Re: Start

It's been ages since I blogged. Events.

But what to say? I'm out of practice. Where to start? With daily minutiae or the stories I've been hoarding? Give the wonderful things the children say a wider audience or reveal those darker parts of myself, curtained off from everyone else?
Perhaps it's like jogging; once you get going you feel fine, it's just heaving your butt out the door that's the hard bit.

But how I admire those who blog daily about their lives. I find it hard to think of what to say.

And it takes me so long to write. I would starve to death as a writer. I can hardly type with more than one finger; then I am blighted by a need to be grammatically correct at all times. Heavens, even my texts are punctuated.

This is certainly due to the strict but encouraging Mrs P, my English teacher, small in stature but huge on exploring the English language and all its niceties. Similarly, Latin teacher Miss H, " I didn't come up the Clyde on a tea biscuit you know", made us dig deep for the precise sense of a word in our translations, not just settle for the easy answer. She made Miss Jean Brodie look positively self-effacing! But these redoubtable ladies certainly instilled in this girl a love of words, their uses and abuses.

Don't you just delight in finding elegant prose? Discovering well crafted sentences, like bright jewels, polished and placed carefully in an appropriate setting is such a pleasure. And the right word, sitting flush with the rest of the sentence, feels somehow soothing while the wrong one jars, and draws attention to its ill-fitting purpose.

But where is the time to write such thoughtful long essays as many do on a regular basis? They clearly have such busy, fulfilling lives but how can they be doing it and blogging it simultaneously? I'm in awe. Clever chaps these bloggers. Much better time management than me, that's for sure. Is there a course I can go on... if I can find the time?


Or perhaps like me they are a night owl, extending the day, well past any sensible bedtime.
So it's a start but now I'm finished.

Deflated

Bouncy Boy is flat. His elder brother has gone to activity camp, leaving younger boy bereft of someone to tease, annoy and generally pester. The boys have never been apart this long before. As a second child, Bouncy Boy has rarely experienced the singular pleasure of being alone with mum and he doesn't like the extra scrutiny one little bit!
And so Not-so Bouncy Son flops about, sighing deeply, mooching from room to room, looking for a partner in crime. Even playing football with the long-suffering Soppy Dog is losing its appeal. Though he's not without grave responsibilities in his brother's absence; he's assumed sole care of Hammond the hamster and it weighs heavily on him. But most poignantly of all, he's insisted on sleeping in his big brother's bed this week.
I'm missing my Thoughtful First Son too of course, his cheeriness, his constant chatter, his hugs but perhaps not the motoring pages of the Times spread all over the kitchen table. Surely though no news is good news and I hope he's been so busy having a good time that he's not even given his mum a second thought. That's what we want, right?
Can't wait to see him, even though he will come accompanied by a huge bag of mouldering, soggy dirty washing!

Dilly Dally

I really must get on with some studying but..

There's the son to get off to camp,
The kitchen to tidy,
The dog to walk,
The dishwasher to empty,
The laundry to wash
And the curate's egg to ponder.

There's the pony to ride,
The beds to make,
The cake to bake,
The suduko to finish
The French to practice
And the blog entry to compose.

But I really must get on with some studying...

Transformers

The Incredibly Shrinking Husband got his hair cut today, perhaps to make him more aerodynamic for his 100 mile cycle tomorrow. He's in training for a charity triathlon, and so, by default says Patsy sourly, is the rest of the family. Wine consumption almost down to zero, quelle horreur!
But while he was snipped (no,no not THAT sort !), I snapped and went shopping.
I got them. The party shoes to go with the posh frock for the little brother's party.
How dare he reach the big four-oh, I can no longer now pretend to be in my early forties. Everyone knows I was senior milk monitor when he was born and are a bit too clever with the maths.
As I gently cradled my new purchases, Thoughtful First Son said, " Mum, can I talk to you about something really important? Can I tell you all about Transformers and why boys like them?"
"And then can I talk to you about shoes and why girls really like them?"
"Deal ,Mum."
And we did. Talked in turn and listened to each other. I learnt that robots which light up and fight for the Universe against the Decepticons can fire up a boy's imagination while he learnt that high heels and sparkly bits cheer up an old mum.
And make me higher he added.
Transformers of a different sort.
"But then I'm just a beginner about girls," he said with great foresight.
The boy will go far.

Dog days

Finally Soppy Dog's hip score is back. 3 and 6. Really, really good. Perhaps puppies this summer.
First Husband is ecstatic. "Beautiful girl, so well bred."
It's not me he's talking about!
Clays today. She knows she's not needed and curls up, the curve of her glossy back closing off any further discussion. She ignores him. How do they know?

In with a splash!

Chocolate, wine and children..I had all 3 in vast quantities at the weekend so now seemed as propitious a time as ever to introduce myself to all you lovely people. I've been watching you all from afar, marvelling at your wit and powerful observations and wondered if I dare to join in...

It was elder son's birthday party, held at the local water park and the group of eight boys tumbled in the water like a bag of ferrets overdosing on e-numbers. The big flumes looked so much fun and there was much screaming.... but despite that, I did insist on donning swimsuit and joining the children. It was then I wish I'd paid more attention to my fake tan. Stripes are fine in their place: on tabby cats, sergeants and Alan Shearer but not on my milk bottle pins.

Back home, and while the boys were running riot in the garden, I battled with a couple of pounds of chocolate, finally getting it to melt to the right consistency for the chocolate fountain. Achieving that perfect brown silky curtain of lusciousness is extremely gratifying and satisfies a deep seated urge for order and harmony, conditions so rarely accomplished here at Patsy's patch. The boys loved it and I even managed to make it healthier by offering bananas, apples and strawberries to dunk in the glorious gloop.

By way of apology for filling up their little treasures with sugar, I offered parents a glass or two of the perfectly chilled Sauvignon Blanc. Seemed churlish not to join them!

Replete with chocolate, wine and children the perfect day ended with the perfect comment of all. "Thanks Mum that was the best birthday ever!" Birthday Boy said with a kiss.
Exit mother , sobbing....