July 2022

OK, so I’ve more or less lost my baby weight. The baby’s given up the boob, so I’ve lost the nursing bras. But I haven’t lost the maternity kecks. I just can’t give them up! I’d like to say they just fall off me now, but that is the power of elastic, my friends – they adapt to the changing contours of woman. The relief, after a decade in thongs, of my first pregnancy, when I bought my first pack of pants, has never left me. They’re so damned comfy, so easy to throw on – they go with anything! Except womanly pride. There’s just nothing – nothing – sexy about a maternity pant. So it was that I ended up lingering around lingerie. I was shopping for something else (school shoe labelling stickers, if you must delve into my glamorous life) and happened to pass Ann Summers. My chance had come! I could fling out the jumbo underwear and start my new life as a Woman from the inside out. But there was something tying my hands…my buggy handles. Attached, of course, to my baby-bearing buggy. Was it right to take an infant into this emporium of sauce? Obviously, the circle of life and all that – we know where babies come from after all, so what’s wrong with browsing the briefs with the product of the most natural thing on earth? Probably nothing, but yet, I hesitated, paused on the threshold of pants redemption – and then noticed that Hotel Chocolat was just over the way, and diverted there instead. If I’m not going to buy a smaller pant, I reasoned, I may as well try and fit the pants I’m in. And so now, I am in pants paralysis. Caught between the desire to upgrade my underwear and the need to pop on my pants. So the second thing on my Christmas List (for my first, see here) is: some comfortable, but attractive knickerage. I spotted these ones in Fat Face today, but suggestions are welcome!

Can’t fit in date night? Got a long journey coming up? Why not combine the two and make it a Date Trip? 

Date Trip

We’re always saying we need to spend more time together. We were due to visit my in laws during half term – a tasty five-hour trip, and that’s with no stops. It was like a great plan coming together! Five-plus hours of each other’s undivided company. Five hours with no escape. 

Date Trip Essentials

A car. With no petrol in it (important).

As many kids as you own.

An alluring outfit – one that attracts all manner of stains and deposits as you handle a constant conveyor belt of snacks, rubbish and half-full smoothie cartons. Plus several coats for when the driver decides it is Too Hot and whacks the blower on. 

Unlimited snacks but limited drinks (wee stops will spoil the flow. But you will need the loo just as the baby finally drops off into the Sleep That Has To Last Till We Get There).

Lots and lots of traffic and roadworks.

Rain. As heavy as possible.

All the electronic devices you own, all running out of charge.

A truly terrible audiobook (we had The Magic Faraway Tree. Awful.).

A Relationship in Microcosm

So we set off. 330 miles ahead of us. 330 miles over which to “reignite romance”. And sure enough, as the journey progressed, it was like the unfolding of our story so far:

Heady Happiness. So glad we had finally got together. No more popping back into the house.

The First Argument. “I thought you might have filled up yesterday.” “I thought you might have packed your own pants.”

The Make-Up. “I got you a Double Decker when I went to the loo.” “I’ve wiped the smoothie off your seat.”

The Proposal. Trent or Stafford services?

The Marriage. We walk together up the aisle of WHSmith, our kids scattering stolen pick’n’mix and freebies from the CBeebies magazine like confetti.

The Kids. “Will you please stop arguing or daddy will crash the car!” “Yes, there’s still four hours to go. Yes, that’s a long time. 240 minutes.” “Who wants some Maltesers?!”

The Humdrum. “Oh, by the way – did you pay the water?” “When’s parent’s evening again?” “Did you put my suit in?” “Can we retire to the coast? Pleease?”

The Big Row. “I am reaching into the boot with my bum in the windscreen to get the snacks that I told you to put by my feet, will you not jerk the car like that. And you never buy me flowers any more.”

The Simmer. We both stare moodily out of our respective windows.

The Row Nostalgia. “Your bum in the windscreen” *sniggers*. 

The Nostalgia. “Remember that road trip on honeymoon when you had the runs?”

The Renewal of Vows. *Husband presses something in the palm of my hand* “I thought you’d eaten all the Mini Eggs?” Our melted-chocolate paws rest together briefly on the gear-stick. “I saved the last ones for you.”

So far, so smushy. There’s just one teeny, tiny snag to this model. And I’m sure you’ve spotted it. No booze. Nope, even though I wasn’t going to be driving, I’m not quite mean enough (yet!) to swig from a “7Up” bottle while sitting next to him. Anyway, the wee stops would be ridiculous.  

A date trip may be your idea of hell. But it’s your little hell. And if you can pass the M6 test, sober and child-locked-in, then who needs date nights? You’re already there. 

There are few things more frightening than having something unexpected in your mouth. So imagine my horror when I gleefully popped in a segment of Terry’s Chocolate Orange, only to discover it was the Popping Candy abomination. It was an outrage! It started as an Alka Seltzer-esque fizz, then ramped up to a shaken Coke, before culminating in a fireworks display in my fissures. It lasted for about three terrifying minutes – it felt like the galvanised sugar was literally exploding its way into my molars.  Through my foaming mouth I castigated my husband for his poor choice. We’d been in WHSmith and he’d grabbed a Chocolate Orange, of which, unseasonal though it was, I fully approved in principle but saw he’d inadvertently picked up the dark, so made him put it back, only for him to – in his panic, I saw now – grab this new version. I only had myself to blame, but this was a punishment beyond compare. My fizz threshold begins and ends with Refreshers; I can go no more hard core than that. My face must have been like my baby’s when I tried to feed him the pumpkin that I carved out for Halloween last night. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE chocolate. I eat the squished bits off the back of the car seat. And I’m not against novelty chocolate. Trying it anyway. Halloween is, after all, one of the key times for a reworked chococlassic. I’ll buy anything once, but it takes a lot for a new innovation to earn its way into my stable of accepted chocfare. The last one that made it in was Cadbury’s Freddo Faces, but before that it was Galaxy Minstrels. As you can see, I like to remain current in my chocolate knowledge, but I will not be made a fool of. Terry’s, I will eat your Milk Chocolate Oranges till my last Christmas on this earth, but when it comes to your popping candy, you might trick me once, but I won’t let you trick me twice.

The more kids you have, the less welcome you are. Or is that just us? However much you like us, why would you invite a tornado into your house? We are the Patersons, and we are Playdate Pariahs. Since we tipped from a fairly manageable family of four into a party of five, even our oldest friends have stopped inviting us anywhere. I know to those with four or more kids, three must sound like a piffling number – I can’t even imagine how you handle more, and have huge respect for you. But I think there is a case of quality over quantity. The quality of my sons’ company is atomic. They are a seething mass of loud, explosive energy. Opening the front door to us must be like witnessing the birth of the cosmos – the temptation to bang the door on the Big Bang Family must be immense. Less Babe-in-Arms than Babe-in-Cupboards But say you do let us in, what can you expect? Hugs, high fives, fist bumps, mwah mwah – and then…annihilation. We are the very embodiment of a kiss and a punch. It was kind of OK when our littlie was a babe-in-arms, but now he can walk, he is a babe-in-cupboards. He’ll eviscerate your storage solutions in seconds. He will probably smash something within five minutes. He’s not naughty, he’s just curious. His big brothers (recently turned 6 and 4, respectively) are not naughty, either (generally). But, like water, they will find a way. Having assessed the toy status of the downstairs rooms, they will be up in the bedrooms like a shot. Before I can croak, “Please don’t, darlings!” they’ll have the completed Lego models off their display shelves and be making their own improvements. Or jumping on your bed, taking care to throw down all the pillows in the house to make a soft landing for their little brother. A disarmingly cute touch, but just not good in someone else’s house. Meanwhile, you will get a few snatches of chat out of us (or just me, if it’s a weekday). These efforts at conversation are well-meant, but it’s like trying to talk through the Great Wall of Children. An impenetrable blockade of boisterousness, barracking, and “where’s the baby?” as I realise for the tenth time that minute that he has given me the slip and gone out through the door the others have left open yet again. There’s No Such Thing As A Free Playdate Obviously, the gaping hole that is my playdate calendar is entirely my own fault. Because I never invite people to our house. I can see the Holy Grail of Playdates – the solo venture, where you get to palm your child off on his friend’s family for a couple of hours. But I can’t touch it. Because right now, the thought of adding an extra child to the after-school mix makes me want to weep. I’ve heard that the two friends play happily together and thus keep one of your children occupied, so theoretically, it should be better. However, what if the friends don’t actually have any play chemistry? What do I do if they want to exclude the little two, who are desperate to play too, leaving them crying outside the door? Also, I find bedtime enough of a struggle without dealing with a playdate comedown too. (See Kids’ Bedtime – The Last Straw.) Changing our World, One Playdate At a Time You may be thinking, why don’t you just control your children, then you might get more invites? To which, I say: Yes, indeed. As if controlling my children were not the work, prize, and bane of my life. I try my hardest, but it’s like trying to harness the North Wind. I’m hopeful that when my youngest is a little older, I may be able to contemplate a fine schedule of playdates. (I was going to say, when I’m less tired, but if we waited for that, I think they’d be old enough to drive themselves to their mates’ houses). But in the interests of my “new mummy” resolution, I am going to try and arrange one playdate for each child this term, and see how it goes. Any takers? Kids’ Bedtime – The Last Straw