running about

I started scribbling this whilst feigning interest in my children’s swimming lessons – not that I don’t want them to learn I just wish it would happen faster! I seem to have spent five years sweating in the sauna of changing rooms, wrestling with one, two or all three wringing, wet children. Don’t get me started on the etiquette – or lack of it – in the changing room. I have seen civilized women nearly come to blows over the showers. It’s not a pleasant experience and my own behaviour is unlikely to win me Mother of the Year award. Today someone in the next class vomited, which meant that two hoards of swimmers and fed up mothers jostled for position. After this I drop eldest off at dancing, the youngest has been to a party. (Daddy opted to take her)

Monday evenings are our free evening, we return shell-shocked from work, put children in bed by 8, so husband and I can sit and silently watch University Challenge. At the start of the year, I thought we had managed to wangle two free evenings. Two! Then middle child’s piano lessons started on a Tuesday, before tea! What a fun school pick up that is! Military precision is required, but never attained. 3.15 the heavens open,as they are frog marched the short journey from Junior to infant school, generally scolding middle one for forgetting reading book, school cardigan, diary, lunch box etc. The youngest one throws me her bag, coat and today’s art piece. We charge back, stopping every few yards for a head count and identity check. They argue about seating arrangements in the car, I am soaked. We squabble home, unless subdued by smarties.  Everything is dumped at the door, demands for drinks and snacks. Scooby Doo pacifies them for twenty minutes. I usher two of them into the kitchen to attempt a bit of homework, often resulting in another argument, in hushed tones now as the piano lesson is in full flow and we do not wish to scandalise the teacher.

Weds is a slightly later piano lesson, tea has to be ready when they come in!

Thursdays is a work day for me, I dash madly back to put tea on and prepare for Thursday evening mayhem; eldest is taken to orchestra practise by friend (5.15), middle child goes to karate (6p.m) , I go to collect eldest and friend (6.30) drop friend off (6.50) Collect karate kid(7.00), Eldest child decides she must practise violin, youngest child says its bed time, husband quite often goes out about now- don’t blame him.

Friday; I rush back from work for eldest child who sings in a choir every Sunday, it is practise night. We pop into Costa, she gets embarrassed by my loud laugh and edges to the door as soon as she sees the senior choir girls arrive. They drink hot chocolate, she drinks hot chocolate so she is cool by association. I drink tea. I am not so cool.

about making friends

I was thinking of writing about school gate politics, so I looked at a couple of articles online and felt depressed.

I considered the rules of friend making.

As a teenager, I was annoyed when my mother befriended my friend’s mothers. She was newly divorced and, having moved away from her home town, had no other way of making new friends, but my thirteen year old self didn’t know that. She adopted my mother in law as a sister and they are irritatingly close. However, I socialise with the mothers I have met at the school gate and at least one of them I would consider a best friend for life, so I can longer grumble can I? That is because that is where I have made friends over the past ten years; antenatal classes (one friend), parent toddler groups, (three friends), nursery (three friends), Sunday school (three friends) and the school gate (number to be confirmed)

I agree with the forums I read in one respect, there are certainly tribes at the school gate and I belong to the part-time mum tribe, but after three kids and 5 years of school so far, the full time mums have gotten used to me but not my changing work day. There are differences too, when my eldest started at the school nursery, she made a best friend in the first term and has kept her right through primary into year 5. (We are not thinking about what happens after year 6 when different secondary schools beckon.) My middle child was born in August and I wept when she started nursery two weeks after her 3^rd birthday and then a year later when she started school two weeks after her fourth and was immediately invited to a 5^th birthday party. Playing a continual game of catch up for the first three years, once divided from her cousin in reception, she has never really bonded with any one child.  We are always away for her birthday or her classmates are away, so birthday parties were abandoned which, in return, saw the end of party invites. The youngest, half way through reception, knows everybody and runs up to little boys and girls forcing them to hold her hand whether they want to know or not, we are inundated with party invites, I appear to be spending at least two hours most weekends, ferrying her to one play centre or another. Here I sit amongst strangers, the only thing I appear to have in common with is the age of our children. Over pale tea and party food we begin stilted conversation and strange rituals of swapping mobile numbers, discussing chid care and weight loss.

 Really, I have enough friends, I just want to read a book, but I will go and chat to the other mums so that they will invite my child to another party and … you never know, my new best friend could be sitting there.

Finance fun and failure in February

So the first week of February has passed and my vow to get back into the Black looks decidedly unlikely now. So I have taken steps. Six of them, to be precise, from the car to the cash point.  I have taken all the money out that I can possibly afford to spend this month. I have compiled a list of the meals we will eat – it took a while as I am not known for my forward thinking. After sucking on my pencil until Tuesday’s toad in the hole, I accosted my husband with, “What do you want for tea- on Wednesday?”

He rolled his eyes and retreated behind his guitar, but his parting offer was to buy £3.99 wine from the local Aldi – a fine saving provided we don’t drink a bottle a night.

I try to learn lessons from the women that raised us. My husband recounts how growing up they had certain meals on certain nights – the same every week. It’s not one of his most riveting anecdotes. Like my own Mother, I intend to shop about a bit too and not pick up the nearest item, but I do make the classic mistake of taking a child shopping with me on a Saturday afternoon. My mother used to spend what felt like hours comparing identical frozen chickens, driving me to tears of boredom at a young age. On one occasion I trapped my thumb in part of the freezer and spent ten exciting minutes watching various members of staff flap about until the store manager arrived with soap and stern words.

So now I sit to write my definitive shopping list, with the intention of sticking to it. I have crossed off cakes and biscuits, because I have all the necessary ingredients in the cupboards and intend to spend the evening Mary Berrying it around the kitchen. I refuse to be distracted by the telly and cheap wine.

Anyway, back to my cash crisis. I count out everything I usually use cash to pay for ;- child minder, piano lessons, dance lessons, karate class, market shopping, church collection and put aside a little to cover whatever book/ craft/ toy Fayre or disco the two primary schools my daughters go to want to surprise me with. Aghast, I eye my dwindled wad of cash and start to panic. I also remember it’s MY birthday this month – darn it! Decide to pay for supermarket shop with plastic but will not ask for cash back. Don’t think there will be any funds left anyway. February suddenly doesn’t seem such a short month after all.

Inevitably, of course, all of my planning is completely scuppered by the discovery that middle child’s school shoes are “leaking a bit”, further investigation shows a massive hole in the sole. Quick trip to shoe shop, try my luck at a bargain and get £3 off the price. Have you seen the price of properly fitted children’s shoes?

 “Cobblers” I say.