Suburban Mum

It’s well known that my son likes his sleep.  I mean, most kids get up, what, 6am, 7am?  The kiddo usually wakes up no earlier than 9am at the weekend.  Nine O’Clock.  In The Morning.  It’s well known because I like to crow about it.  Well, who wouldn’t?!  We, SH and I, give each other a lie-in at the weekend; mine is Saturday, his is Sunday.  This is on top of the lie-in that the kiddo grants us, so yesterday I got up at around midday.

Anyway.

Yesterday morning at 8.30am we were rudely awakened by the kiddo crashing into our bedroom like an elephant in hobnail boots, shouting “THERE’S A MAN AT THE DOOR!  THERE’S A MAN AT THE DOOR!”

In my sleep-fug I remembered that my parents had ordered SH’s birthday present to be delivered that day to make sure it arrived in time for Monday.  There was no way on this earth that I was going to get up on my lie-in day to answer the door, to leave the soft warm haven of my 13.5tog goose down duvet, even for the husband’s birthday present, so I prodded him in the kidneys and told him he had to go answer the door quickly as it was a very important parcel for him, but that he wasn’t allowed to open yet.  After all, he did want something to open on his birthday, didn’t he?  Guilt trip?  Me?  Never…

So he grumbled his way out of the four inches of duvet I’d allowed him, grunted his way down the stairs and muttered his way through the locks on the door.

“He’s not f***ing there.  He’s gone.”  Grumble, kvetch, grouse, moan.

Shortstuff, having followed his father down the stairs, declared “don’t worry Daddy, it’s under your car”.

Yes he swears in front of the kiddo.  No surprise that the kiddo has, on occasion, tested this word once or twice.

Sure enough, once Fatman had found some shoes and grouched about the cold, there was indeed a parcel under his car.

Turns out we had slept through two doorbells but the kiddo hadn’t.  He had climbed onto his windowsill, behind his curtains and under his blackout blind, to see what all the fuss was about.  The delivery driver had seen him, waved the parcel at him, and shown him where he’d hidden it.

So now I’m expecting a call from social services at any moment.  8.30am, house in darkness, small lonely child on the windowsill fending for himself and unable to open the front door, waving madly at the Parcelforce man.

Who’s going to believe us when we tell them our five-year-old likes to sleep in?!

Today my boy turned five.

I never saw myself as a mother.  Couldn’t picture myself pregnant, giving birth, having children, being responsible for someone else for the rest of my life.  Until I was taken seriously ill and I realised what was missing in my life.  Two months later I was pregnant.

Five years ago, at exactly 42 weeks pregnant and having eaten fresh pineapple, hot curries and drunk gallons of raspberry leaf tea over the previous fortnight, I went to be induced at our local hospital in Hertfordshire.  When I arrived first thing in the morning I was hooked up to a monitor and found to already be having mild contractions, meaning induction couldn’t be done as it would make the contractions too severe.  Instead I was told my waters would be broken when staff were available to do it.   That was at about 9 in the morning.  By 6pm I was still waiting.  The day unit was about to close and a bed had been found for me on a ward when my contractions suddenly went through the roof.  I remember not being able to sit down and telling SH that I needed some pain relief (I had been using a TENS machine all day but it was suddenly completely ineffectual) and I needed it NOW.  The midwife came in to check on me (and brought gas and air, hallelujah) and I’d gone from 2cm to 8cm dilated in the course of 2 hours.  I remember the midwife informing me that it was time I went to a delivery suite and I burst out in a fit of giggles, literally crying with laughter.  Got to love Entonox.

I was taken straight away to a delivery room and staff were miraculously found.  It was 6.30pm.  I told the midwife that I felt like I needed to push but she scoffed at me and sent me to the bathroom.  As soon as I was in there, my waters broke.  I screamed or groaned, or a combination of the two and then I was on the bed and pushing for all I was worth.  The kiddo arrived 3 hours and 2 minutes after I was moved to the delivery room, weighing a healthy 8lb 7oz.  Wednesday 12th January 2005 at 21:32.

I spent this morning at work remembering and feeling quite emotional.  I had a half day’s holiday so I picked him up from school, we bought a dozen doughnuts and went home to wait for grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins to descend.  While we waited for our visitors he wowed me by reading both his reading books from cover to cover with only one word (“quack”) causing him to pause.  I’m amazed at how he’s doing with reading.  This is the last book in the series of 9.  Most of the kids in his class are still on books 1 and 2.  Of course then family arrived, doughnuts were consumed and he worked himself up into a hyperactive temper tantrum and ended up being removed to his bedroom to calm down for 15 minutes!

He has his moments but my boy is the most delightful person to be around.  I admit, I prefer his company to any of my friends or family including SH.  He’s a ray of sunshine in my otherwise overcast world.  When he’s around it’s like having all the lights on.  He is fussy, stubborn and opinionated – just like me.  He is mini-me.  He’s also helpful, thoughtful, has a wicked sense of humour and the memory of an elephant.  His teacher told his childminder that he’s the brightest kid in the year – not just the class; the year.

Motherhood is possibly the most stressful, exhausting, mind-boggling, terrifying, exhilarating and rewarding thing ever to happen to me.  I am fiercely overprotective and far too lenient but he has me wrapped round his little finger.

Whatever happens, it’s you and me against the world, kiddo.

I think I’m living in a parallel universe.

First, the Dragon offered to have the kiddo overnight the evening we went to see Elbow.  Completely of her own accord.

Today she told SH that on our wedding anniversary, she will not only babysit but give us money towards a meal.

Have I fallen unconscious and woken up in someone else’s life?!

PS Not knocking it!!!

So, Mum has been staying with me for a few days, hence the lack of blog posts. She came up by train on Tuesday afternoon which should have been straightforward but thanks to a signal failure at Milton Keynes resulting in all trains to Manchester being cancelled, she ended up going to Sheffield and then catching another train to Manchester from there (and having to stand the whole 40 minute trans-Pennine journey), and she was an hour later than planned. This then affected SH who was flying out on a business trip, and I had to take him to the airport 90 minutes earlier than he needed to be there, just so I could then go pick up my mum from the station!

ST was thrilled to see his nana emerge from the train and both Mum and I were in tears. I hadn’t seen her since Christmas, apart from the few hours at my uncle’s funeral. Not intentionally; first there was Uncle D’s illness, then Dad had to do an elongated jury service, so plans kept having to be changed.

We had a quiet afternoon at home then I cooked us dinner and we caught up on gossip over a glass of wine (or two).

On Wednesday we headed off to the Trafford Centre and Mum spoiled us rotten. I came away with two tops, a VERY expensive (£80!!!) cardigan, some new jewellery and some posh chocolates and ST got loads of new clothes too. Mum bought herself a t-shirt! She then decided she’d like to have a McDonald’s, never having had one before ever, so that’s where we headed next. She wasn’t overly enamoured, but it’s another box to be ticked off on her list of things to do! We spent the afternoon in the garden with ST and then had an Indian takeaway with more wine to finish off the evening.

On Thursday ST was back at playgroup in the morning so we took ourselves off to the Lowry for a spot of child-free culture looking round the art gallery. Then we rushed back to pick up ST and headed off to lunch at my favourite, slightly quirky place to eat. Their desserts have to be seen to be believed (here is a photo I took of a meringue I had there last year. If ever any of you come to visit me, I will take you here, just so I can order one of these). Full to bursting, we then headed home via a local garden nursery where Dad had given me some money to buy new plants for my garden. It was too hot to plant them so the afternoon was spent in the cool of the living room drinking tea and wishing Friday would never come.

Unfortunately, it did and I had to take Mum back to the station for her train home. This time the trains were running and on time, and more tears were shed as she boarded her carriage. We were under strict instructions not to stand and wave so we walked back to the edge of the platform and waved the train out from there, so she couldn’t see us. Just over two hours later she called to say she was in a taxi crossing London for the final leg of her journey home.

A lovely couple of days, but far too short. Many promises to do it again. Now she’s done it once, she said, she’ll easily be able to do it again. I can’t wait.

Yesterday we deposited ST at playgroup, his suitcase at his grandma’s and we headed down to Hertfordshire for my uncle’s funeral. I was twitchy all day thinking of how far away I was from ST; stupid really, I mean I spend three hours away from him nearly every day when he’s at playgroup and don’t bat an eyelid, but the thought of being away from him for 24 hours and him staying somewhere else overnight was a little weird (I’ve only done it once before!).

We met up at Uncle D’s house. It was strange walking into his house without him there, stranger to think that he’d not been there since January. It was all I could do not to haul my brother out of my uncle’s chair and yell “you can’t sit there!”.

There were two limos. This is the first time I’ve sat in an “official” funeral car. SH and I sat with my parents and my Uncle J and Auntie M, who is a total hoot, and we giggled and joked all the way to the crematorium (it takes around half an hour to get there). Every now and then we would remember what we were there for and we’d all go sombre, but then Auntie M would start us all off again with something funny. It made it more bearable somehow and I know that Uncle D would have been laughing and joking with us.

The service itself was humanist. I always found it odd that Auntie D was so religious (she was brought up Welsh Presbyterian if I remember correctly) and Uncle D was totally the opposite. They really were the epitome of “opposites attract” in so many ways. The officiant gave a wonderful eulogy interspersed with some of Uncle D’s favourite music by Mozart. Funny how you find out so many things about a relative at their funeral. Makes me sad that I didn’t know these things when he was alive; I have so many questions about his life.

I found it hard to keep myself together. I get terribly emotional just watching Remembrance Sunday on the television so you can imagine what I’m like at funerals and Uncle D was my favourite of all my uncles. One of my cousins was terribly upset (understandably) and I noticed my dad wringing his hands throughout the service. I couldn’t look at the coffin; I can’t help but think about my uncle being inside that box, I get almost fixated by it, even though I know “he’s” not really in there and that he wouldn’t look like the uncle I remember anyway, not after two months of being ravaged by cancer and pneumonia and not eating. I held it together until we all emerged into the blustery sunlight in the garden of remembrance and then I noticed my mum and dad and aunt all looking teary-eyed and then I was blubbing into SH’s collar.

Afterwards we headed back to the town where we used to live and to the same pub that we went to after Auntie D’s funeral. We only stayed an hour or so because by now it was 6pm and we knew we’d have a long drive home. Despite the circumstances it is always lovely to catch up with my cousins and 2nd cousins and aunts and uncles that I don’t get to see very often.

The drive home was precarious; northern England is getting the storms that battered the south yesterday. Every time we drove past a lorry it seemed to get caught in a gust of wind and made it swerve, so we had a bit of a white-knuckle ride. Home by ten, checked with the Dragon to see how ST had been (fine, went to bed excited at the prospect of staying at Grandma’s house), and straight to bed, exhausted.

This morning it was bliss to wake up gradually and once SH had gone to work I lounged about in my pyjamas having a leisurely breakfast before the Dragon brought ST home at 10.30 am. Unfortunately my cough has left me with no voice but other than that I’m feeling OK today.

Dad came to stay with us this weekend, because of the FA Cup Semi-Final being played at Old Trafford yesterday. The best thing, apart from seeing my Dad, obviously, was that he brought a ticket for me with him.

He flew up from Gatwick (typical Chelsea fan, flying to football matches, we’re all so posh and rich, you see) and we picked him up from Manchester Airport at 8.30 on Saturday night. We kept ST up especially; he loves his Dandad. The moment he saw him his face lit up – in fact all weekend, all he kept doing was pointing at Dad, grinning and shouting “Dandad!”

On Sunday morning we rose early and headed to the park to see the miniature trains running. Dad was in his element – he’s a massive steam train enthusiast. He spent ages telling me what all the different models were while SH and ST rode round the park on a little diesel engine (20p a ride – bargain!). I can see my son is already following in his Grandad’s anorak-like footsteps.

Then Dad and I headed into Central Manchester where we met up with his football/golfing mates at a posh Italian restaurant. Four bottles of wine between the five of us, lots of banter. I changed into my Chelsea shirt and we headed off for the game slightly worse for wear it has to be said. It was a great afternoon although possibly not the greatest game but the result was the right one. It was brilliant being back in the atmosphere, wearing the blue shirt, the singing. I really miss it. I had a season ticket at Chelsea from the age of 15 to 27. Wish I hadn’t given it up now but then again it would be tough to go there from up here and home games always seem to clash with Man City’s games, which would make life tricky to say the least. Oh well.

Then we headed back into Manchester and into Chinatown for more lovely food and an awful lot of Chinese beer. We managed to get the restaurant to play “Blue is the Colour” for us, much to the amusement of two other tables of Chelsea fans and the bewilderment of most of the other (foreign) clientele. Thankfully a distinct lack of Manchester United fans there, or we might have been lynched. Anyway, Dad and I stumbled back in through the front door at a rather reasonable 10.30pm, giggling and merry. Well, it makes a change for me to do it rather than SH.

This morning I took Dad back to the airport for his flight home. ST sat in his car seat prodding Dad in the back of the head and shouting “Dandad” all the way there, then got very distraught when Dad got out of the car, wailing “Noooooooooooooooo!” as he watched him go up the escalator inside the glass building as we waited in traffic. I think the visit was a hit. The good news is that Dad is very enthusiastic about visiting again with Mum and is also talking about getting Mum to fly up on her own for a few days which would be brilliant.

And now I can’t stop singing Blue Day. And praying that Dad can somehow wangle me a ticket to Wembley. Que sera, sera… I’m really getting back into this football spirit, you know.