, ‘hello Nashy,’ to her reflection.

And I got a flash of the future.

Not her wearing underwear as outerwear. Although that was unnecessarily fashionable for a time.

But more a snapshot of her as a girl. Not a toddler.

It brought home to me how I need to watch what I’m doing, as well as saying. Because absolutely everything goes in.

I’ve curbed the swearing around her since she started parroting ‘shit’ back to me.

In fact, I’m in search of a good non-sweary word to replace it that doesn’t make me feel like I’m an 18^th Century Lady of a Manor every time I stub my toe.

But Nancy watches me getting dressed, and tries to copy.

She sees me on the computer, then climbs up onto the seat and starts hitting all the keys. She’s stumbled across shortcuts I didn’t realise existed, and I’ve had a nightmare trying to Google how to turn the screen to normal when Nancy’s managed to rotate it 180 degrees.

She picks up my mobile and holds it to her ear, chatting away.

And I have seen her rub her tummy, like I do.

Except she’s imitating me.

Where as I do it self-consciously, wishing I was slimmer, but not doing anything practical about it.

So it’s all changing.

It’s positive reinforcement all the way.

I’m brushing off the bobbly leggings. The sports bra is making a comeback. I know I’ve seen the other minging off white running sock lurking around somewhere.

After 19 months of trying to squeeze into my old jeans, I’ve made a decision.

I’m going to enquire about joining the gym.

It’s the first step.

And then I’ll think about joining it.

That’s step two.

We tell Nancy she is beautiful on a daily basis.

And I want her to believe it.

To feel self-confident, and know she can achieve anything.

And as I am the woman in her life that she, fingers crossed, looks up to. And will continue to do so until she finds me too embarrassing and out of touch, I need to set an example.  

So it's time to take the plunge and stop talking about getting fit and just do it.

And if I’m going to pull off the high heels/ bra on my head look of summer 2013, I need to learn how to use a treadmill properly.

Week 85- the Radio One Roadshow, inner doom lords and wearing your neighbour's pants...

The sun has started to shine and everything feels much more possible.

The light evenings are like a gift of time.

It isn’t curtains closed; oven chips tea, Coronation Street and then bed.

Everyone becomes a little bit more sociable when the weather’s good.

The people on our road who have ignored us for the last six months start giving it the big, ‘morning!’ like we’re old friends instead of the annoying neighbours who fill up the recycling box with large tins of baby milk powder.

There’s lots of, ‘isn’t she big now!’ (Nancy, not me, I think.)

Coming out of hibernation couldn’t have come any sooner.

Nancy was starting to go nuts hanging out in the flat on the rainy days. Her cupboard of Tupperware and napkins has definitely lost its appeal.

She looks mockingly at it when I suggest we empty and refill it now.

Her prolonged time indoors hasn’t all been wasted for her though.

She’s now sussed out how to open doors and turn the oven on. So I can’t take my eyes of her for a second anymore. So there’s that.

The only down side of the sunshine, (inner doom lord- shhh), is it's the time to peel off about four layers of clothing and reveal what’s been lurking underneath during the winter months.

I decided to take the bull by the horns and dive straight into a pair of denim shorts, which are, without question, too young for me.

And a bit too tight.

And a tad unfashionable.

But at two quid from the Marlets charity shop, I couldn’t afford not to.

Unfortunately, as is often the case, Nancy and I will leave the house and it turns out I’ve dressed her in virtually the same outfit, completely unintentionally of course.

I'm not a total weirdo.

I'm not sure how it happens. I rush to get us both fed, clean and dressed, and before I know it; we're half way into town, both denim clad.

Except she looks fun and playful in her get-up.

And I look like I’m off to the Radio One roadshow, circa 1992.

I'm relieved to see I'm not the only one, mind.

There’s a lot of mottled flesh on display on my street, wrapped in Genesis T-shirts and ripped jeans, washing cars and pulling crap out of blocked drains.

Everyone’s smiling or at least nodding though, which is nice.

As we were hanging out the washing the other day I remembered that this time last year, I had, in a sleep deprived fuzz, done one worse than dress Nancy and I as a Danny De Vito/ Arnie duo.

 

I had, entirely by accident, worn my neighbour's pants.

And it is as bad as it sounds.

I was bringing in the seventeenth load of washing, only to come back out later in the day and find half a dozen pairs of black pants which I’d missed, draped over a begonia bush.

I brought them in and thought no more of it.

Until a day or two later when I saw the neighbour upstairs leaning over the outside steps that divide our two spaces.

It then struck me.

I had brought everything in.

The pants weren’t mine. She had put them out to dry over her balcony and the wind must have caught them.

And I was, at that moment, wearing a pair.

I put everything through the wash again, and left the offending items on her step.

And she never mentioned anything.

So, when I think about it, Nancy and I going to the park wearing matching bretton stripes isn’t the end of the world.

Just as long as they’re both ours in the first place.

 

Week 84- paragliding, weeing in public and You've Been Framed

I think Nancy and I share the same sense of humour.

Which either means she has the sophisticated understanding of an adult, and the subtleties of light conversation.

Or I have the sense of humour of a 19 month old.

I strongly suspect the latter.

This has been further reaffirmed with Ben telling friends that You’ve Been Framed is my favourite programme.

It is.

But doesn’t reflect all that well on me that I’d watch home videos of grannies slipping over at weddings over a David Attenborough.

At the weekend my mum went paragliding. The most exciting thing I have done all year is puke my face off on a ferry, and my mum has been paragliding. She's pretty incredible, my mum.

Nancy and I went along as her support team.

Turns out that she had to take off from the top of a hill which wasn’t buggy friendly, so we waiting in the field/ car park for her.

Also the wind carried her to the other side of the hill so we didn’t see all that much in terms of extreme sports.

It wasn’t all uneventful though.

A plumber’s van pulled up in front of our car. The man got out, turned in our direction, and did a wee, giving me and Nancy a full frontal, clearly oblivious to the mum and toddler hanging out in the Punto reading Meg and Mog for the hundredth time.

That is until Nancy banged on the window.

It might have just been chance. Or accident.

But the plumber nearly caught his bits in his zip as he rushed to put himself away. Which was pretty hilarious. And entirely instigated by Nancy, who grinned like she knew she’d pulled a funny.

And then, as Nancy looked at pictures of my mum soaring through the air strapped to a paragliding instructor, Nancy said, ‘it’s Nanny bird.’

Nanny bird. What a perfect description.

But the best one of late was when she pointed at Ben’s face and said, ‘bum!’ To which she and I both properly belly laughed.

I have a job with responsibility. A mortgage.

And I share a sense of humour with someone who can’t yet say her own name.

I should video all these and send them off to YBF (as it’s known to us die hard fans), then I could combine my favourite viewing with a bonus two hundred and fifty quid.

Then who’d be laughing?