21. Silent Sunday: Wearing Mummy's Vintage Party Frocks

20. Turks don't wear Pink

Separated at birth?  My 20 month year-old daughter Magpie just before she throws my 1970s toy phone across the room and below, a Turkish warrior

Once upon a time, Turks were considered by Anglo-Saxons as being similar to Vikings, as they were known for their fearful, warrior-like traits.  To call a non-Turk a Turk was definitely an insult.  And as a word, it's somewhat punchier to call someone a Turk than a Viking, just as f**k is more satisfying than bugger - it's just a syllable thing.

This week, Top Gear is in trouble again.  Richard Hammond, comparing Mexicans to a sports car, called them 'lazy, feckless and flatulent.'  The BBC's response was to say that jokes based on national stereotyping are part of British humour.

My mother uses the word 'Turk' to mean somebody who's naughty or silly.  This is very un-PC, but it's very my mother.  She is a septuagenarian child of the Empire (she grew up in wartime Hong Kong), and as blogging is as much an on-line diary as it is a vehicle for discussion, this post is logging a moment in time.  Last night my mother called Magpie a 'Turk.'  In fact, when either of my daughters are naughty, that's what she calls them.  They are either 'Turks,' or their behaviour is very 'Turkish.'  Perhaps very young children and pretty old ladies can be forgiven for being non-PC?  But Richard Hammond is neither.

When my sister and I misbehaved as children, we were also 'Turks.'   So much so, that it has become an affectionate if non-PC family term for any mild misdemeanour.  I do not in any way mean to denigrate any peace-loving Turks.  In our family parlance, Magpie has become the Turk of the Week.

In fact, the Tank (my tomboy twin) and Magpie (the girly girl) have recently swapped roles.  The former is calming down (although she remains Herculean in strength), and Magpie is going up the gears - particularly in the tantrum department.  In our household we have a Tantrometer scale.  Magpie is currently teetering between 8 and 9.  Whilst The Tank now grasps her crotch, Michael Jackson-style when she needs her nappy changed (suggesting readiness for potty training?), Magpie contorts her body into a floppy spiral, and thrusts her head back in demonic fashion.  She does NOT want to have her nappy changed.  It's that simple.

There are many other ways in which Magpie demonstrates her 'Turkishness' (grabbing her sister's hair when she's in the back of the tandem buggy), but that's not the point of this post.  It's for me to affectionately recall my mother's phraseology which is a throwback to pre-PC times.

I haven't explained the title of this post, but I'm sure you can now guess.  Generally, whoever is being more angelic of the two girls gets to wear pink (angelic being a relative term), even though I'm not mad on it.  It is so ingrained in our society that girls wear pink (sugar and spice and all things nice), that I use it like a school 'gold star:' it's my own colour/behaviour code.  I'm sure I'll grow out of it.

19. Memories Part I: Four-Legged Bodyguards

Klefti (left) and Purdey (right) proved to be capable sentinels

For those of you that have been following my blog for a while, you will know that Klefti, our Greek stray died last summer.  The madness of trying to control his energy, while bringing up baby twins, was one of the reasons I started this blog only a couple of months earlier.  He was, after all, a wily survivor, a beach dog, with whom we fell so madly in love we had no choice but to bring him back to the UK.  We even bought our flat for him, as it has an 80' garden in a desirable part of town.

A surrogate child?  No, never.  We have always adored dogs.  He, Tatty and Purdey came first, and if children followed, they would be a blessing.  Dogs are not a dress rehearsal.  I always feel sad when dogs are rehomed when people have children.  To make a multi-species household work, you have to love your dogs as much as your children (a different love, but a love nevertheless).  You need patience.  They need love.  Sounds familiar?   Well, we didn't have dogs to test out what commitment felt like.  They just happened.  Big Daddy bought Tatty (the Westie) before I met him, but Klefti and Purdey were strays that we rescued; the first in Greece, the second in Ireland.

I stumbled across this picture of our bemused canines 'guarding' our newborns and thought I should share it.  When the picture was taken, the babies were about a week old.  Magpie is on the left, The Tank on the right - not that you can see very much of them, they are so tiny, cocooned in their swaddle blankets.

Klefti never got to do rough and tumble with the girls, as they were still 'drunken totterers' when he died.  We always loved watching him humour kids in the park, play-bowing and showing his teeth in a submissive smile.  He was a clown in dog's clothing. The girls would have their very own clown - or so we hoped.

Now that job is left to Purdey, who patiently allows the girls to ride him, stroke him, take his toys and, of course, feed him.  I'm not sure Klefti would have been so amenable, ('look, girls, I'm not a bloody horse,' he might have said) but his willfulness and surety of his own mind is what made him so unique, so strangely human.

18. New Year's Absolution

Is there an average age when people no longer make New Year's resolutions, I wonder?  I ask because I make vague resolutions all year, not just at the end of December.  Or rather, I have so many failings that I go round muttering under my breath 'I must stop doing X' and I should do more of Y.'  This means by the end of the year, if I've tidied up my office, done some ironing, checked my bank balance, ordered in dog food, found almost-new coats, shoes or cashmere cardis at the local Kid's Fara shop, I feel I've done quite well.

This is of course, aside from the need to rebuild my career, do charitable works, be endlessly patient and to improve any strained familial relationships.

But New Year's resolutions?  I would like to absolve myself from this pressure.

And can I just share a photo with you?

The Tank attempts to take poor patient Purdey for a walk around the sitting room.  Magpie is scurrying around on the floor pretending to be a Dachshund.  As I say below, in 2011 I mustn't rely so heavily on a labrador to entertain my children. 

I do, however, have a 'to do' list for both my life and my blog.  'To do' lists are surely less pressurising?

Life 'to do' list

I will rebuild my career (as much as I can with two under two)

I must get my hair cut regularly (so it doesn't resemble Katie's from X Factor)

I will take control of my finances (well....this relates to the first point)

I must ignore Big Daddy when he's picking for a fight (and hopefully he'll ignore me too when it's vice versa)

I will not lose my temper with my mother (unless pushed beyond extreme limits??)

I shall do more interesting things with the kids than going to the park/playground/playgroup/playdates

I must not rely on my labrador to entertain the children (hard as it will be)

I will swim regularly again (Yoga is so much easier as you don't need to get wet)

This is what happens if you neglect that regular appointment with the hairdresser.  2011 is the year of  'too short is  better than too dry'

****

Blog 'to do' list

I will find the time (somehow!) to read other blogs, with consistency

I will remember to make things au courant (Christmasy posts at Christmas, Eastery posts at Easter, etc)

I must be more proflific (one post a week, at very best?  Come on, girl)

I will not be paralysed by the effortless humour, originality and brilliance of other bloggers' blogs

I shall become more technically savvy so that when another blogger wows me with her amazing badge, link capability, advertising, etc etc....I can match the competition (any blogging tutors out there???)

****

When I was in high-achiever mode, before I became a ditherer and later a mother, I once told a friend that we should all do something altruistic and something scary everyday, pushing both kindness and ambition (or fearlessness?) to the limit.

To use that awful modern term, that's a big ask, but is it possible?  Maybe weekly targets would be more realistic....

What do you think?

17. Pesto & Pain Killers

Answers on a postcard please: What's the connection between a pet passport, a pot of pesto, playing cards and a packet of Cuprofen plus?  And isn't it Christmas?  

If the girls could have at least organised the cards into a royal flush, I would have been impressed

The only drug that works with a toddler-inflamed brain

I have been very remiss this month.  This is my first post of December.  And it isn't even a festive one.  Terrible.  Amazing what happens when you focus on earning money and little else.  Well that has been one of those months.  And my brainpowers being supposedly directed elsewhere, I've had little 'head time' for blogging.  It feels like I've been standing up a good friend.

I am dipping my toe back into the waters of feature film development, working freelance as a script reader and editor.  It's nice to be using the brain again (what's left of it), despite being paid a fraction of what I actually need to earn.   I will give myself two years of being in the chilly freelance backwaters before I get  a proper job.  Hmm.  But what if the figures don't add up?  Not forgetting The Childcare Dilemma and all that.  Anyway, I've always preferred being freelance.  That's probably why we are in a home that's too small, and consequently why we have the problem that I am about to describe.

Big Daddy and I have a way of describing things to our children as either 'legal' or 'illegal.'  Of course, this has nothing to do with the obvious things like drinking alcohol (legal over a certain age) or smoking crack (illegal at any age).  It has to do with things that we class as legal or illegal in relation to our children touching them / playing with them / eating them / drinking them etc.

The problem with the legality or illegality of objects, is that as our girls get taller, many illegal things suddenly come into close reach and are thus deemed legal by little people even though they are entirely illegal.

Illegal items that our children have destroyed / played with / eaten / or made a god-awful mess with:

• A pot of pesto was somehow taken out of the fridge or off the sideboard - exact location of pesto pot unknown.  (Said pot was spread liberally over floor by girls while their grandmother was doing I know not what).

•  A pack of playing cards was taken on tiptoe from a kitchen shelf and shuffled with pesto fingers on the floor

• A fondue toasting-fork was taken from the back (yes the back) of a kitchen cupboard and brandished dangerously

• A packet of Cuprofen Plus was secreted from a bedroom draw formerly too hard to open (but swiped away just in time)

• Pet passports, worming tablets and a barely-used 'golden egg' sex-aid were taken from a drawer formerly too high to reach, and were brought to me after breakfast (at least the tablets reminded me to worm the dogs). 

•  A sewing kit was reached by climbing on a chair and grabbing the potentially offensive weapon from a sitting room sideboard

• A telephone answer machine was pulled down off a table and de-programmed at Ga's house (Ga is Grandmother).

In fact, the list of of devilish deeds is endless.  I'm guessing we need better storage of our belongings.  Our sitting room / dining room is also the girl's playroom which makes that slightly tricky.

I feel a Zen de-cluttering (and disposal of the golden-egg sex aid) is about to take place.

I'll keep you posted.

16. Slummy not Yummy

The Tank (centre) entertains her mini-hosts

Good, bad or ugly.  A playdate can be any of these.  I went to one this week that really worked, despite an inauspicious beginning when

1.  It was pouring with rain

2.  Magpie was screaming her head off (I thought she was cold, but later discovered she hates the top button of her coat being done up)

2.  I couldn't remember my host's house number

3.  My host wasn't answering her mobile

4.  I didn't have her landline number

So a miracle, really.  Oh and both the host and I have twins.  I have come to the conclusion that there is a recipe for a stress-free playdate, which has nothing to do with the quantity of toddlers present.

You and your host share the same attitude towards order (or lack thereof)

You and your host share the same standards of hygeine (or lack thereof)

You and your host share the same attidude towards water beaker/spoon-sharing (see above) 

You and your host share the same sense of humour when your child bashes one of hers, or vice versa

Let me explain. 

When you have a puppy, for those of you who haven't brought up both man and beast, you give them a rubber Kong (like a rugby ball with a small hole at either end), stuff an unretrievable treat inside and get hours of peace while they lick the thing to death.

At the playdate, My host and I worked out the toddler equivalent (see fig 1. below).  And it's important that I say 'we' worked it out.  As sometimes a host and guest might not be in sync on the game itself or the manner in which it's played (by that I mean the social acceptability of a game which involves scattering snacks on the kitchen floor).  The game is very simple.  All you need is:

A railed room divider (ideal) or a stairgate will do.

High-saliency snacks - saliency is used in dog training, in simple terms it means a delicious treat for which the subject salivates and thereby works hard to retrieve.

Toddlers.  The more, the merrier, creating a competitive edge.

Fig 1.Hours (ok, minutes) of toddler fun.  Magpie and The Tank are bookended by their little hosts; the snacks are just discernable, looking like faded yellow maggots

And that's it.  Now the rules of the game are simply put toddlers on one side of the room divider, and put the snacks on the other side, scattered liberally, but just out of reach.

Fig 2. the snacks are slighter more discernable at the bottom of the photo

Haven't finished preparing lunch?  Now you've bought yourself another ten minutes before feeding time at the zoo really begins.  See what I mean about host and guest having to be in sync, hygeine-wise?  No Howard Hughes types allowed!

Having bonded over the snack retreival game, the two sets of twins behaved impeccably (except for the Tank bashing one of her mini-hosts with a vintage handbag) and the rest of the playdate was a breeze.  Even lunch itself around the table was civilised, when the most adventurous thing the children did was to check out how water tasted in somebody else's beaker......

15. Love and the Lexicon of Little People

Magpie calls Big Daddy 'Andu,' possibly because I'm such a nag it's the most easily imitable word she knows.  (Ok, I might be giving his Christian name away).  The Tank calls me 'Ma!!!' and the punctuation I have just used is entirely appropriate.  If she gets a toy stuck, drops some food while strapped in her buggy or is being annoyed by her sister, I am supposed to be there within milliseconds, sorting out the problem.

Rearing children can be tiring, it can be hard, but it can also be intoxicating.  I learnt this on two occasions, all in one week. 

First, witnessing the Tank's face crumpling when Big Daddy tickled me.  Tickling reduces me to a squirming victim, and on seeing her 'Ma' as a helpless girl must have ellicted filial devotion.  The Tank wanted - or so her expression said -  to defend me from my 'aggressor.'  Klefti, our dear departed Greek dog (for those who have been following my blog for a while), would have done the same.  Children and dogs are very loyal creatures.

The second occasion of parental intoxication was when the Tank said 'Mummy' for the first time.  Not 'Ma!' her appellation since the end of August, but Mummy.  The proper word.  The word that one day may be preceded by 'I love you,' Mummy.  It hit me right in the gut.  Yes, I am a Mummy.  The Tank's Mummy.  It is only when one's children confirm the fact, I realise, that it feels really, truly real.  Of course I am also Magpie's Mummy, but she is yet to say it and thus confirm this fact in all its metaphysical glory.

On the birth of my girls, when a childless friend asked me over dinner with slight disdain 'so have you fallen in love, then?'  I answered the question with awkward dismay.  'No, it's love, but it's a different love.  It's not being 'in' love. 

Everyone hears the myth that this is what happens as soon as you give birth but of course it's not comparable.  It's a huge, irrepressible love that makes you want to be a knight in shining armour for your children, always there to save and protect them.   For many, myself included, it gives your life meaning you never thought possible. 

However:

I didn't get butterflies and lose my appetite (quite the reverse)

I didn't suddenly feel horny all the time  (quite the reverse)

I didn't dash out to buy underwear and take a fresh interest in my appearance (quite the reverse)

The same childless friend who asked me about being 'in' love also asked me if I pined for my babies whenever I left the house, and was it all I could think about.  No, no, no, I didn't and it wasn't!  I wanted to think and talk grown-up stuff with grown-ups.  Playdates with 'mummy friends' are for talking breast v bottle and swaddling v sleeping bags, not evenings out with old schoolfriends, for God's sake.

I love the hell out of my children, but I also love, nay, relish a bit of grown-up time now and then.  I'm sure there must be some poetry out there that encapsulates the true sentiment of parental love, but it isn't like a spell that is cast on you and that lifts you onto a magic carpet.  Yes, of course there is magic involved in watching your babies turn into toddlers, toddlers into children and children....into....teenagers (ok scrap the last bit).  But ultimately it's an often tough, occasionally exasperating but mostly rewarding reality.