Four Down, Mum to Go?

Birthday blues

2012-01-25T17:59:00.002Z

The twins' third birthday is almost upon us and while whenever I ask them what they want they firmly declare that: "Santa is going to bring us lemon cake on our birthday", their older brothers are not so easily fobbed off.

This is the problem when birthdays and Christmas are all bunched up in a clump, as the bigger boys get lots of treats and presents between October and December, but then it is a LONG wait till their next special day. Since the twins were born their birthday in February falls during this lean period and my older sons don't like this at all.

When I asked my eldest what I should get the twins he grumpily declared: "Nothing", before launching into an impassioned plea that I should buy him the Harry Potter Years 5-7 Wii game. I don't think that he has really got the hang of this other people's birthdays lark.

I do feel sorry for him as our family was very poorly planned on the birthday front. The celebrations kick off with Mr FDMTG's birthday on September 11th, followed swiftly by my birthday on 26th, then my middle boy on 14 October and my oldest pumpkin on 31 October. Add to this that their paternal grandpa, aunt, uncle and one cousin also have birthdays in September, October and November and this end of the year is seriously overloaded with big days.

When I was idly thinking about having a third child I imagined it would be nice for him (or her) to be born in the summer time so I could host those lovely relaxed parties in the park, where all the entertainment I needed to provide would be free access to the monkey bars and all the cake crumbs and spilt squash would melt away into the grass.

As with all the best laid plans this went to pot and my twins were born on a freezing cold February day. Snow was still dusting the ground and it was a bleak grey sky that filled the window of my hospital room. February is not the ideal month for a birthday. Most of us are still broke and bloated after Christmas, the weather is invariably awful and it is at least a bleak six weeks till Spring begins to brighten things up a bit.

I had hoped that having a birthday in this month might serve to brighten it up a bit, but it just seems to rub my poor older boys' noses in the fact that it is absolutely ages till their own birthdays. When they were tiny the grandparents would always buy them a little gift to take the sting out of their siblings' birthday. But now that there are four of them this could prove costly and and I also think that by the ages of eight and six they need to begin to understand the concept of things not being all about them.

My attempts to bring them up into civilised human beings is not going well as both are stubbornly failing to enter into the spirit of the twins' birthday and greet all conversation about it with a sulky silence or demands for presents of their own. I am hoping that a party on the day with plenty of cake and sausage rolls will at least go some way to putting their noses back into joint. If not it's only another seven months till they can hog the celebrations all to themselves again.

Growing pains

2012-01-24T18:11:00.001Z

I was pondering why, when the twins were tiny I couldn't write this blog often enough, but now that they are growing up - who can believe they will be three soon - there just doesn't seem to be as much to share. Or perhaps it is more because blogging was a touch of sanity in the insane world of newborn twins. A chance for me to get a bit of breathing space and perspective on the chaos that was unfolding around me.

Either way when every day was filled with amusing tales of bodily fluids spilled and nights splintered by screaming babies it seemed easy to capture our family life in a mesh of words, but now it seems to escape my grasp. Much as I want to tie down the memories in black and white, I find it increasingly hard to snatch a moment and wrangle it onto the page.

It's not that the children are more boring, but I suppose as they grow and develop their traits are harder to shove into stereotypical boxes and their characters harder to pin down in a few inadequate words. Babies are so simple, you write about the feeding, sleeping and pooing nightmares and it's good for a laugh, toddlers and children are so much more complex.

Also the twins were such a homogeneous unit when they were tiny. Sleeping curled around one another, their needs mirroring one another, each one fighting with the bottle, escaping their nappies and generally getting up to typical baby mischief. Now they are two very different little boys. While their twindom will always define them to some extent, it doesn't seem to be their predominant feature any more.

It was a combat course dealing with twin newborns, but twin toddlers are a piece of cake. I think it is your reward as a twin mummy as growing twins are so much more self sufficient than a single child. They will wander off and play together and I never need to feel that they are being neglected as they have each other. They don't seem to crave the same degree of parental stimulation that their singleton brothers did, and that is a huge relief.

I was thinking just the other day that I am too old for toddlers. I have done my duty standing in freezing playgrounds, endlessly moulding playdough, making friends at playgroups and rescuing tiny people from the most inaccessible reaches of soft play areas. Now I want to sit, drink cappuccino and chat with other grown ups, so perhaps it is lucky that my last children were twins who don't constantly grasp my hand or call my name to gain my attention.

While my older boys would always pick mummy as the one they loved the most, my twins have an internal debate over who to choose - their twin or their parent. It is 50/50 who wins out, and that is a blessed relief as it means the heat is off mummy for at least half of the time.

That said I am sad that my boys are growing up. I always used to think that I would throw a party when they finally went to school, but now I am not so sure. While it will be fantastic to have the headaches of balancing work and childcare behind me, the house will be very empty without their cries echoing around it. Luckily I have another couple of years before I have to face this prospect, but I am beginning to think that it won't be such a joyous day after all.

I am well aware that this time in my life is precious and perhaps that is why I am perturbed by my inability to record it. The most important years are those spent raising small children who both want and need you. Before long my sons will be mortified when I fling my arms around them and declare my undying love for them, they will brush me off long before we reach the school gate and will want all their kisses and cuddles to come from nubile teenage girls, not their wizened old mum.

Then they will be off forging their own way in life and I will be left with the memories of these scant few years to keep me warm in between their visits and phone calls. I wish I wasn't so aware of the fleeting nature of their childhood, but on the other hand it does stop me in my tracks sometimes when I find myself wishing away the hard bits and longing to have the house back to myself.

While I will be glad when I never have to change another nappy, fetch another cup of juice or hear the plot of another show on Cartoon Network, I am not sure I ever want any of them to entirely escape from under my wing. It makes me understand why mother's in law can sometimes be such harridans, it is just so hard to let go of your precious son.

A good telling off

2012-01-11T11:37:00.002Z

Forgive me for thinking that it was the parent's job to tell the children off. I am sure that is the way round it is meant to be, but someone forgot to mention that to my boys. I am forever in the dog house with my sons for transgressions which range from the trivial to more serious misdemeanours.

My eldest is always putting me right on everything from when I get a word wrong in a book I am reading to him, to my weakness for exaggerations like "I have told you a million times to brush your teeth", which he never fails to point out is patently incorrect. He also feels that I am slack in my role as his PA and often upbraids me for failing to remind him to do things like attend his music lessons, bring his school jumper downstairs or hand in his homework. If any of these things is forgotten it is obviously all my fault.

Clearly this is where his little brothers have picked it up from. They are both forever saying to me "Mummy you are a very naughty boy, you must got and sit on the naughty step", particularly when I am asking them to do something they don't want to do, such as stop watching television or put their shoes on.

It's not just me who is roundly reprimanded by the twins though. The other morning Mr FDMTG, our resident breakfast chef, was a little slow in providing a bowl of cereal for demanding little twin one, who responded by saying: "For goodness sake, you're annoying me".

Though my husband did point out that he must be getting this attitude from somewhere, at which point we both looked a little shamefaced. Perhaps we really do deserve a good telling off for teaching our boys that the only way to get what you want is to bossily demand it.

Little pieces of me

2012-01-09T16:01:00.000Z

Whenever a baby is born relatives and friends immediately start hypothesising on who he or she looks most like. It is a knee jerk reaction to any newborn to exclaim "Doesn't he look like you/his dad", the moment any visitor claps eyes on the scrunched baby bundle swaddled in your arms.

I am not sold on this theory, although apparently there is an evolutionary reason why babies are supposedly born looking like dad. It is meant to reassure him that the offspring you are holding really is his, while you as the mum who just pushed the infant out can be in no doubt of his parentage.

But while all my children, barring one, were bald, just like daddy that is really where the resemblance ended. However, as my children have grown up the similarities between them and their parents have grown more and more obvious, if not always welcome.

Mr FDMTG swears blind that our youngest twin is the spit of me when it comes to personality and I am not sure this is a compliment to either of us. He is referring to the fact that twin two has a will of iron that will not be thwarted, no matter how obvious it might be that he is in the wrong. The moment his mind is made up he gets that look in his eye that tells you he WILL NOT be moved. I see nothing of myself in this stubbornness, but my husband assures me I am mistaken.

Twin one on the other hand is a replica of his daddy from his chubby features to his knife edge personality that switches in an instant from wreathed in smiles to wailing, tear stained despair. Though just like daddy he can usually be appeased with a chocolate biscuit and the promise of some telly.

Son number two is an unholy alliance of our worst features twinned with some of our best. He has my husband's unhealthy obsession with not moving a muscle unless it is absolutely necessary alongside my inability to stop eating until long after it was good for me. But he also has infinite kindness which he definitely inherited from his daddy, along with a deep affinity for others - he is always ready with a cuddle or a kiss to make it all better another trait from my better half. He is also observant and imaginative, which I like to think are qualities gifted from my side of the gene pool.

Son number one is the one that puzzles me most as he is pretty much perfect, well apart from his pre-teen strops which he could get from either side really and the fact that he is a terrible loser (hands up husband dearest). He is good at everything from dance (no idea) to music (daddy), maths (daddy) to reading (me at last) and when he puts his mind to it he can charm the birds off the trees (must have skipped a generation).

I wonder what other facets of our personalities will be shone back on us so we can bask or baulk at them as our children continue to grow and develop?

The London Marathon

2012-01-06T13:08:00.000Z

I am not sure who is more scared by my decision to enter the London Marathon, me or my husband. I have to not only run 26.2 miles in just under four months time, but also have to raise a mammoth £2,000 in sponsorship for my chosen charity, The North London Hospice. But he has to take on the role of running widower until I pass the finish line on 22 April.

I not sure who has the most bum deal of those two prospects, but I have a sneaking suspicion it might just be him. For while I am daunted by the fundraising as I hate begging for cash, I have been longing to run a marathon ever since I started taking my running more seriously and I am very excited that my goal is now in sight.

The trouble is that serious training and motherhood are deeply incompatible. A half hour jog around the park is hard enough to fit in around activities, feeding times and generally keeping the children entertained, but try getting out for 3 hour runs every weekend - I see some early rising on the horizon as soon as it is light enough.

So whenever anyone is impressed by my running exploits, I know that they should really be in awe of my husband's generosity of spirit in shouldering the burden of the childcare while I run off leaving him holding the boys. I am forever grateful to him and I hope he knows how much I appreciate his support. I hope I will make him proud enough on the day to forget all the times I am sure I will drop him in it with grumpy, mucky and unruly children over the next few months.

So Mr FDMTG thank you in advance and if I do make it past the finish line I shall hand my medal right over to you as you will deserve it far more than I do.

If you feel like sponsoring me in this foolhardy endeavour then click on the London Marathon logo above or visit www.virginmoneygiving.com/UrsulaHirschkorn. It's for a great cause and unlike bigger charities you can be sure that your money will really go towards helping the hospice. It is entirely funded by donations so if you can spare anything it really will help.

Au revoir Xmas

2012-01-05T22:16:00.001Z

There are times when I rue the day I had four children. Times like when we look up the cost of six plane tickets, try to take an unplanned trip to a restaurant at lunchtime or attempt to buy a car that couldn't easily double as a minibus. But today I was very glad to have many hands to help me, for today was the day that Christmas came to an end chez FDMTG.

I know it's not strictly 12th night, but the recycling lorry comes tomorrow and I am sick of the increasingly bedraggled tree forlornly moulting pine needles all over the floor. After several weeks of sterling service it was time to put the poor evergreen out of its misery.

Usually dismantling the Christmas decorations is a job for the grown ups, traditionally completed with much bad will and the last swigs of festive booze. The worst part of Christmas is the joyless task of hoovering up tree debris and attempting to fit the boxes of baubles back into the loft amongst all the random flotsam and jetsam that somehow washes up there. Ramming plastic crates of tinsel, lights and wrapping paper up against long disused baby car seats, my ancient prom dress and a cardboard box full of the eldest's infant daubs that I can't bear to part with.

It always makes me feel rather sad to see our once resplendent tree stripped of its finery and rammed unceremoniously into the green bin, its spiky branches outraged at being demoted from centre of attention to compost in the making. Little bits of glitter cling onto its needles nostalgically hinting at its splendid past, but the fickle sparkling star and glinting baubles have escaped from its branches to await its successor next December. What an ignominious end for such a integral part of the festivities, but such is the fate of the Christmas tree.

As usual I digress, because what made this year different is that it's the first when my boys actually helped me take down the decorations, rather than being banished to bed on the basis that they would be more of a hindrance than a help. The eldest was fantastic, unwinding the fairy lights, bundling up tinsel and boxing up baubles with enthusiasm engendered by the promise of eating the chocolate decorations.

Middle son was equally helpful rushing up and down stairs to fetch me tissue paper, scissors and carefully taking down all the home made decorations I can't resist hanging every year, even if it does make the place look like a playschool. Though his real moment of triumph was in helping his potty training little brother to do a poo in the potty. This is no mean feat as excreting is usually something he usually prefers to do in his pants (see I promised you tales of poo).

Even the twins trundled about packing away candles, though they were rather puzzled when I started to unhook baubles, scolding me 'Mummy you are not allowed to touch the decorations', just as I had roared at them countless times since the tree went up. Well at least it proves they do occasionally listen to what I say.

I am just as exhausted as I would have been had the job been left to me and Mr. FDMTG, but I feel buoyed by the prospect of a future when my boys can be drafted in to help with household chores, rather than simply creating and infinite amount of them for me to complete. I am just biding my time before I can hand over the laundry and the cooking.

Funny voices

2012-01-05T08:14:00.001Z

True to my word I am taking a few minutes I can ill afford to update FDMTG before slipping into school run chaos. I think I have a few moments in hand as my sons are getting dressed, a process that is sure to take at least half an hour and that's with shouted encouragement from my husband, I dread to think how long it would take if they were left to their own devices.

The reason for this impromptu post is that I have noticed a strange phenomenon in my littlest twin. Although he was born in the salubrious surroundings of the Portland Hospital in Central London and since then has only moved a few scant miles to our current home in North London, he has, for no apparent reason, developed a strong West Country tang in his accent.

Not sure where this stems from - perhaps CBeebies - but when asked how his meal tasted he will more often than not reply "It was noice" and when he spotted a herd of bison on a TV wildlife documentary he declared them to be "Noice boyson". It is unbearably cute, but very mysterious.

Now I can hear the decibel level rising and the shower beckoning, so I must away before my husband's ire makes its way up to my eerie in the loft.

New Year's Resolutions

2012-01-04T18:18:00.002Z

I have never been a big believer in New Year's Resolutions. January seems like such a miserable time to be pledging to give up all that is fun in life, so rather than make up some boring rules for me to spend the beginning of 2012 breaking I thought I would come up with some potentially more attainable goals to aim for.

1. I will try to limit shouting at the children to less than five times a day (or 10 at the weekends when school doesn't keep them out of my hair for the best part of the day).

2. I will endeavour to remember to video the twins at this most gorgeous of ages. I want to preserve forever the fabulous nicknames they have come up with for themselves. Zakka Pakka Pookalakka de Blue and Jonah Bachina de Green should not be lost in the mists of time and my dicky memory. I want film of their smooth two-year-old dance moves that look a little as if they are going into spasm, I want to keep a pictorial record of them curled around one another like puppies in bed, I want to remember how whenever you ask Jonah how he is he responds "I'm gorgeous", while his twin pipes up "I'm gorgeous too". I never want to forget how they scold me roundly telling me I am 'A naughty boy and have to go on the naughty step'. I neeeeeed (as Jo would put it) a recording of Zach singing "You look like a monkey and you smell like one too".

3. I will stop and enjoy time with my boys rather than wasting their childhoods in a round of cooking chunks of breaded chicken and washing their school shirts. This one may be tricky to achieve as the moment I stop either of these activities the 'I'm hungry' whines reach fever pitch and the house slowly sinks beneath a tidal wave of grubby laundry, but I can dream.

4. I will eat an entire family meal without once having to wipe something up. OK this one is about as outlandish the idea that you will actually use that gym membership for the next 12 months, but it is a secret hope that 2012 is the year that my boys will acquire table manners. Of course I try to drum them into my sons, but they appear to go in one ear and then out of their mouth as they spray me with a fine mist of their meal whilst simultaneously eating and shouting at one another.

5. I will enforce bedtime once again. Gone are those halcyon days when by 7pm the house was a serene, child-free zone in which one could indulge in such adult pursuits as speaking without being interrupted and sitting down for a stretch of several minutes without being asked to replenish a child's food or drink.

Now my eight-year-old keeps a schedule that would put a world leader to shame. If he is asleep before midnight it's a good night, yet he is up with the lark (at least on the weekend he is) and raring to go. I am sure this can't be good for him, and I know it's not good for me - a diet of TV and conversation suitable for the under-10s does not a good night in make.

6. I will blog more. I have neglected FDMTG as the children grew up and didn't provide me with as many amusing anecdotes to record as when they regularly threw up over me, but I don't want my record of their childhood to stop here. Surely the best bit, when they are potty trained and can eat without assistance is yet to come?

Happy New Year and good luck with your resolutions. Please make one to come back and read more FDMTG and I promise to reward you with intellectual stimulation and stories about poo.

Stuff the Scrooges

2011-12-12T11:07:00.001Z

Tis the season to be tacky tra la la la. Well at least that's my opinion. I like to think that for most of the year I am a relatively tasteful human being. I can't stand polyester bedding, I think most of the sofas in the DFS ads are vomit inducing and I know my way around a Farrow and Ball paint chart. See I am a right classy bird me, well at least I am until the first strains of Jingle Bells begin to chime in the shops, because just as a full moon unleashes the werewolf within, Christmas releases my inner Essix girl.

I have a sneaking affection for those houses lit up like Southend sea front with a menagerie of glittering neon snowmen, Santas and elves. I know it's wrong, but I just can't help it my spirits from lifting as I spy a herd glowing reindeer perched atop a suburban roof.

I was particularly disappointed that a recent trip to New York was just that little bit too early to see the full glory of the city's Christmas decorations as I know the Americans know how to go over the top in style. I was gagging to see the Swarovski laden tree at the Rockerfeller Centre, but it was still shrouded in scaffolding as a team of workmen bedecked it's branches.

You see I have tried doing an understated Christmas. I have fallen for the trends for monochrome trees glinting demurely with pure white lights and a few carefully chosen, handblown glass baubles, I have wrapped presents in brown paper and twine, I have decked the house in nothing but holly and ivy, but the end result always disappointed my tacky soul.

If it weren't for my husband who restrains my worst excesses my house would be draped with coloured lights, my tree would groan under the entire contents of the John Lewis Christmas department, accessorised by all the trinkets we've picked up on our travels with the children, including the fluffy M&M decorations, the festive Mickey and Goofy figures and the entire set of Micky Mouse shaped baubles.

This year I have scored a small victory for Christmas kitsch and for the first time, with the backing of my oldest boys, we have persuaded my other half that it is acceptable to string blue and white flashing lights across the front of the house. Little does he know this is the thin end of the wedge as I have long wanted to fill the tree outside our house with lights and I think this is a step in the right direction.

I was gratified when the neighbours on both sides complimented my lights, and felt this was justification if ever I needed in my marital struggle to introduce a taste free zone at Christmas. This year blue and white fairy lights, next year a lighting up snowman (always the blasted garden centre hasn't run out again, see I told you they were popular).

The perils of fancy dress (and all things sparkly)

2011-11-28T17:23:00.001Z

Just as in your 20s you are forever going to weddings, while in your 30s you can't move for new baby announcements, your 40s are filled with drunken gatherings celebrating this momentous birthday. I recently celebrated my own 40th with an achingly unfashionable knees up in the local community hall, complete with vodka shots, a sequinned dress, sky scraper heels and plenty of cheesy tunes.

My husband was tasked with organising the party, which went spectacularly well, in part due to the helping hands he got from myself, my sister and some of my best friends. But what taxed me was selecting THE OUTFIT.

For some reason I had set my heart on dark green and clearly I was ahead of the curve as this party season you can move but for green dresses, but when I was shopping last summer the shade I wanted was elusive. Eventually I tracked down a sequinned number along with glittery green heels, but it was a hard won get up.

But if I thought that was the end of searching for those hard to find party clothes I was sorely mistaken. A month or so after my party was an old schoolfriend's bash. A very glam affair studded with TV celebs, for which I selected a sparkly black and gold affair, but sadly the night was rather ruined by a tummy bug my children had generously shared with me just before the big night. I didn't disgrace myself, but I wasn't really up for a party.

But the party that has really set me a proper task when it comes to finding appropriate attire is that of a school dad. He designed an ingenious invitation that eventually revealed that we must all attend in sci fi fancy dress. Cue a stream of Princess Leia-alikes. But I am not sure I can pull off either the buns and flowing white robe or, even worse, the gold bikini, look.

My husband is now sure that I have spent more time researching my outfit than I will actually spend at the party and he may have a point. But I did get one helping hand from the fabulous Ellos. I can't resist a pair of heels and if they come in silver glitter all the better and all the more suitable for a sci fi party, which is why I was thrilled to discover their Silver Glitter court shoes. Wearing them I could almost click my heels and find myself back on Alderaan.

Now I just have to work my way back up my outfit with these beauties and inspiration. Am also thinking that they will get me right through the party season as I have plenty more 40ths to look forward to, including one the very next day, though I am not sure the all over silver look will work quite so well at a luxury hotel in Suffolk - but you never know.

Homemade with love

2011-11-25T12:54:00.001Z

My mum always used to make my birthday cakes and, brat that I was, I would always complain that I would have preferred a shop bought cake like all my friends. I craved the tooth decaying sweetness of factory made sugar paste icing, the neon bright colours only a bucket load of E numbers can create and branding that would shame the Disney corporation. What I didn't want was my mum's half sunken creation coated in wobbly icing declaring Happy Birthday.

Which is why it is rather a nuisance that as a grown up I am somewhat addicted to baking. I am glued to every series of The Great British Bake Off and it is dangerous to let me and a credit card loose in Lakeland. I can't get enough of their pretty cupcake cases, I lust after their icing turntables, their innovative Push Pan was the answer to my cheesecake dilemmas and now I have to physically restrain myself from ordering their entire Christmas baking range.

The problem is memories of my own mortification when instead of presenting me with the Mr Kipling creation I craved my mum insisted on cooking for me raise themselves like evil spectres every time I present my boys with a slice of home made cake.

To be honest they have become a little blase and to them coming home to a house scented with cooling cake is pretty normal. In fact when I asked my little twin what he wanted as a present when I got back from a recent trip to New York his one word answer was: "Cake". But I worry that while I love nothing more than creaming butter and sugar, whipping eggs and smoothing icing, my boys long for garishly coloured creations direct from the shelves of the supermarket.

Which is why I was so gratified that after demolishing a chocolate chip loaf cake last night, both the older boys declared that they hated shop bought cakes as they just tasted horrible. Clearly my children have far more sophisticated tastes than I did in childhood. But it did make me feel warm inside that my own hobby does give them the pleasure I hoped it would.

Though they are my worst critics and should I make a slip up the are quick to tell me so. My son begged me for a chocolate cake for his birthday, but after slaving over the horribly complicated recipe, he proceeded to pick off all the icing, declaring it too rich for his tastes. My other boy was just as bad as after requesting a chocolate orange cake - not the easiest thing to create - he then decided that he didn't really like the flavour of chocolates and oranges. Grrr. It's almost enough to have me buying up a nice cardboard flavoured character cake for them next year.

Hospital ship

2011-11-14T13:29:00.001Z

I do love my children, I do, I do. It's just that when everyone is ill it is hard to like them. This week we have been struck down by a tummy bug - my least favourite illness. Coughs and colds I can cope with, but I do hate sick. I can deal with poo, although when it is dribbling down the back of the only pair of trousers we have with us on a visit to the park, I begin to revise this opinion. But sick is another matter - just the whiff of it has me heaving and gagging. Ugh.

Luckily my other half has no such qualms and is rather a star when that plaintive cry reaches up the stairs: "Mummy, daddy, I've been sick". He limbers into action and clears it all away while I gingerly pat the ill child at arms length, using a vice like grip to ensure they don't get any closer to me with their nasty germs. Sadly none of these precautions was effective and I succumbed to the bug too.

If there is one thing worse than ill children, it is having ill children when you are ill yourself. I long for the days when I could crawl under a duvet and forget the world in a whirl of naps and Trisha until I felt well enough to grace the office with my presence again. Now, unless wonder husband is able to take the day off, I have to drag my sad carcass around after the children trying to take care of them while not collapsing in a soggy, self pitying heap.

The problem is that while I know it is my job and duty to care for them, I just don't want to when I feel rotten. I want to be LEFT ALONE. But my children simply do not understand this concept. The sight of my comatose body elicits an irresistible urge to jump on it and ask "Mummy are you poorly?" at the top of their not insubstantial voices.

Most of the time I pride myself on coping relatively well with having four boys. After all I am still here, and as yet have not been certified, which surely deserves a medal. But when I am ill it all goes out of the window and I don my official bad mother sash. I scream and shout, slope off to try to avoid them and generally fail in my maternal duties.

Luckily I have a very understanding son. Yesterday as I was attempting to juggle all four of them in the park to give my long suffering husband a well deserved break a stranger came up to me and after marvelling at my bad luck in ending up in charge of four small boys commended me on what a good job I was doing with them.

Lovely to have a compliment, but I wondered, how in the hell would she know? I could be beating them and locking them in cupboards for all she knew after a chance meeting in the park. When I said this out loud (not the bit about beating and cupboards) my son said. "But mummy you are doing a good job". "Aww, thank you, but I would like to be a bit nicer and shout less," I replied.

Quick as a flash he returned "You are nice and you need to shout at us. Sometimes you have to shout because you are angry and you can't help it and other times you have to shout at us to discipline us so we aren't so naughty." Perhaps I can take off the bad mother sash after all.

Though I will admit that his little brother didn't look convinced by this explanation and instead pondered the question of whether I was a good mum for quite some time before admitting that he supposed I was good enough.

All you need is love

2011-11-01T10:40:00.001Z

I had feared that when my eldest turned eight the gushing tap of affection that has been overflowing since he was a tiny mite would just switch off as a surly, pre-teen claimed my precious little boy. But after a weekend of birthday celebrations I am happy to report that the rumours of the demise of my cuddly little boy are greatly exaggerated. While the sulky strops are becoming more frequent, they are certainly no worse than the toddler tantrums of yore and I am still feeling the love just as much.

Take his birthday party - an orgy of activities designed to appeal to small boys from quad biking to a high ropes assault course, all powered by copious amounts of chips and sweets hosted by the fabulous Essex Outdoor Activities. A great time was had by all boys who took enormous pleasure in crashing their bikes and dangling precariously from ropes hung high in the treetops.

Must admit not my idea of fun, but my day was made as I strolled behind the birthday boy and his best friend from school. The friend turned to my boy and said "Which person here is your best friend of all?" clearly fishing for compliments. My son replied, quick as a flash: "My mum". Awwww. When I relayed this conversation to my husband I pondered how long it would be before he was mortified by the very concept of his mum being his best mate, and even if he wasn't when he would rather die than admit it to a school friend.

I must say I am happy that the days when I become an embarrassment haven't arrived just yet. He still begs me to take him down to line up for class in the morning, although he did blush bright pink and shrug me off when I declared a bit too loudly "Love you gorgeous" as a parting endearment. Note to self, must keep sweet nothings to whispered tones in company.

Then there was his family birthday party on the big day, a Halloween extravaganza planned and executed single handed by mummy. Despite my aching feet and extreme exhaustion, it was all worth it when my lovely boy flung his arms around me and said the biggest thank you for the best party with a little shine of tears in his eyes. Suddenly all the hours of cooking, traipsing around party shops, pinning up banners and trying to get the blasted steaming cauldrons to steam seemed worthwhile.

I know my days as number one girl in their lives are numbered, but I am storing up each and every one to keep me warm in the chilly teenage years. Although I have a sneaking suspicion that even then, as long as no one is looking, my boys might still have a cuddle and a kiss for their old mum every now and again.

All partied out

2011-10-26T14:11:00.000+01:00

Belts have had to be tightened of late due to the dramatic fall in income resulting from the general decline in the media industry. I lay the blame for this squarely at the feet (or should that be fingers?) of evil bloggers who write for free, leading commissioning editors to believe that content is no longer something that should be paid for as so many are prepared to give it away.

Well I say if you can't beat 'em, join 'em and not having to dance to the tune of a features desk does have its benefits. The deadlines are more relaxed and I get to write about what I like, not the fluctuating weight of the stars of The Only Way is Essex.

In any case, I digress. I have been attempting in my vague and chronically spendthrift way to introduce some austerity measures of my own. To wit - don't shop EVERY day and downgrade from Waitrose to Tesco wherever possible (which is not often if you live in an area ringed by the invariably knowingly undersold supermarket). However my sterling efforts to snap shut the FDMTG purse have been undermined of a seemingly unending run of birthdays.

They kicked off with my partner in crime Mr FDMTG's birthday on the ill-fated 11 September. He has never felt quite the same about his celebrations since we watched carnage at the World Trade Centre from a hotel room in St Kitts in 2001, so I feel it's important to go all out to cheer him up amidst the mournful memorials that surround the date of his birth. This added up to a round of meals out and presents. Lots of fun, but it hit the domestic budget hard.

Then there was my big one and I celebrated hitting 40 by spending lots of cash on sparkly dress, shoes and jewels (from uber talented Helen White), while other half re-mortgaged the house to pay for a slap up party complete with 80s tunes, embarrassing dancing and vodka jellies.

Next up was little Mr M, who turned six with a grand total of three celebrations. There was tea with the family in our local Italian, then a trip to town for afternoon tea and the theatre to see Horrible Histories. Finally he had a go-karting party with all his friends. After all of which I was too fearful to tot up the total. I simply blush with shame at all this indulgence lavished on a six-year-old.

The final birthday before we enter into the carnival of Christmas (and guess whose turn it is to host the family this year?) is my eldest who turns eight on Halloween. Initially I thought having a small party with just six little boys would be cheaper than our usual bash for the entire class of 30. How wrong can you be? Boy insisted on an assault course style birthday. Not an easy thing to pull off in London, so we ended up booking a secret location in Essex to go quad biking and complete a high wire course at a cost I am too mortified to admit.

Then I thought we had been let off the hook as he requested a quite night out with mummy and daddy on his actual birthday. At last something that might not break the bank. But then he started to notice all the Halloween paraphernalia popping up in the shops and performed a swift U-turn, demanding a spooky after school tea with all his cousins. Sigh.

Bang went my resolution not to shop as I spied a 3 for 2 offer in Waitrose on Halloween decorations, and then there are the costumes, the cake, the food......

Hi my name is FDMTG and I am a shopaholic

2011-10-25T11:23:00.000+01:00

You might not think it to look at us, but Angelina Jolie and I have quite a bit in common and it’s not just our dark good looks. We also have a set of twins each and far too many children – she has six, I have four, but mine are all boys so I think it adds up to the same thing.

Alongside our taste for extreme parenting, we also share a deep and passionate love of shopping as is made clear by the number of times she braves the malls with her children in tow. She clearly is a tough as alter ego Lara Croft as I know from bitter experience just how hard it is to indulge in a spot of retail therapy with children in tow.

Perhaps her secret is that she has the fine art of bribery down to a T. Of course it helps that she is a zillionaire film star, as if I were to give in to the demands of my boys on a shopping trip I would need a million dollar movie contract to cover my costs, and despite my claims of being Jolie’s separated at birth identical twin, Hollywood has yet to beckon. However, if you like Jolie and I can’t bear to be parted from the shops just because you are a mum here are my top tips for a peaceful hour or two of retail therapy:

1. Food – never underestimate the power of a box of raisins (or in particularly trying circumstances a packet of chocolate buttons). They can silence a toddler for a full 15 minutes – just enough time to try on those skinny jeans in River Island before the screeching recommences.

2. Sleep – a well timed nap can buy you hours of silence in which to browse. Just make sure that under no circumstances do you allow your child to sleep in the car on the way to the shops, you need them ready to nod off the moment they are strapped into the buggy.

3. Bribery - This has to be planned in advance or it becomes ruinously expensive. Before you even leave the house dangle the carrot of a trip to the toy shop at the END of the shopping trip. Then you can use the stick of cancelling this treat all the way through to quell wails before they become too ear splitting.

4. Entertainment - Pick your route carefully and you can distract the children with endless free entertainment pitstops. If you have boys, then gadget shops with TVs blaring are always a winner. You can let them drool transfixed in front of the latest 3D, HD screen while you idly browse the latest iPods and pads. Also never forget the value of the Early Learning Centre shops for smaller children. They can play with all the toys left out to tempt you to spend and then be dragged away without you parting with a penny. Finally if you have access to the wonders of Westfield there is a dedicated (if a little small) play area for you to use to exhaust toddlers while you plan your shopping strategy.

5. Bring reinforcements - Many hands make light work of children on a shopping trip. Preferably choose a companion who doesn't have children, but longs for some of her own. That way she will think it is cute when they regurgitate half chewed biscuit down her cashmere coat, be begging to practise nappy changing and think it is fun to stride round and round a shopping centre in a vain attempt to get the little darling off to sleep. But whatever you do don't choose an off duty mum to come along too as she is sure to leave you holding the baby as she relishes her own down time.

But if all else fails simply strap them up tight in their buggy and ignore the screams. This approach is clearly the one favoured by the majority of mums in my own dear Brent Cross as I cannot count the number of times the peace of a lone shopping trip has been shattered by some other mother's child left yelling and whining in its pushchair outside a changing room as she tries on endless outfits.

Saved by Skylanders

2011-10-24T10:52:00.000+01:00

Half term. Two words that strike fear into the hearts of parents across the land. We have just got back into the swing of term time. We had at last djusted to the morning chaos of rushed breakfasts, mislaid school ties, forgotten book bags and last minute dashes back to the school gate with the recorder no one reminded us to bring on Wednesday. It might not be fun, but the payback is six and a half hours of peace and quiet until the hoards descend in search of biscuits, the TV remote and our attention (and yes I do mean in that order).

Then along comes half term. That unnecessary week off that puts us all out of kilter once again. Suddenly the boys are hanging around looking lost and aimless without the structure of a school day. All suggestions that they use their time off to play with the myriad of toys stuffed in the cupboards, or practise the musical instruments they claim never to have time to play during the term or indeed tackle that mountain of holiday homework are met with excoriating scorn.

The only solution that is acceptable to my picky pre-teens is a day out that requires a second mortgage to fund it. On Friday we had an inset day (don't get me on to them and the question of why staff training can't take place in school holidays when there are enough of them), so I decided to have a day out with my big boys.

We opted for the Dr Who Experience. It was great fun as we are all huge fans. We got to fly the Tardis, operate a Dalek and speak like a Cyberman - what's not to like? But add on lunch at Pizza Express and a couple of cheap toys and I was £100 lighter by the end of the day. If I carry on like this we could have gone away on holiday for less than it will cost to keep them entertained at home.

However just as I was about to lose the will to live before the holiday had even started, salvation arrived in the form of a big, brown paper parcel. I love a big box appearing on my doorstep at any time, but when it contains the solution to all my half term problems in one (or two) shiny cardboard boxes I am in heaven. For inside said box was a copy of the game my boys have been crazing me to buy them ever since they first saw it advertised. My husband and I have been fuddy duddy confused by their breathless descriptions of something that was a computer game and toys, but now it all became clear.

Skylanders is an ingenious mix of toy figures and a fantasy game. You stick your figure of choice onto the portal, which comes with the game and lights up in lovely pretty colours, its image instantly appears onscreen and you can play as that character with all its attendant skills. Now being an over the hill parent this is as far as I will go in terms of explanation, lest I show off the bottomless pit of my ignorance. But suffice to say that ever since it was loaded up onto the shiny new Wii that came with it I haven't heard a peep from my previously bored stiff children.

Even the twins demand to watch Skylanders when the boys are playing as it has the bright, colourful and slightly psychedelic look of a children's TV show. Though I have had to battle to keep all the figures safe as they are a magnet to sticky two-year-old paws. Despite this slight drawback I think the addition of real life toys to the onscreen games gives it improved longevity. Usually my boys have a way of obsessively playing games to the bitter end and then simply losing interest. This way every time we buy a new character the games develops a new level, and they can go back and play it all again with new powers.

The only problem now is that the boys want to collect ALL of the figures. Luckily we have another birthday and Christmas coming up and I don't think Santa will have any trouble coming up with something to put in our boys stockings.

Out and about

2011-10-20T21:56:00.000+01:00

It has been forever and a day (well over a month) since FDMTG has been updated. But don't imagine that this means we haven't been busy. Although to be honest anyone who thinks a mum of four is ever not busy is clearly certifiable.

Not only is it birthday season, with four out of the six members of the FDMTG household celebrating birthdays in September and October, which means we have been up to our eyes in cake, candles and helium balloons, but I have also been representing the brand at various events.

So prepare for the plugging. Firstly I was asked (OK paid) to be a judge on the panel selecting the children to feature in the new Calpol ad. It was a surreal day a few months back when I was locked in an overheated room in a London ad agency watching children jump through hoops for the crazed casting director. Some sensibly refused to play ball, instead burying their heads in their mum's bosom or crying noisy tears of indignation while their hapless parent declared: "He's never normally shy like this", while others were surprisingly cute in the face of such adversity.

Having helped to whittle down the finalist from 24 to six, now the ad has been made with two sweet girls (one of whom was a particular favourite, but I shall keep her identity a secret to save her blushes). So well done to the winners, though as I said to the makers of Calpol on the day, surely there is no need to advertise the pink elixir? No right minded parent should need much persuasion as to its magical qualities. It is one of the few failsafe methods I have found to turn a screaming, crying, snot-coated child into a sleepy little angel I could once again contemplate loving. It's hard to imagine an easier sell.

My second outing was a little less successful, probably because it involved the children. Today I braved the tube with my two-year-old twins without the safety net of a buggy. It's not that I wanted to walk with them, but the alternative of lugging a huge double pushchair up and down stairs whilst also trying to wrangle the twins is nothing short of madness.

Surprisingly the tube journey was relatively pain free despite one change and lots of hard stares from joyless commuters who objected to the twins' breaking into the misery of their journey with their shrieks of glee on entering a tunnel or stopping at a station. But I think all the excitement of the underground wore them out, as by the time they reached our destination - the launch of a new range of In the Night Garden toys at The Rainforest Cafe, they'd had enough.

Not even the charms of Iggle Piggle and Upsy Daisy was enough to stem their tears when the animatronic rainforest animals kicked off an electronic cacophony of cries. All thoughts of Makka Pakka were banished by their abject terror at the 'scary monkey'. In the end their screams of 'I want to go home' became so ear shattering that I decided to cut my losses and head back to the tube.

Thankfully the boys' joy at seeing the train pull up made me realise that despite the event not living up to its promise, the day out had not been a total failure, not least because they slept for a good three hours one we finally made it back to the safety of our monkey-free house.

They did enjoy the goody bag too. No surprise there though as all my boys are chips off the old block. Just recently as I was discussing possible new careers that might actually earn me some money, as opposed to being a freelance journalist which frankly fails abysmally on that front, my eldest wailed: "You can't stop being a journalist mum, I like going to launches and getting free stuff". He's got my job sussed then.

And the prize for most disorganised mum goes to....

2011-09-07T17:18:00.000+01:00

I won't keep you in suspense as I scooped that one last night. Never mind that we had had seven weeks of summer holiday for me to label up the million new items of school uniform required by my two sons, or to get my eldest to do his homework, or to find all the lost school kit that had wandered off during the break. I still found myself running around like a headless chicken trying to fit all these tasks into about five minutes last night.

I am quite surprised that this only resulted in me leaving two of my sons in tears, I expected the full quartet to be in hysterics just like me. The fun kicked off when I finally opened up my seven-year-old's neglected book bag to discover what fiendish task had been set for us by his sadistic teachers as a goodbye gift from Year 2.

It was some nonsense about researching a famous Victorian, which naturally I could do in about five minutes with the aid of Google and Wikipedia, but when I suggested this course of action to my sanctimonious son he prissily pointed out that this was cheating and not something a well educated child like him could condone.

Instead of screaming "So what? We only have about 10 minutes before you have to be in bed, let's just get this done" like I wanted to. I bit my lip and waited while he torturously read and wrote out Isambard Kingdom Brunel's life story. Then I went into a tailspin when I realised that the twins had decimated our paper supplies with their obsession with drawin' and we had no A3 paper left with which to create his masterpiece. I was tempted by my friend's suggestion that an A4 poster would be more than sufficient, but we had already printed out all our pictures, which were too big to fit on A4 and the printer was predictably out of ink.

An emergency call to grandpa delivered us a pristine pad of A3 paper on which to glue my boy's tearstained work. My excuse for reducing him to tears with my banshee screams to hurry up is that the stains gave his work an authentically antique Victorian look. Not sure that covers making the two-year-old wail by yelling at him for innocently touching the homework in progress.

In the end I felt that my presence was perhaps not helping and I retreated upstairs to start labelling uniform. My god this is a thankless task, even though I have got being a lazy mum down to fine art and use stick on labels, whatever the manufacturers promise I know I will find all those painstaking attached name tags floating in the washing machine the moment I put any of the uniform into it. And even if they do stay stuck no one ever returns lost uniform anyway, whether there's a name in it or not, so really what is the point?

When I finally finished this Sisyphean task it was onto the next one which was actually tracking down all the mass of kit the boys need for school from book bags (fallen down behind the hall chest), to PE kit bags (buried under the coat mountain next to the front door) and their school coats (shoved at the bottom of the wardrobe).

Last but not least was finding some suitable object to send in in my younger boy's Talk Bag. I tried to get him to select something vaguely educational. "Why not take something from our holiday?" I suggest, trying to make up for my previous cheating lapse. But no, he was adamant that the only thing that would do was a yellow and pink spotted foam octopus bath toy. I was too worn down to argue, but there's a lollipop in it for any of his little friends who correctly identify the contents of that particular bag.

Still at least I was one step ahead of the friend who posted on Facebook as I virtually gnashed my teeth about homework. "What there was summer holiday homework?" Perhaps I should hand her the top spot on the podium after all.

Fickle affections

2011-08-28T10:11:00.000+01:00

This morning I stumbled down into the kitchen, eyes still glued together, nightie flapping and slippers slapping on the tiles. A picture of tired maternal messiness, but that didn't put my golden Zach off. As soon as he heard my shuffling step approaching his blonde head bounced up, his green eyes dancing with delight as a gappy smile lit up his face. He threw open his arms and bombed at me, flinging them around my knees ecstatically shouting "Hello mummy".

Oh how my heart melted. No amount of tousled hair or pillow creases on my cheeks can put my boy off. How I love him and clearly how he loves me. Or so I thought.

Just ten minutes later, overcome by affection for my little boy I called to him "Zachy, I love you". He turned around slowly, a mischievous glint in those self same green eyes, and he began s to shake his head, burnished curls catching the light as he announces: "No lub mummy. Lub daddy". He then pointedly returned his attention to CBeebies making it clear he has already learned the value of treating mum mean to keep her keen.

Alone

2011-08-27T11:11:00.000+01:00

The sky arches expansively above me, pale blue softened by streaks of hazy white cloud. It dips down onto the gentle waves ruffling the surface of an emerald green sea. They break onto a wide golden beach that curves for miles in either direction.

Looking forward I strain to make out a rocky outcrop glistening with dark fronds of seaweed, so recently engulfed by the water fast retreating from the beach. Behind me are the towers of a power station, made toytown tiny by distance. They glower over their supplanters, gigantic wind turbines turning lazily in the breeze.

I watch as my feet make lonely tracks on the soft sand, each footstep perfectly measured from the last. My breath coming fast with the effort of running along beside the waves. I push myself to run as fast as I can from one patch of slimy seaweed to the next. I pull out my headphones to savour the sound of the wind rushing past my ears, the water lapping and slapping on the sand.

I train my eyes on some distant landmark and push my pace up a notch to reach it faster. As sweat drips into my eyes stinging them with its salty tang, my legs pulse beneath me keeping up a constant rhythm. I feel my muscles respond and keep propelling me ever forward to the next dune spiky with sea grass, to the next rock beached with its coating of slick barnacles clinging on until the tide rises once again.

I push my body onwards, my mind freed by this simple physical exertion to drink in the delightfully bleak and beautiful landscape. I am alone. It is the one luxury I crave amidst my busy family and the one that has been returned to me by rediscovering to my pre-children passion for running.

Best of British

2011-08-26T23:04:00.002+01:00

I am slouched, nay collapsed, in a near stupor on my sofa this evening. The television is a blur out of the corner of my eye and my husband forms an equally washed out figure slumped beside me. The reason for our exhaustion? We have just spent the last week on our family holiday.

Gone are the days when this might have meant we would be bronzed, relaxed and refreshed. Now breaks are more about endurance than R&R and we are always impressed if we make it through without actually suffering a nervous breakdown.

To be fair this year's summer break has to classed as our most successful so far, despite taking place in the initially unpromising location of northern England. For a start despite many bleak predictions it only rained once during the whole week and at the time we were all tucked up in bed, listening to the pounding raindrops on the velux windows as we snuggled under the comfort of a crisp white duvet.

Secondly the twins independence is coming on in leaps and bounds, which meant that we could snatch the odd moment to sit down and take a breath in between tending to their needs, something that was unthinkable this time last year. That said the children were careful to ensure that their slaves, oh sorry parents, shouldn't get too comfortable.

The moment either one of us looked like we might actually be enjoying a little time to ourselves a small voice would pipe up demanding juice, food, help with endlessly putting on and taking off shoes or the repair of the house train set that was unbelievably even more unreliable and prone to engineering problems than the real British railway network.

But the good thing about taking children on holiday is their huge capacity for enjoyment. While we may trudge, unimpressed, around yet another museum or castle, wondering quite how much more of this there is to go before we can return back to base and sink a lethally strong G&T or ten. The kids are wide eyed with awe no matter how unprepossessing said attraction may be. Throw in a dungeon or a display of weaponry and the boys are in heaven, revelling in imaginings of medieval torture or ancient warfare.

Though sometimes their blood lust does become a touch disturbing, like the time when my seven-year-old stood staring at some caged fowl and asked: "What do you think it would be like to kick a chicken?" with genuine interest. I simply crossed my fingers that this wasn't an early sign that I am breeding a psychopath and dragged him off to inspect a menacing threshing machine.

Though perhaps I should be worried as another highlight was a tour of Alnwick Castle's Poison Garden, where the boys were struck dumb by the guide's gruesomely detailed descriptions of plants that kill. They were still animatedly discussing one with sap that can inflict third degree burns days later. Sometimes I do long for daughters who I fondly imagine would be more diverted by pretty flowers than deadly nightshade.

The youngest though is still satisfied with the simpler pleasures in life as, urbanite that he is, he was most enthralled by all the fields of sheep we drove past on our way to visit the sights. Every flock we passed had him bouncing in his seat yelling "Hello sheeps", before launching into an uncannily accurate series of baas that kept him bleating till we inevitably passed another field of sheep.

All in all a good, if tiring, holiday was had by all. We were tempted by the idea of letting the boys have a TV in their room at home, because we got a lie in every morning as they ploughed through everything from Casablanca to Jumanji, with a lesson in modern history thrown in as they discovered what a video recorder is.

The twins found out how to climb out of their cots, with the tooth achingly sweet result that one morning I discovered them carefully unpacking the contents of Jonah's ever present toy bag in order to have a picnic in bed. Awww. Though the day they decided to attempt to change Zach themselves wasn't quite a pretty. From the mess they made with wipes alone I am just grateful they never actually managed to access the contents of the nappy itself.

As for us parents - assessing the number of empties there were in the recycling bin when we left, it was evident we had had a whale of a time once the kids were in bed.

The really good news though, is that the end of our holiday means there are only another two weeks left before school starts again and I can stop trailing around child friendly attractions and leave the task of keeping them entertained to the professionals again.

Because he's gorgeous

2011-08-18T21:48:00.000+01:00

The original point of starting this blog was to record my boys' childhood so it wouldn't get lost in the fuzz that is my memory. I still love clicking back and seeing just how unhinged I was when the twins were born. I am actually impressed I managed to string a sentence together, but writing my blog saved my sanity in those early months of being a sleep deprived new mum of twins.

Sadly as my boys have grown and I have had less time on my hands as the vagaries of life keep me increasingly busy I haven't kept as up to date with their little ways, which is a shame as the twins are at the most adorable stage, where words are finally being manipulated to some purpose. I think there is nothing more delightfully amusing than having a chat with a two and a half year old, except perhaps listening to them chat to each other.

Just the other day my darling Jonah was slumped, goggly eyed on his auntie's lap. Sleep was clearly high up on his agenda and his dark lashes were drooping to stroke his chubby cheeks, but when I said to him: "Are you tired?", his head snapped up, eyes wide open as he proclaimed: "No. I am gorgeous". Now it's a favourite game to ask him if he is sleepy just to hear his reply. Even better is when his twin overhears and pipes up: "I am gorgeous too".

Then there are the mornings when we lie in bed like the lazy parents we are being serenaded by a medley of songs ranging from Bob a Builder to Happy Birthday, taking in a spot of Bruno Mars along the way all drifting up from the twins' bedroom. It is one of the joys of twins that they don't start screaming when you fail to get them up at some ungodly hour, instead they simply chat and sing amongst themselves.

Then when I creep up and open the door I hear them crying "Is it daddy? Oh no it's mummy. It is wake time mummy, want breakfast." As they bounce like manic dogs at the promise of walks in their beds. Though today Zach stopped in his speedy progress downstairs to check "Is 'larm off?". What a conscientious boy, though he would be fine as the larm doesn't pick up toddlers, I guess working on the premise that there aren't too many members of the criminal underclass who are under three foot tall.

It's not just what they say that is adorable. Yesterday we went out with all the family boys and off the twins trotted hand in hand only to be joined by both their big brothers and their cousin. All five boys trooped off hand in hand. It was definitely an AWWWW moment for their two proud mummies.

So perhaps I have taken another snapshot of family life August 2011 style to return to and paw over like some precious gem when the boys are shouting and sulking teenagers.

OMG I'm a nominee

2011-08-18T14:27:00.002+01:00

And also it appears a poet, but I didn't know it. OK I will stop now. I am quite flabbergasted (don't you just love that word?) that the humble FDMTG has been nominated for one of the Gurgle 2011 Awards. A big thanks to whoever it was that put my blog forward, you are clearly a lovely and extremely patient type as I am horribly guilty of neglecting it in favour of, you know, the children, work, life, the universe and everything.

Not only is it deeply flattering to be considered, particularly alongside such luminaries of the blogging world as MTJAM, who I admire greatly, but also to be put in the Best Mummy Blog Writer category. What an honour, and I am sure that the other bloggers who have been selected to do combat for this coveted award are also fabulous. But anyone who follows my blog knows I am totally rubbish at reading other people's blogs, because I am too lazy and too scared that they will be infinitely more professional than mine - not hard really that last one though.

Anyway, should you wish to cast your vote my way just click here. Not that I like begging, but please do vote for me as it would be too humiliating to be the only blog to score Nul Points.

Is really only day one?

2011-07-26T17:29:00.000+01:00

If this is a sign of things to come for this summer holiday I think I may have to go AWOL. Today I took my two older boys out for the day, I didn't even have the twins in tow as my gorgeous nanny is working her last week before taking a month off to go home and see her family, and I am still fit to drop.

It is not that my sons are hard to take care of, it is the constant bickering that wears you down. They cannot have a conversation without it turning into a dispute. Should one declare that the sky is blue, the other will instantly jump in with a supercilious observation that actually if you look closely it is more of a muted white today.

The instant I take a seat there is a battle for boy supremacy as to who will take the coveted seat next to me. I used to be flattered by this, but now I am just exhausted by their constant jockeying for position. It is less about sitting next to me, and more about getting one over on your brother.

I imagine this is simply how small males relate. They are just like tiny loin cubs play fighting, or young male stags locking antlers, but at least in the wild their poor mothers can lay prone or wander off, leaving their young to it. I on the other hand am cast in the unwilling role of referee. Although I think that title is somewhat misleading, implying as it does that they listen to a word I say.

I am forever trying to get them to behave in some semblance of a civilised manner, but my efforts are in vain. They cannot speak at any volume other than ear splitting, which means that whenever we are in public I am forever shushing them. Sit them at a table and they are instantly wriggling and sliding off their chairs. Give them a drink and they are blowing noisy bubbles in it, dipping their hands into it and flicking it across the table, or knocking it onto the floor with a splintering crash.

Food is there to be played with, or eaten in the most gross manner possible. I don't think I have ever eaten out with my five-year-old without making intimate acquaintance with each morsel of food he is masticating as he is physically incapable of silence, even if his mouth is stuffed to the gunnels with grub. While even the seven-year-old thinks nothing of spitting out anything he doesn't like onto his plate in a globulous mess of half eaten goo.

Anyone would think they had been dragged up, when in reality I have drummed into them the importance of table manners from an early age. But like all men they are deaf to female nagging and all my admonishments float gently in one ear and out of the other, without making the slightest impression.

To be quite honest they can be an embarrassment to be seen with. I would be tempted to pretend that I am only the nanny apart from the fact that (a) I don't come across as half as competent and (b) the boys will insist on calling me mummy all the time.

Perhaps I should view the summer holidays are my chance to work on improving their behaviour, but with four of them to cope with just surviving might be challenge enough in itself.

Turn the volume down?

2011-07-25T12:04:00.000+01:00

Before I had children I hated noisy kids. Those screeching brats that would ruin a nice, civilised adult occasions with by yelling and dashing about around you. I would cast evil looks at their seemingly oblivious parents, tutting away under my breath at their poor manners.

Now that I must travel everywhere complete with my tribe of four small children I realise that perhaps I misunderstood those parents. It's not that they didn't care that their children were disrupting everyone else's peaceful afternoon, it was that they simply didn't notice. Not because they were thoughtless or feckless, but because you have to learn to tune out the noise when you live with little children or you would lose your mind.

This weekend we made the foolish mistake of taking all our sons with us to Ikea in search of an elusive light bulb (don't ask). After a fruitless search during which both twins alternated between coming within a whisker of being run over by some oversized trolley carting a mattress out to the car park, or whining to be carried by their already overburdened parents, we gave up and went to buy hotdogs.

Even though the hotdogs contain such quality ingredients that they only cost the princely sum of 50p we still found that with so many mouths to feed we didn't have quite enough small change to cover our gourmet feast. So off my husband escapes to the cash point leaving me with the three rowdiest members of the brood to entertain in the rather unpromising environs of the cash tills.

Having played another few nerve racking rounds of dodge the trolley, I decided that enough was enough and took them off to a quiet corner to play with the toy trains they had been clutching all around the store. This apparently was the best idea as they happily engaged themselves in smashing them off a packing shelf and onto the floor, while squealing with delight as they poor trains crashed onto the concrete.

I heaved a sigh of relief. Everyone was entertained and out of harm's way, always a good outcome when out and about with small boys. But before my shoulders could sink back from around my ears I noticed the evil looks that were being cast my way by the other customers. Far from being relieved that I had found a way to keep my children amused and out from under the wheels of their trolleys, they were annoyed, if not to say extremely pissed off, by all the squeals of delight that were splitting the air as part of the boys' jolly game.

My ears have grown so accustomed to daily assaults from loud children that I hadn't even heard all the noise they were making, I was just happy that they weren't all dashing off in different directions in search of the most dangerous thing they could find. Noise is a small price to pay to keep the children all in one place and relatively happy.

But as I looked around it dawned on me that, rather than simply attempting to keep them out of everyone's way, I had to keep the decibel level within reasonable limits too, or else suffer trial by dirty looks from the entire clientele who wasn't accompanied by toddlers. Which given that most parents of toddlers are sensible enough not to take them to Ikea on a Sunday lunchtime, was most of them.

As I ineffectually shushed the boys, turning a vibrant beetroot red as they ignored their mother and screeched even louder, I sent up a silent prayer to all those poor parents who had been on the receiving end of all my venomous looks in my pre-children days: 'Forgive me, I knew not what I did'.

To boast or not to boast, that is question.

2011-07-21T13:13:00.000+01:00

My boys are clearly the best, I mean every mother knows that about her children doesn't she? While to others your offspring may look like a snivelling bunch of out of control monsters, to you the sun will always cast its rays from their backsides. It's part of the mummy job description. While others may cast a more cynical, nay realistic, eye over your brood, you will always have rose-tinted specs perched firmly upon your maternal nose.

Thing is when your children genuinely do well then what? End of term is report season and, well, this does rather tend to bring out the braggart in one. Now some mums are quite bare faced in their parental pride, one might say rather thoughtlessly so. To hold your little darling's report aloft screaming about all the praise that has been heaped upon him, while other parents frown at the row of D's adorning their own child's report card is nothing short of insensitive and rude.

However, it is hard to quell the desire to show off about just how well your baby has done. The only danger in this of course is that, God forbid, someone else's child might have done better. While you smugly tot up all the As your child has collected over the past academic year, some other mother might be able to best you, and that would be quite devastating to the competitive parent.

Perhaps this is why, while I allow myself a broad smile as I scan down their reports, I try to keep my boys' results to myself. Of course you will have guessed they did well by now (and where else can I show off if not on my own blog), and I swell with pride at all their achievements. Not least because my own report cards were not such an exercise in excellence.

When I ecstatically hug my sons for doing so well the motivation isn't unadulterated maternal pride, it is also a faint feeling of astonishment that these boys are related to me. While they associate report time with treats and rewards, I will never forget the cowering fear with which I awaited the return of my own mother and father from parents' evenings.

I knew I wasn't in line for any accolades, instead I would be grateful if I got away without a thump around the head for being so utterly sullen and stubborn about school. Best case scenario was ending up with a vicious row about what a disappointment/embarrassment I was to them.

While my sons teachers write about what a joy they have been teach, my own could come up with nothing but complaints about my surly attitude and lack of prowess at anything much. Moaning about my lack of enthusiasm twinned with a irritating talent for answering back.

My boys love school, I hated every moment of it, and didn't hold back in showing those poor, benighted individuals who had the pleasure of teaching me just how much I disapproved of wasting my days in academia.

So for me maternal boasting is underlaid by a feeling of wonder that I could have birthed such brilliant boys from such unpromising material. Though I do, in this respect, speak for myself as they have clearly inherited their academic abilities from the paternal side of the family as my other half has an unblemished record of achievements throughout school and university.

Perhaps as the years go by I will become more accustomed to reading such good reports and become as blase as my sons. I might even become brave enough to try my hand at the ancient Jewish practice of kvelling, a skill I am picking up from a true master in the art, my mother-in-law, who never fails to show off her genius for it when talking about her precious grandsons.

Rainy day activities

2011-07-19T16:29:00.000+01:00

With a view to entertaining the brood over the summer holidays I decided to compile my own list of the favoured rainy day activities chez FDMTG, but whatever you do don't try them at home.

1. Screaming. Oh how the twins love this one. Whether it is screaming because you have switched off the television, screaming because you can't instantly tune it into their favourite show or DVD, screaming because you have dared to suggest that they might eat something other than bags filled with dry cereal or screaming because you think the extent of their screaming signifies a need for a nap. Or there is screaming because it's bath time, or screaming because it's time to get out of the bath, screaming because they have been deprived of the one and only toy they want, or just screaming because it sounds so good.

2. Arguing. This one is perhaps more popular with the older boys. I think having perfected the power of speech is what has pushed this one to the top of the pops for them, and when cooped inside there is just so much scope to argue over things. They can argue over what to do, how to do it, who is best at doing it, who should be in charge of doing it and whether they even want to do it anyway. They can argue over who should sit where, over what to have for dinner, over who actually owns a specific toy, over what to watch on TV or play on the Xbox. Really the list is endless.

3. Injuring themselves. This is another favourite and is particularly fun when executed when their mum is way upstairs sorting the washing as an escape from the screaming and arguing. I will be peacefully folding T shirts and putting away the endless supply of pants my sons get through when suddenly a wail will rent the air. It sounds as one of my sons has mortally wounded himself and has but moments to live. I will dash, panicked, downstairs, to find a child lying face down on the floor sobbing. What can be wrong? 'He pushed me. On purpose', comes the petulant answer from the now dry-eyed boy. Oh for the love of God......I return upstairs to fold more pants.

4. Whinging. Now this one any parent will instantly recognise as it is a skill that all children hone from the moment they can whine independently. Clearly it is my fault that water is falling from the sky and I must be berated appropriately. 'Why can't we go out?' 'Why won't it stop raining?' 'I'm bored' and on and on until I want to dunk them into the rain butt just to shut them up.

5. Complaining. Closely related to number 4 this one is more specific. I have slaved over tea, attempting to make a dish that is both nutritious, healthy and that they won't turn their noses up at. The response. A predicable 'I don't like peas/meat/potatoes/food', that last one restricted to Jonah who shows early signs of selective eating disorder and if it's not chippies he doesn't want to know. Then the complaints about having to actually eat a significant amount of their healthy main course before diving into the puddings begin. Which moves us swiftly up to number 6.

6. Negotiating. I swear my oldest is set to become a top notch lawyer as he loves nothing more than ruthlessly negotiating a cut throat deal. Say he can stay up until 8pm and he instantly counters with 8:15, say he can read another page and he will be angling to finish the chapter, offer him another 10 minutes on the Xbox and he will wangle himself 20. Again he finds meal times fertile ground to exercise this talent, as when I say he has to finish his broccoli he will hive off several stems and then begin haggling over just how many he has to eat before he can strike a deal over how much chocolate he is allowed for dessert.

7. Being irritating. Another one that is commonplace amongst children. Why ask a simple question when you can trail around after me saying 'Mummy, mummy, mummy' at increasing volume? Why finish your breakfast quickly so we can leave the house before lunchtime when you can tarry over it so long that steam actually starts to come out of your parents' ears? Why put your shoes on when you could fanny around looking for an unnecessary toy instead? Why quicken your pace when we are late, when you can stop every 10 seconds to inspect every passing lamp post, scrap of rubbish or neighbours' drive? Why make life easy when it's so much more fun to make it agonising and frustrating?

8. Practising selective deafness. There is a scientific test for this one. Firstly ask your child in a loud voice to tidy up their room while they are busy watching a DVD and watch for any response. There won't be one of course, but we have to be rigorous in our experiment. Then whisper in tones so quiet that only dogs can hear you 'Would you like some sweeties?' and watch as they bound over slavering out 'Yes mummy, I'd love some sweeties'. Bob's your uncle and you have empirical proof of the existence of selective deafness.

9. Losing things. I am not sure if this one is specific to boys, but I know my house of men can't keep track of their most treasured possessions for more than a fleeting moment or two. My eldest has a precious bear who has been with him since birth, and you would think this would make him worth keeping safe. You would be wrong, I have lost count of the number of times I have had to play hunt Barnabas. He has been located in all kinds of places from the doctor's surgery to miscellaneous play areas, from inside a wellington boot to behind the sofa and all because his owner simply forgot about him.

10. Winding me up. A combination of numbers 1 through 9 adds up to a mother on the brink of a nervous breakdown. Of course with four sons to contend with they can split the tasks between them to cover all bases. So while one is screaming and whining, another can complain and negotiate, a third then loses track of possessions and time and the fourth member of the quartet hurts himself because he didn't listen to you. Oh the joys of motherhood.

We're not going on a summer holiday

2011-07-18T14:58:00.000+01:00

I shouldn't moan, but our two weeks in Florida at Easter seems such a long time ago and I am finding it hard to work up much enthusiasm for six weeks spent tending to my children single handed. Much as I love them I find it much easier to spend time with them when it is divided into small, manageable chunks spread judiciously around plenty of time to follow my own various grown up pursuits.

We are braving the North of England for a week, but thank to its fabled summer rainstorms and chilly temperatures I hardly think this will turn out to be a bucket and spade break despite the beach being a moments walk away. Somehow a week spent in someone else's hired home just beyond Newcastle doesn't fill me with the same delicious anticipation as the prospect of a couple of sun drenched weeks eating gooey cheese and drinking cheap and robust rose in the South of France.

So as our break isn't much to write home about I am finding myself filling daily with a feeling of dread as the last week of term drains away. I am at a loss as to how to entertain children with disparate and often conflicting interest day after, sure to be rainy, day.

While the twins are usually happy enough chasing each other around the garden shrieking 'I'm gonna get you' at one another, or hoarding stacks of toys all over the house, or glued to Toy Story as it plays on an endless loop, the older children are only ever content if plugged into the Xbox. Well I say content, but actually peace only ever reigns briefly before they either argue viciously over tactics or simply go stir crazy with so much screen time.

This is usually the point where I foolishly decide I can bear no more of housebound boys and embark on some kind of ill fated expedition. Again if I were to only have a duo from my quartet of sons this is a simple enough task. The older boys are happy to go to the cinema, have mastered the art of tube travel and can be relied upon not to dash off in a crowded space never to be seen again. The same cannot be said for the twins.

My two two-year-olds are nothing short of a liability. Take your eye off them for a nanosecond and they are away. Or dripping in excrement the moment that you realise you forgot the nappies. Or screaming in bloodcurdling indignation as they scrap over toys. Or needing to be fed and watered that instant, and woe betide you if you make them wait for sustenance. In short they are not fun to take out of the house.

The strangest thing is that while the older boys are perfectly mature company when taken out on their own, when I take all four out suddenly they seem to lose all sense of reason and revert to toddlers themselves.

Say for example I were to try to negotiate an escalator with the twins, or some other similar suicide mission, one of the older children who normally can deal with moving staircases with ease will suddenly find himself tripping up and being dragged into its chomping jaws leaving me to make a split second decision about which child I would miss the most in the event of their demise. Perhaps the twins are quite right in their assessment of this particular mode of transport eyeing it warily and calling it an alligator - as if it really was in the business of snapping up little boys.

Once we have arrived at our destination things rarely improve. The instant we alight at a museum or other such form of entertainment everyone wants to dash off in a different direction and all those who are thwarted instantly start to whinge, moan and scream. If I try to force the twins to do the more grown up activities they wriggle and cry in the bondage of their pushchair, if I attempt to make the older boys do something suitable for preschoolers they are guaranteed to get too boisterous and end up distressing the poor pampered toddlers of more controlled and considerate mothers.

But it's when it comes to feeding them that I really begin to tear my hair out. They never want to eat the same thing. They all need endless help to get nourishment inside them rather than onto the floor, under their chairs or into their hair - even the nearly 8-year-old. Someone always needs to go to the loo halfway through so either we all have to troop off leaving lunch half eaten, or else I have to trust them to look after themselves, which often gets messy.

As you can imagine a day spent scaling such obstacles is about as leisurely as a dip in piranha infested waters, which is why I am counting down the moments until the summer holidays with as much trepidation as they boys are excitedly wishing them away.

The Breastapo

2011-06-21T17:32:00.000+01:00

Hurrah for Kym Marsh who hit out at the Twitics who slammed her for not breastfeeding her baby Polly. I have written in the past about my choice to bottle feed my boys and it's one that I am proud of. I put my hand on my heart when I say that formula feeding made me a better mum. I don't think that it's the right choice for everyone, how would I know what works for other mums, but I do know that switching from breast to bottle was the best decision I ever made.

I think it might help if mums were a bit more honest about the reality of breastfeeding. My own mum breezily told me she had taken to it like a duck to water, but then her memory isn't what it once was, and no one admitted what an horrific experience it can be. From the moment my newborn latched his vice like gums onto my poor nipple it was sheer agony.

From the painful, swollen lumps in my breasts, to the stinky leaking milk spewing onto my top, from the bleeding nipples to my son's unrelenting appetite, nothing about breastfeeding seemed in any way natural or pleasant. I tried breastfeeding counsellors, asked my health visitor for help, in short I didn't just give up, but in the end enough was enough and all our feeding problems were standing between me and falling in love with my little boy.

From the moment I fed my firstborn a bottle our relationship was transformed and I could become the calm and caring mother I'd always imagined I would be, cradling him in my arms as he drank in his milk, rather than stiffening at his hungry cry and wincing as he tried to suckle.

Perhaps breast is biologically best, but for me it was so emotionally damaging that any physical benefits were outweighed by the trauma it caused psychologically. I don't advocate that no one should breastfeed, or that swapping to the bottle would make anyone else a better mother, I just think that every mum should be left to make her decision about what is best for her in peace. After all it's hard enough mothering a newborn without every Twit, Dick and Harry second guessing all your decisions.

Cuddles

2011-06-15T17:33:00.000+01:00

I don't consider myself a particularly maternal woman. In fact I think my blog has made clear my opposition to many mummy type activities such as finger painting, playgroups and helping with homework, but one thing I wholeheartedly approve of is cuddles. Not just for me you understand, I like to dole them out liberally and I love more than anything to see my boys cuddle one another.

Now each son has a different approach to cuddling. Number one son is very keen, and even at the grand old age of seven won't let me leave him in the school playground without planting a smacker on my lips and giving me a huge hug accompanied by a 'Love you mummy'. God I will be gutted when he grows out of this habit.

Number two son is equally generous with his favours and if ever I try to beg a smooch from a less willing member of the clan he will instantly beetle up and fling his arms around me covering me in kisses. You can't whisper the word cuddle without him bestowing one upon you.

These two older boys even want to get in on the act when mummy and daddy make a rare public display of affection and dive between us demanding a sandwich cuddle. You can't imagine the weird looks I got when I called them over by yelling 'Ham' and 'Marmite' the other day. But it all makes sense when you understand that we parents are the bread and they are representing their favourite fillings in our family sandwich cuddles. Or at least it makes sense to me.

The twins took a while to catch on and would frequently rush off in fits of giggles if I held out my arms to them. Now twin one will dive head first at my crotch, arms flailing at the mention of a cuddle, with often quite painful results, but at least he means well. Twin two though is just as likely to get an evil glint in his eye and declare 'No cuddle mummy, cuddle daddy', turning his back on me and grabbing hold of daddy or any other available adult.

But when he does deign to give in and give me a hug, it's well worth the wait as he buries his golden head into my breast and snuggles in deep. He has learnt young the old adage treat 'em mean and keep 'em keen.

Smug twin mummy

2011-06-07T15:24:00.000+01:00

When I first found out I was having twins I thought it was some kind of sick joke. I am not one of nature's mothers and I was already finding it hard enough to juggle two little sons, without adding a double dose of newborn baby to the mix. I won't lie the first few months as the parent of twins is like tackling an assault course with the hangover from hell and was spent lurching uncomfortably from exhaustion to depression, to sheer terror at how we were going to cope.

If you had asked me back in the early days I wouldn't have wished twins on my worst enemy. Just trying to balance the needs of my two babies was so hard, without even mentioning their two big brothers who, I am ashamed to admit, were brought up almost exclusively by the television when the twins were first born.

But as fitness instructors persist in reminding us there is no gain without pain, and just as it is in an aerobics class so it is with twins. We have emerged from the inner circles of hell into a heavenly glade filled with two toddlers who can amuse each other. Result.

When my first two sons were toddlers I recall spending hours dreaming up ways to entertain them, from squidging Playdoh to finger painting, baking cupcakes and enduring endless kids classes, there was never a dull moment - for them at least.

If I stopped this frenetic activity they would instantly start to twine, bored, around my legs demanding attention. I could not sit with a cup of tea without them climbing into my lap, attempt to read a magazine without them 'helping' to turn the pages, or visit a friend without them whining for me whenever my focus drifted from them to the juicy gossip she was imparting. In short they drove me mad.

The twins on the other hand aren't really that interested in mummy. They may raise a hand and shout out a breezy hello as I pass, but they are far more interested in the in house playmate I so thoughtfully provided for them.

Just the other day I sat, Pimms in hand, as they happily played with our toy kitchen passing each other chicken nuggets through the serving hatch. I know this because they kept singing out to one another 'More more chicken nuggets'. I am hoping this is not a glimpse into their future career where the only skill they will need is the ability to recite the phrase 'D'you want fries with that?' in a tone that coveys an complete lack of interest in the response. Actually I suspect is more a reflection of the, ahem, varied diet provided for them on our recent Floridian jaunt.

Nothing I can do is half as interesting as what their twin is up to, and far from searching around desperately for something to catch their imagination, I am more scrabbling around to grab their attention. The lure of some boring adult is so much less attractive than the destructive antics dreamed up by a fellow two-year-old.

This has the upshot that I can drink tea, read magazines and even have lie ins unmolested by toddlers. In the morning we hear our twins chattering and squawking together in their cots. When we finally roll out of bed to breakfast them we discover the devastation they have wrought, but this seems like a tiny price to pay to be allowed to remain under the duvet until after 9am.

So now when a passerby exclaims that I have my hands full with my twins, I smile smugly and think to myself not nearly as full as that poor mummy with just one child snapping at her ankles.

Happy talk

2011-06-06T17:49:00.000+01:00

I know it is wrong to have favourites, but I can't help it, my favourite age by far is two. Of course it is the age more usually prefaced by the word terrible, and often with good reason, but it is also quite terrific too.

You see for me people don't really come into their own until they learn to talk. Babies are cute and all but all that gooing and gurgling doesn't do it for me, even stroppy answering back is better than the dumb insolence of a newborn. I remember being terrified by the blank eyed stare of my firstborn son. I was convinced I had birthed the next star of the Omen and combed his tiny body for the mark of the devil.

But by the age of two I can't get enough of my chubby little angels. As the twins sprout new vocabulary every day their latest trick is to take me around the house David Attenborough style, giving me a wide eyed guided tour of the mundane. Everything they see they gasp and point at exclaiming its name with the same wonder the BBC reserves for a hitherto undiscovered sea creature or the coupling of some near extinct mammals.

Zach went through the contents of his entire toy basket, pulling everything out, holding it aloft and declaiming its name. 'Rocket', 'plane', 'choo choo train', 'honey toast' (note to self, must get around to tidying that thing out).

Once he had spread everything across the house to his satisfaction he then moved on to explaining the plot of Agent Oso to me. A complex matter involving many cows being transported in a trailer, which he summed up as 'Moo moo cows go brmmm brmmm'. I couldn't have put it better myself.

Developing language has enabled Jonah to give full rein to both sides of his slightly schizophrenic nature. In Hyde mode he may utilise his new skills to shrill out demands or refusals, increasing the decibels the longer it takes you to respond.

At breakfast time he will start with a polite 'Chinamon baggie pleath' (he has a slight lisp), asking for his usual morning repast of a plastic bag full of Curiously Cinnamon (Annabel Karmel eat your heart out - no really please do). Should you ignore him for a moment or two while attempting to feed the children who actually have to get out to school, though he will start to screech the same sentence over and over again at the top of his surprisingly loud voice.

However, just as you are about to put him out with the bins after the millionth demand, he will switch back to Jekyll and sing out 'Lub you mummy', his squidgy little face wreathed in smiles as he reaches up for a duddle. Cue mummy's heart splashing into a puddle at his tiny feet.

Terrible twos meets pedantic pre teens

2011-05-31T13:29:00.000+01:00

It's been one of those Bank Holiday weekends. The ones where you long, you yearn, you would trade your most perfect pair of shoes for just a few childfree moments. On the whole I consider myself quite lucky as most of the time I enjoy my sons' company, but this long weekend, with the emphasis on long, not so much.

I think it is because we are sandwiched between two boundary pushing phases and any parent knows how much fun that is. The twins are two and just learning the best way to assert their wills. Jonah has settled on much shrieking and screaming of the word NO. Anything he doesn't want to do or have is simply prefaced by a shrill negative declaration, for example "No get dressed", "No go beddy", "No eat bishbingers", which is repeated ad infinitum until you give in to his wishes. I am sure you get the picture.

Zach is more likely to approach any situation of which he disapproves by taking an implacable, immovable stance, twinned with a death stare. So if you decide to move off from a certain location where he prefers to remain he will simply plant his little feet and fix you with a hard stare. Any and all parental whiles to get him moving fall onto very stony ground. You can try cajoling, pretending to walk off and leave him behind, screaming, shouting, begging, pleading and all will be met with a cold glare.

The only thing to do is to bodily lift him and carry him where you want to go, the downside of this is (a) he weighs a ton and (b) it is accompanied by blood curdling screams that convince anyone in the vicinity that you are abducting the poor child.

Now having mothered two two-year-olds before (albeit not at the same time) I was expecting this, but what I had not banked on was the contribution of their older brothers. To be fair to Max he is his usual clumsy daft self, but this does not detract from the fact that his affection for swinging sharp sticks close to tender eye sockets can be the cause of much distress as is his inability to follow even the simplest instructions or to carry out any task at any speed faster than an invalid snail.

Jacob however, has at the grand old age of seven decided that growing up means developing a highly (annoying) pedantic nature, to the point that after the millionth time of being corrected (or as he would point out not actually a million, more like 999,999) you could scream as loudly as a displaced Zach. Perhaps the best way to describe how all these particular elements of create a particularly toxic mix is to paint a picture of a typical exchange.

We are out for a walk. Jonah is firmly stating 'No sit the buggy', while wriggling out of his pushchair into the path of an oncoming cyclist. Zach is several yards back down the path refusing to budge, so my husband strides back to scoop him up, his protests ripping the bucolic country walk being enjoyed by those around us to shreds.

Meanwhile the older boys are engaged in some kind of battle that results in Max inadvertently injuring himself. Wailing ensues, notching up the decibel count even further. I rush over to find out what's wrong and Max announces that Jacob has hit him in the head. Jacob counters "Actually mummy I think you will find that I hit him in the ear, not the head". ARRRRGH.

I hate homework

2011-04-27T17:08:00.000+01:00

It all started when I was at school. That dreaded feeling in the pit of your stomach on a Sunday evening, as you contemplated the mounds of reading, essays and sums you had conveniently shoved to the back of your mind for the rest of the weekend. That moment when you had to stop pretending to be engrossed in Antiques Roadshow and actually unglue yourself from the television and propel yourself to your desk.

It was horrible, and deadly dull. I think I can safely assume that I am not academically minded. The thought of the hours I spent locked in a dusty libraries while I was at university is enough to bring me out in a cold sweat. The ever present sensation that I had never read quite enough (or indeed nearly enough) to write anything close to a coherent essay, and then just winging it and hoping for the best, was not a pleasant one.

I was pretty good at fooling people, and have an upper second class degree to prove it. However, I will admit that my head of department once took me aside and revealed that he could only decipher about half of any essay I had written as my handwriting was so atrocious, so he was just assuming the other half was as good in awarding me high marks.

When I finally threw my mortarboard aloft, dumped my graduation gown, and headed off into the world of work, it was with a sigh of relief that my days of cramming were done with. Or so I thought, as now a few decades hence I find myself locked into homework hell once again.

I am sure when I was at primary school homework amounted to collecting a few pretty leaves to show off in autumn and keeping a scant diary of what you got up to in the holidays. Nowadays even in Year One children are given work to do every week, and by God is it mind numbing.

I am not entirely sure who the work is pitched at, apparently it is set across the year so every child in every class does the same assignment, which leads me to believe there are some real thickies out there. My boy is seven and he is 'challenged' by such conundrums as 'Which number is half of 8?' and the tricky task of working out that tortoises are slow. Surely only a half wit would be stumped by such questions?

The plus side of this is that it means we can whizz through homework double quick - hurrah. The downside is that whenever I 'help' my boy I get so frustrated that I am tempted to just answer all the questions and tell him to hurry up and write them into the appropriate boxes.

I can't shake the feeling that homework is a waste of time. Mine and his. He, along with most of his contemporaries, is too bright for the work to be an extension of his learning, and I can think of better and far more educational ways to spend time with my children. It seems that I am destined never to see the point of extracurricular study, I just hope my sons don't find this particular blog post when I am battling with them to get them to revise for their exams.

Babes on the beach

2011-04-26T15:20:00.000+01:00

The sand undulates, white as snow, silken soft down to a jade green sea. The sun's rays dust the gently rippling waves in diamond shards. The clear sky is a bright turquoise, the blue horizon broken only by the lazy flapping of a pelican scanning the waters for a mid afternoon snack. White yachts bob serenely out at sea and children hunt for shells at the waters edge.

The beach is dotted with royal blue cabanas, each sporting a oiled pair of legs sticking out from beneath the shade, some sleek and brown, others toasting an angry, livid pink. As I recline onto my own padded lounger, sunglasses perched on my nose, an icy cocktail sweating in the heat on the table beside me, I sigh and think: 'This is the life'.

That is in the scant nanosecond of peace afforded to me by my relentless offspring, before one of them arrives by my side, to climb, scratchy and sandy onto my toasting belly, knocking over that well deserved drink in the process. As they drip chill seawater down my back the demands commence.

The twins want 'More, more water' to be fetched from the sea, even though they are both sitting right beside it, while I am happily ensconced halfway up the beach. The bigger boys want me to miraculously rid the sea of all of its salt, as this makes their eyes sting, and check each wave for an approaching stingray. The warning signs telling us to do the stingray shuffle in order to avoid injury, having left them paranoid about all marine life.

A beach holiday with the boys just isn't the same as those far off breaks we had a deux. While husband and I attempt to relax and enjoy they idyllic surroundings, the children seem determined to thwart our plans. If they aren't asking for endless cups of juice they are complaining that it's too hot. You just can't win.

I am beginning to wonder how old children have to be before you don't feel as if you need another holiday the moment you hop off the plane on the way home from your last one.

The pursuit of nothing

2011-04-04T12:00:00.000+01:00

I can see the irony in the biggest treat offered to me on Mother's Day being some time away from my children, but all parents know that the most precious prize is a few moments to yourself. From the moment your baby is born you are made aware of the fact that you are now on call 24/7. If you dare to attempt to sneak off for an indulgent cup of coffee, sandwich or 40 winks, your newborn will instantly pick up on this transgression and sound out a wailing, screeching alarm.

It is a bit like living in a prison camp, as you are only left to your own devices when you are working. It is a strange phenomenon, but babies will peacefully nap while you wash bottles, do the ironing or puree them some lunch, but the moment you crack open the chocolate digestives and the latest copy of Grazia all hell breaks loose. It's the same with shopping, traipse around Tesco and they will sleep like the dead, attempt to try on a new top in H&M and they spring awake, alert as a meerkat and noisy as a banshee.

As the name of this blog has probably given away I have four children, and I spend vast portions of my day trying to get away from them. It's not that I don't love them, it's just that they are so very relentless in their pursuit of my attention. To be fair to the older boys they do have the consideration to go to school, which at least leaves me the inside of the day to contemplate my navel in peace, but the younger ones are still at home, all day, every day.

I do have a nanny, which gives me much needed respite, but sadly I have to waste some of that potential me time will less pleasurable pursuits like working and chores. If I do venture away from my keyboard the twins will instantly descend upon me with yells of 'Mummy, mummy', which is cute for about 30 seconds before they smoothly segue into screaming demands for mummy to 'Dit down', get 'More app juice', find a missing 'Ball, ball', or carry out a messy 'Nappy change'.

I soon turn tail and remove myself back to the relative peace of my office. I tell you I don't know how full time mums do it. I would have to have a specially built sound proof, child proof box built into which I could retire and recharge, like a maternal flotation tank, lest I implode with the incessant stream of demands and chatter.

I would feel bad, if I didn't know that I am not alone in this ruthless pursuit of doing nothing. When my husband is at home at the weekend he is an angel with the children, but he also spends many hours attempting to slope off and spend some quality time with his iPad. I don't blame him, he has spent a week earning a crust and now all his free time is eaten up by caring for our tiny tyrants.

If he isn't sweeping up discarded breakfast cereal, he is filling up endless cups of juice, removing and replacing socks on the whim of the twins, fixing up the varying different swings that suit all our different ages of children, continuing the unending task of loading and unloading the dishwasher, making one of the million meals our children seem to consume every day. I can hardly begrudge him a quiet moment or two with can of Stella while the kids aren't looking.

I suspect the answer lies in some kind of remote control device for the children. That way when it all gets too much we could simply stab at the pause button, sit down, relax with a glass of wine or two, after which we could press play again and let the games recommence - or not.

Out on the town

2011-03-31T17:35:00.000+01:00

I love London. But I do hate braving the city with toddlers in tow as our capital is far from child friendly. But this morning I was greeted by gloomy rain and the prospect of entertaining testy twins for the day.

My preference would have been to loll in front of daytime TV while they raised merry hell around me, only rousing myself to fetch a fresh beaker of app juice when decibel level of the request threatened to rupture my eardrums. But the cleaner was in and I find that someone buzzing about tidying up around you takes all the joy out of indolence. So I had to come up with a Plan B to entertain us.

There is always soft play. But I am convinced that if I have been a really bad girl in this life I will awaken from my death bed to an after life spent in a draughty warehouse filled with hyped up toddlers diving into pools of multicoloured balls and bouncing maniacally into each other on a sticky-to-the-touch inflatable castle. Forget wine and honey, in my purgatory I will be sustained by juice cartons, soggy chips and cardboard chicken nuggets for all eternity.

This is probably why I lighted on another plan that could only have been born out of desperation. I decided that, with the sterling assistance of grandma, I would take the boys into London to the Roar Roar Museum (aka the Natural History Museum). The twins signalled their approval of this madcap scheme by dancing a strange bobbing jig whilst simultaneously roaring at the top of their little lungs. This in contrast to the reaction when I revealed our destination to my mum, who went white. I decided to take her silence as acquiescence, rather than her being struck mute with shock.

Taking one toddler into London is rash. There are such myriad ways in which you can lose, maim or even kill a small child on the streets of the city, from dropping him down that gap on the Tube platform we are all warned so assiduously to mind, to him being ground to a pulp by the chomping black jaws of an escalator, to him dashing under the wheels of a passing black cab or being scalped by a passing tourist's backpack.

But taking two is nothing more than a fool's errand. The first, and probably most serious, problem is that you cannot take a pushchair with you as double buggies and public transport mix about as well as a surfeit of tequila shots followed by an early breakfast meeting the next day.

This means your toddlers have to walk, or be carried. Which really means they have to be carried, for after one or two steps on unfamiliar pavements, both twins decided that this walking lark really wasn't for them and both stood, arms outstretched above their heads demanding 'Carry, carry'.

Despite all my best efforts, which involved lots of shouting and pretending to walk off without them, they would not budge. Instead they simply made me look bad by standing sobbing noisily, parting the crowds of commuters, whose hardened hearts were clearly touched by the rivers of tears pouring down their chubby little cheeks.

Eventually we reached the museum, by which time both me and my mother were ready to drop, backs screaming in protest at carrying our heavy burdens. I was all for turning round and going home, but grandma is made of sterner stuff. She marched up to the information desk and, waving her Freedom Pass aloft, demanded a wheelchair.

Like an OAP Boudica there was no stopping her and the twins were soon nestled on her lap as I wheeled them all off in state. 'It's a taste of things to come', cackled grandma evilly, so I turfed her out and made her walk. We got quite a few strange looks as the twins endlessly climbed in and out of their transportation making it quite clear that it was entirely unnecessary for health reasons, unless you count their carers' sanity, but our wheeled chariot saved the day.

A good time was had by all, Jonah was introduced to the blue whale, which being made of fibreglass didn't gobble him up, Zach fell in love with many a stuffed bear, bear, and they were both terrified into silence by the animatronic T-Rex (I am thinking of investing in one for home).

When we left I was sad to leave our wheelchair behind, but the twins were a lot easier to handle on the homewards journey as they both fell asleep, lolling on their upholstered Underground seats like two drunks sleeping it off on last tube home.

Although I would caution anyone not to try it on their own, our day out on the town with the twins was a triumph, after all we all made it back in one piece and there was not a multicoloured ball or bouncy castle in sight. If that's not a result, I don't know what is.

Doing the Disney diet

2011-03-30T15:25:00.001+01:00

The boys are currently counting down the days until we jet off to Disney World, and while I share their excitement at going on holiday, I am more than a little apprehensive about how I will deal with the gargantuan portions of greasy food that usually accompany a break Stateside.

Over the last four months I have managed to shed almost as many stones of blubber and I really, really don't want to put any of it back on again as it was such bloody hard work shifting it in the first place. At home I have developed a disciplined approach, whereby I eat very little and haunt the gym floor to such an extent I am almost on staff.

But being away, in America of all places, is going to be tough. A normal break in Florida is saturated with trips to fast food joints, from Waffle House to Dennys. Breakfast is a stack of fluffy pancakes drenched in sweet maple syrup with a side of crispy bacon, the way only the Americans make it. Lunch is burger and chips theme park style and dinner is some calorie laden combination of cheese, fries, steak, pizza and ice cream.

It is no wonder that the US is home to the super obese. I know if I lived there I would require a mobility scooter to drive me from one feeding trough to the next. The trouble is that while I may be a woman of elegance and sophistication in many areas of my life (ahem), when it comes to food my tastes have not left the trailer park - at least not when I am on holiday.

I suspect it's that same foreign blindness that means you will happily toast yourself lobster red, wear unsuitably small clothes and drink luminous cocktails in a way that you would never dream of at home, that allows me to gorge on fast food that I would actively avoid in the UK. I would never kick off my day with an Egg McMuffin here, but in America it seems rude not to.

My eminently sensible other half tells me I shouldn't worry so much. But after spending months attempting to persuade myself, in the teeth of all the evidence, that I no longer crave fatty, sweet treats, I am terrified that just two weeks in the birth place of junk food will see me backsliding at a supersonic pace.

I am just hoping that if I spend enough hours pushing a double buggy around the baking hot parks, traipsing from visits to Mickey Mouse to rides on It's a Small World, I will burn off at least some of the excess calories I am destined to consume. But it's questionable whether I can take the unrelenting 'magic' of Disney without self medicating on comfort food.

Toddler OCD

2011-03-14T11:46:00.000Z

Now I don't like to make light of such a serious condition, but I have grave concerns that twin one is showing increasing signs of OCD. My husband was the first to notice this worrying tendency as he wiped said son's hand for what seemed like the millionth time during our lunch out yesterday.

Between each bite my boy would thrust out his spotless hand and yell ''And, 'and'. We fast came to realise this meant 'Wipe my hand this instant you fools', by means of his increasing volume, frenzied shaking of the offending hand in our faces and requests for 'White, white', which is toddler for wipe.

Twin one has always had hysterical tendencies, his nickname as a babe in arms was Stroppy thanks to his constant yelling and he has yet to grow out of this particular phase. If you provide food which is not to his taste (for which read pretty much anything other than pizza and yoghurt) he will firmly zip his lips shut and swivel his head away a la Exorcist. The moment he is done with his food he declares 'Binished' and promptly goes to throw his plate from the tray of his highchair, you have to move fast before it and its contents hit the floor.

He has now also taken against nappies and spends most of his day yelling 'Poo, poo. Mappy, mappy', which translates as 'How can any civilised toddler be expected to walk around with anything other than a pristinely clean nappy? It is an outrage'. It does not, however, mean he has done a poo. As he won't calm down until he is changed, we are now going through nappies like they were going out of fashion, which I suppose in a way they are.

There is nothing that is expressed with anything approaching calm, if you ask him for a cuddle, you might get one, or then again he might look at you in horror and scream 'No cuggle, no cuggle', ask him to sit down and invariably you are met with a firm 'No dit down, no dit down', but the real trigger is bed. Just metion the B. E. D. word and he melts down, sobbing 'No beddy, no beddy', whilst beetling off as fast as his little legs will carry him.

He is just lucky he is unbearably cute with it, or he would just be downright unbearable.

Happiness is....

2011-03-13T18:19:00.000Z

So it turns out that young, married, childless couples are happiest. I don't get it myself, how could anyone not see a day spent with small children as the ultimate in adult fulfilment?

Who doesn't want to be woken up by two small boys charging into their bedroom at a most unsociable hour screaming: "Mummy, daddy, [insert name of relevant brother] is being mean to me". Swiftly followed by a heated denial from accused sibling, followed by noisy sobs from both boys.

As we pull the duvet tight around our ears in a vain attempt to drown out the noise and hold on to slumber for a few more precious moments, up the stairs float forlorn cries of "Mummy. Daddy. Cheeha", signalling the awakening of the twins and the subsequent awakening of their bellies and thus increasinly hysterical demands for breakfast (in otherwords Cheeha, which is toddler for Cheerios).

Up we haul ourselves, fingers crossed not too hungover from having drowned our parental sorrows the night before. Downstairs to deal with the war zone that is breakfast. Four locusts descend and make short work of toast, cereal, milk, juice and anything else they can get their claws into, leaving nothing but the husks of their repast scattered liberally around the dining room.

As they trail around the house, spreading more crumbs and making continual demands for yet more food and drink, we unload and load the dishwasher, washing machine and tumble dryer, and make a stab at pushing back the tide of mess that continually threatens to engulf the house. What's not to love about this picture of domestic bliss?

Then it's out with the bullhorn to give the older boys a subtle hint that it's almost lunchtime so perhaps they should get dressed. We know we should have started this process earlier as for some mysterious reason it seems to take small boys approximately two hours to pull on socks, pants, T-shirt, jumper and jeans - a process that we parents have pared down to mere seconds by now.

As we snap at the heels of the older boys to hurry up, we are simultaneously rounding up the toddling twins and holding them down to change nappies and put on their clothes. This is faster than getting the big boys dressed because we are in charge, always assuming there hasn't been a tidal wave of poo produced as a result of their prodigious breakfast.

So now it's at least 1pm and therefore feeding time at the zoo yet again. We cannot face the Sisyphean task of feeding and clearing up quite so soon after the last time, so we decide to brave a restaurant. Now I love eating out, because someone else has to cook, serve and get on their knees to scrape up the filth splattered about by the children, but I will admit that it is no longer the indulgent, relaxing pursuit it once was.

Instead of sitting pondering the menu, nibbling on olives, taking our time over our meals and enjoying a glass or two of wine, and then perhaps dessert and a coffee. Now we are under starters orders from the moment we enter the restaurant as we know we have a half hour window to stuff food down all of us before the troops get restless.

Us adults just pick the first thing they like the sound of while making the tricky choice of which of the dishes on the usually highly unimaginative children's menu is least likely to be met with disgust by the boys. Then we grab the first passing waiter, gabble out our order and beg him to hurry. All the while desperately attempting to keep all knives, breakables and salt and pepper shakers out of reach of the twins.

Our food arrives and goes cold as we variously chop up and distribute the children's food, and then do our best to persuade twin one that it is unlikely to kill him, so could he perhaps stop screaming for a moment and give it a try.

I would love to neck down an entire carafe of wine to bathe this whole affair in a more fuzzy and attractive light, but I know that being mildly pissed and a mother is a dangerous, if tempting, mix. Instead I stick to fizzy water, which the boys constantly purloin to make their apple juice bubbly and spill all over the table cloth.

Time is abruptly up and the twins began to querulously demand: "Hout, hout", which means they want out and once they have escaped the confines of their high chairs, no one is safe. Chairs will be dragged around, cutlery snatched from neighbouring tables and woe betide and glassware that comes within reach. It is our cue to demand the bill post haste and beat a speedy retreat.

Naturally it is raining so we can't let our dogs, oh sorry boys, loose in the park. Instead weakened by the best part of a day spent in their company, we give into the boys wheedling demands to visit a toy shop. A serious error in judgement.

Toy shops are the inner circle of hell. As I explained to my boys, I like watching them deliberate over which plastic piece of crap they want to bring home to instantly lose interest in, about as much as they would like spending time with me in a clothes shop watching me umm and ahhh as I choose the perfect outfit. Reluctantly I conclude that at 39 years of age it would be inappropriate for me to express my boredom by lying on the floor and crying, but I am sorely tempted.

At last we leave, and for a few blissful moments they fall asleep in the car. We can chat without constant interruption, and we can listen to the radio without them asking what the title of every bloody song is. Thank God for Google is all I can say, or else they would think every tune ever written was snappily titled "I don't know".

Peace is shattered when we arrive home and guess what? It's time to feed them again. As I make sandwiches with four different fillings and milk with four different flavours, my husband unloads the dishwasher. As he tidies up the debris a few moments later I deal with the umpteen wash of the day as they decide to play football in the kitchen.

The only consolation is that it is almost bedtime and, after an arduous round of baths, pyjamaing, stories, cajoling to brush teeth, they will all, eventually, fall asleep. For a few brief hours it will be as if we don't have children, and we can get a taste of the happiness of a young, childless, couple, before they all wake up again.

Curiosity killed the cat

2011-03-11T10:58:00.001Z

My children are nosy, they cannot keep their beaks out of anything, no matter how little it concerns them. It is a very irritating trait as it renders private conversations impossible. It also means one ends up explaining far too many tricky concepts to them, often to their detriment.

The problem is that they overhear a snippet of chat and badger you mercilessly to explain the exact context. I have repeatedly tried to tell them, in increasingly infuriated tones, that if I wasn't addressing them personally it is none of their business, but this just floats over their heads like so much hot air. It's amazing how such painfully observant little people can become selectively obtuse when it suits them.

Take this morning. I made a brief reference to my husband about an incredibly sad story a friend told me last night. I suppose I should have known better than to say anything in front of my pair of inquisitors, but I never learn.

Initially I tried to deflect them, but that's a bit like trying to stop an inferno with a water pistol. Then I explained that they really didn't want to know what I had been talking about as I knew it would upset them, but they refused to take my word for it.

They took turns for the entire school run to try to break me. If they had had a naked light bulb and a pair of pliers I think I would be without fingernails by now. Under intense pressure I cracked and told them an abridged version of the story. At the end both said in unison: 'Now we feel really sad. Why did you tell us?' You just can't win.

A nitty problem

2011-03-10T18:42:00.000Z

As the sun made a rare appearance from behind the clouds today, it struck my boys' fair head, but instead of drinking in the beauty of his burnished curls I noticed a smattering of those tell tale little white eggs audaciously clinging to his golden skeins. 'Bastards' I hissed. I hate nits with a passion. Just thinking about them has me digging my nails into my scalp in a frenzy of scratching.

They have been doing the rounds at school ever since he started, but by keeping his hair as short as possible without straying into skinhead territory, so far we have avoided the dreaded head lice. This time we are not so lucky, and the evil pests have decided to colonise my sons' hair.

All I can say is foolish move dear louse, for this is not a welcoming house. Within moments of spotting those nasty nits we were in the car and on our way to Boots to find sufficient weaponry to wreak instant annihilation. I left laden with evil smelling potions and sharp fanged combs. There was no way this encroachment could be allowed to continue and now I an arsenal to fight back.

As soon as we got home my son was immersed into a bath like a sheep dip to have his hair combed to within an inch of its life with the highly recommended Nitty Gritty comb, which I am assured is the best way to remove the blighters. Naturally this was not enough for me, as once I had combed his hair to a sleek matinee idol sheen, I then slathered it with Nelson's Nice 'n Clear, which by the smell alone could kill from 50 paces.

I am hoping that my zero tolerance approach will have beaten those pesky pests into submission, but if not I will have to bring on the big guns and spray my childrens' heads with noxious pesticides. None of your hippy dippy homeopathy for me, I will be quoting Apocalyse Now as I Napalm those lice to kingdom come.

I am just grateful I have boys,. I still have painful memories of my aunt wrenching a nit comb through my unfeasibly thick, long hair when I caught nits from my cousins one summer. I swear she took sadistic pleasure in yanking thick sections of hair right out of my head. At least my sons short back and sides only take seconds to comb through, though that doesn't seem to have cut down on the amount of tears shed during the process.

Fingers crossed my opening salvo will have been savage enough to rid this house of the pestilence visited up on it, as woe betide any louse that fails to heed this warning.

Fickle affections

2011-03-09T18:24:00.000Z

I have noticed that there comes a time in every boy's life when mummy is cast aside in favour of fresher fancies. No, I don't mean when they are teenagers, I mean the terrible twos. With each of my sons I have encountered a phase just after their second birthday when I am no longer what his heart desires.

With the oldest two, the only woman for them was my mum. I would put out my arms for my offspring and they would bat me away, whipping round to cling to my mum for dear life. If she had to prise them off her they would writhe away from me, screaming for their beloved grandma. In fact the only thing that reminded them that they had a mother was when they hurt themselves, at which point poor old granny was instantly cast aside in favour of their first love.

Thankfully, for me at least, these phases were short lived, and I only had to endure being spurned for a month or two, before they returned to my arms with renewed adoration. But I will admit that this kind of rejection was hard to take. I guess it is the price I pay for being a working mum, as they always transferred their affections to whoever looked after them while I was tied to a hot keyboard.

This time around the twins have fallen head over heels for their lovely nanny. I can't say I can blame them as she is tall, blonde and beautiful, as well as having a heart of gold. But I will admit to a pang or two when my two-year old howls with despair when his nanny says it's time for her to go home, yelling 'No mummy' at the top of his voice when she tries to hand him back to me.

The only way she was able to escape yesterday was when he banged his head, and the shock reminded him that mummy wasn't so bad after all. I am just glad I have been through this twice before, so these actions have lost their sting.

I also see a certain logic to their choices as both my mum and my nanny are much nicer than me. They try to please the boys, providing them with whatever their hearts desire and generally pampering them royally. On the other hand their mother spends most of her time distractedly drumming into them that independence is a virtue, particularly when it comes to entertaining themselves while I fiddle around on my iPhone or empty the washing machine. Perhaps it should come as more of a surprise that they are ever won back round to mummy.

Make believe

2011-03-08T13:56:00.000Z

Do you remember the days when you could tell your children anything and they would believe you? At Christmas the merest whisper of a bad report to Santa and they would scuttle off to do your bidding. Tell them that babies are made with special cuddles and that was explanation enough. When they ask why they should do something 'Just because' was enough of a response. If you had a hissed row with daddy on the phone you could explain away the floods of tears by saying you got something in your eye. Boy do I miss those days.

My children are too savvy by half nowadays. Take my five-year-old. At the moment we are not watching TV for reasons to complicated to go into. Now pre-TV ban my threat to get them to make their beds was that if I came in and found duvets on the floor and toys scattered around, there would be no screen time. Cue me saying 'M, why isn't your bed made?' 'Well mummy are we still doing our no TV experiment?' he responds. 'Yes', I admit. 'So there isn't any point in me making my bed is there as I can't watch TV anyway'. The boy is only five.

I spluttered that I could easily think up another punishment and he reluctantly straightened his pillows, but we both knew he had won that battle of wits.

Next up is his big brother. I have been having some problems with my own parents recently, but believed I had thoughtfully and successfully kept them from my sons. More fool me. 'Mummy why don't you like grandma very much at the moment?' trills my seven-year-old. 'What do you mean darling?', I ask, all innocence. 'Well you did throw her out of the house didn't you?' he replies.

A slight exaggeration of events, but I will admit to some very heated exchanges of late, I just hadn't realised that he had been taking notes throughout. I had tried so hard not expose him, but he doesn't miss a trick.

Sadly, sophisticated as they are in some areas, tact is not one of them. There is simply no brake between brain and mouth and they are more than capable of repeating any waspish aside or nasty comment thrown out in anger as gospel truth, much to the detriment of my relationship with my in-laws. I am just hoping that this sign of maturity will arrive as fast as their mastery of the art of observation and negotiation have.

I'm back

2011-02-28T18:08:00.000Z

Don't tell me that you haven't even noticed my absence?! Surely I am mortally offended, but what bashing my waistline into (sort of) submission, ditto my children, I haven't had a moment for self indulgent waffling.

But where to start after such a long break?

First off it's all about me, me, me, but I have lost a grand total of three stone in weight. I would love to say this means I am now a sylph, but sadly I am still a porker, just not quite such a gross one as before. This has been done by eating very little and haunting the gym, so it hasn't been that much fun, but as I squashed my ample belly into my first pair of size 12 jeans since I was in my 20s, I think it may well have all been worth it.

As for the children, the twins have morphed from babies to little boys. This is a mixed blessing. I adore their new walking, talking independence, but toddler twins are more than a little bit challenging. Firstly there are the stereo strops when they are denied such essentials as 'more bigits' (biscuits for the uninitiated), 'more Beebies' (self explanatory or 'baggy cheeha' (their favourite breakfast dish, a small plastic bag of Cheerios).

Then there is the walking. How a I longed for them to walk, but now they are both experts it can be quite a terrifying experience talking them out for a stroll. This half term when I was on duty with all four boys I decided to take them for a walk to the park - anything was preferable to watching them attempt to demolish the house brick by brick, which was their favoured activity when cooped up indoors.

We set off next to the busy road outside our house. Both twins were asserting their human right to walk, but I had the double buggy just in case (I am a seasoned mummy, I know this walking lark never lasts and I can't carry two at a time). As I struggled to keep one twin alive and steer the pushchair I delegated the care of the other to his big brother. Big mistake, huge.

While big bro is quite conscientious, he couldn't seem to grasp the fact that taking his eyes of his little brother for a second would almost inevitably result in disaster. After he let him stray into the path of oncoming traffic once too often i.e. once, the twins were strapped, wailing into the pushchair for the duration of the journey. Oh how I longed for the days before they walked.

Monkey business

2011-01-04T18:26:00.000Z

It has been some long while since I had the time or inclination to put fingertip to keyboard and update this blog. Shame on me, but with four children aged seven and under under my feet for the past two and a half weeks, simply remaining vaguely sane over the festive period has been a strain. Add to this the continuation of my battle against the bulge and you can understand why witty quips haven't been fast flowing of late.

I am proud to say that I actually managed to continue to lose weight over Christmas, thanks to a iron willpower and throwing out all the leftovers the moment that forks had ceased to be raised to our mouths. Though how I have resisted raiding the children's mountain of sweets remains a mystery, even to myself.

So far I am a stone down on my original gargantuan weight. Although it feels somehow wrong to be celebrating the fact that a size 18 no longer feels like an 18th Century corset on me, I am still quietly pleased to be back into my 'small' jeans, despite the fact that to most they would be grossly huge.

I am sure that the majority of my reduction is down to the sadistic personal trainer who smiles as he makes me drag my wobbly ass up flight after flight of stairs whilst lugging iron kettlebells behind me, a bit like poor old Marley dragging his chains as constant companions on an eternal painful journey.

You see I decided to solve the problem of my weight as I solve most conundrums - throw money at it. I am spending an amount that is almost as painful to contemplate as the sessions themselves, but if the results so far are anything to go by, I think it is worth every penny. Clearly this is how stars melt away the baby fat, it is so much easier to keep up the motivation when you have a six foot wall of muscle wielding a set of shiny dumb bells breathing down your neck.

I will also admit that escaping to the gym has also given me the odd break in the monotony of taking care of my four increasingly bored children. While I looked forward to the holidays like a thirsty desert traveller longs for a cooling oasis, once the main event was over my God did the days begin to drag. I think I ran out of ideas and patience around Boxing Day, and yet the children are still not back at school thanks to the thoughtful addition of two inset days.

Today I enlisted my mum to help me entertain them and we marched them off to London Zoo which was infested with photographers snapping shots of the keepers counting their animals like latter day Noahs for the annual stocktake. The paps with their huge lenses and psuedo flack jackets were almost as fascinating to small boys as the exotic species.

My boys' interest levels in the livestock rose and fell directly in line with how likely it was that they might be able to dish out a fatal wounding, so lions, poisonous frogs, snakes and spiders were kings of the beasts, while vibrantly plumed birds and fluffy little monkeys were given short shrift. Still it was another day passed and 24 hours closer to back to school. Hurrah.

I just hope when relative peace reigns throughout the house once again the gym won't lose it's attraction as a haven of serenity amidst the chaos of family life. Still there's always the weekends.

Happy New Year to one and all and fingers crossed in 2011 this blog will be all about me and my ever decreasing circumference....

P.S. a big fat thank you to all at the wonderful Ready for Ten for including little old FDMTG in their round up of the top 50 blogs for 2010. Not sure after recent neglect it is entirely deserved, but perhaps I will live up to the compliment this year.

I don't like dieting

2010-12-06T16:17:00.001Z

Funny isn't it how everyone says that diets don't work, it's just a question of eating less. Errm...isn't that the same thing? My tummy certainly seems to think so a week into my new healthy eating regime. Some might say that deciding to lose weight in the run up to Christmas is somewhat foolhardy, if not downright bloody stupid. Guess what? They'd be right.

If it isn't enough of a nightmare simply trying to tame my rampant appetite for all things edible, trying to do it as everyone from the TV to Starbucks is trying to ram mince pies, turkey sandwiches and creamy hot chocolate down my throat is a living hell. I am trying to tell myself that it's all a question of retraining myself to prefer a nice healthy bowl of lentils to a steaming bag of chips, but my brain, being an iota or two above subnormal, just ain't buying it.

Still it has to be done as I am sick of choosing from the tent rails in clothes shops and looking like someone stopped in the middle of inflating me into a bouncy castle. Not to mention my raised chance of developing diabetes thanks to a body that seems to be not only incapable of telling my stomach that yes, it has had enough, but also to regulate sugar in my blood. Cheers for that.

This morning I had my first induction to the gym. It has been years since I darkened the door of such an establishment, but with temperatures dipping below freezing and my general tendency towards sloth it seems like the only answer. I was put through my (slow and painful) paces by a personal trainer, who had me drowning in sweat and blowing like a buffalo after about 15 minutes of gentle walking on a treadmill, all of which reminded me quite why I hate gyms.

All I can do is visualise how unbelievably gorgeous I will look once I reach my desired size, and forget that for all the weight I lose I am still pushing 40 with all the associated wrinkles and crinkles that rather ruin my soft focus fantasy of myself. Wish me luck, I have a feeling I am going to need it.

An inspiration?

2010-11-26T15:31:00.000Z

Today someone called me inspirational. A lovely compliment, but I think perhaps she mistook desperation for inspiration. You see me and Sarah Beeny seem to be the only mums of four small boys who are actually foolish, or in my case impoverished, enough to actually try combining bringing them up with having a career.

I think most mums with a brood of tiny children simply give in to the demands of their family and give up on any attempt at gainful employment, and I applaud that sensible and inspired decision. I am not sure I could cope with being a mum of four without working. Apart from the obvious financial incentives, there is the fact that work is effectively a day off.

A typical day with the children is like skating round an ice rink while trying to catch melted chocolate in a colander. A messy, tiring and fruitless pursuit during which you are prone to many a slip up. Don't get me wrong I adore my days with the children, but a rest cure they are not.

Sitting in front of a computer tapping away, or nattering away on the phone doing what passes for an interview, well that's more like it. I can tune out the screams and rows of my bucketful of hyperactive eels (otherwise known as my sons), while I concentrate on keeping abreast of what's up on Facebook.

People may say to me they don't know how I do it, but I mostly do it, by not doing too much of it at all. Looking after the boys single handed is a sweet treat for a couple of days a week. Looking after them full time would be hard labour and I am not sure how much any of us would enjoy it.

My nanny, both because she is more sweet natured than me, and is paid to be, is far more tolerant to the boys foibles and intensely slow way of doing even the simplest of chores than I am. While I am reduced to a foaming at the mouth, screaming harpy within an hour of the older boys' return from school, she glides serenely through those prickly after school hours, safe in the knowledge that she can leave at bedtime.

While the boys forever say they would love mummy to look after them, I think the reality might be a bit of a disappointment. Spending too much time with the boys aggravates my allergy to shrill cries of 'Mummy, mummy, mummy' and stretches my multitasking powers to breaking point.

While I can juggle deadlines, meetings and interview slots like a circus performer, I find my brain begins to fizz as I try to cope with a dirty nappies, inconsolable tears, requests for drinks/snacks/help with homework and an full scale little boy fight - all of which inevitably kick off simultaneously.

It seems to be a rule of thumb that everything always happens at once in family life. For example the boys could sit for a good few moments in rapt silence as they watch a DVD, but the instant that a nappy is filled or a glass of juice is spilled, suddenly all hell breaks loose and a previously serene scene instantly descends into a chaos of demands.

It's a bit like the rule that says the moment tea is on the table, one of my children will disappear for an epic poo, and won't reappear until everything on his plate is cold and inedible. Or the rule that says that when one twin topples over and is in tears, will be the moment that the second one reveals that the contents of his nappy is now seeping into his socks.

So far from being an inspiration by combining work with family life, I think I could be considered a bit of a skiver and shirker. It's those mums who are at the coal face 24/7 who deserve kudos. They are the ones who combine management skills that would put any CEO of a FTSE 100 company to shame, with the patience of a saint. Instead I simply hide away in my office, putting my fingers in my ears and singing 'La, la, la' to blank out the bubbling torrent of family life that rages through the house below me.

Arts, crafts and little boys

2010-11-15T13:59:00.001Z

This weekend I spent a lovely afternoon at Masterchef Live at London's Olympia. As my husband pointed out I am a real housewife at heart and I like nothing more than to while away my time nibbling on samples of fudge and cheddar cheese, which is good as pretty much every other stand in the place was touting the 'creamiest' local fudge or cheese.

My absolute favourite stand of all was Mad Cow Fudge (from 'Uddersfield, geddit?), not only do they genuinely sell the best ever treacle toffee the lovely lady who served us was the most hilariously bitchy girl I have ever met.

Clearly this Northern lass was unimpressed by the London crowd, particularly the woman who demanded a sample, only to screw up her face in disgust declaring 'I don't like fudge'. 'So why did you ask for a sample?' asks our stalwart server. 'I just wanted to check that I still didn't like it'. I ask you. I am sure they went away convinced that it was grim down south.

We also tried our hand, courtesy of the lovely PR for Plenty kitchen towels at making Christmas chocolate. Much cackling ensued as jokes about getting coated in chocolate were cracked via text to our absent husbands, one of whom was convinced that we had strayed into the Erotica expo. Sadly that is next weekend and the only sausages we tasted were of the ourdoor-reared pure pork variety.

It was great fun as we got to play finger printing with melted chocolate, although my attempts at this delicate art looked as if I had let my toddler twins have a go. Which brings me neatly onto the preposterous suggestion that our teacher made that we try this at home with our children. My friend, who has a nice, well behaved six-year-old girl was very taken with this idea. But with my four unruly boys I was horrified.

If I were to let loose my pack of little boys on a pot of molten chocolate, I would not end up with some pretty decorations for the tree, instead my whole house would be redecorated in sticky brown - not a colour I would choose from the Dulux chart.

The thing is, try as I did when my first was tiny, boys and arts and crafts mix like lemon juice and milk. In otherwords a revolting mess is the only way things ever end. My mother once let my son have a go doing some glitter cards for Christmas - and we were still picking shimmering flakes out of the carpet when we moved out three years later.

Mess is not the only problem. It takes time to set up a craft activity, laying out protective newspaper, finding scissors that are sharp enough to cut, glue that hasn't dessicated with disuse and play dough pots that still have their lids. This wouldn't be a problem if my boys actually played with all the paints and pens for more than a nanosecond, before losing interest and drifting off towards the nearest gadget with a screen.

I think perhaps I found the answer at Fine Burger Company in the O2 Centre yesterday though. It has touch screen computers set up at the tables where you can do finger painting and stamping onscreen. Needless to say the boys were transfixed and I had the most peaceful meal out with children that I have had since the first one was born.

Hello dolly

2010-11-09T16:09:00.000Z

I thought that having boys would release me from clutches of dolls. I never could stand them as a child. All my Sindy dolls would instantly have their hair coloured with felt tips, cut off into strange asymmetric styles and their limbs gruesomely dismembered from their bodies. I was not a girly girl when it came to playing with dollies.

Son number one has always been in touch with his feminine side, but he expressed this in a desire to dress up in his best girlfriend's fairy dresses. I could never take him on a play date with her without him coming downstairs strutting his stuff in glittery tulle and a sparkling tiara. Even now he is seven he still lovingly steals glances at the sequin encrusted dresses on display on the girly side of clothes shops. Poor lamb, still there is plenty of time for him to moonlight at Madame JoJo's when he is older.

Son number two and four are man's men. They love nothing more than kicking a ball around or trundling trucks across the floor boards. They would sooner don a builder's hat than a princess dress and have no interest in dolls, prams or nurturing anything, apart from the notion that they should be allowed unfettered access to the snack cupboard. In otherwords they are boys through and through.

Son number three though is a caring little soul. If anyone in the house cries or looks upset he is at their side in a flash. He blows smacking kisses at them and tries to fling his tiny arms around them. If his twin is upset he will stand with a look of the utmost concern in his deep brown eyes, gently stroking his brother's back. It entirely passes him by that the reason his twin is crying is usually because he has been told off for staging yet another attempted raid on his brother's food, toys or personal space.

His sweet nature appears to carry across to inanimate objects too though as after a visit to that self same best girlfriend of number one he discovered a dolly. He grabbed it's squishy body to his little chest, the scarily lifelike eyes swivelling up under coy eyelashes, and he carried it around with him for the rest of the afternoon.

When he ate he tried to share his food with the dolly, upturning his cup into its face. Later on he gave a tiny doll-sized bottle and cuddled it to help bring up its burps. Or at least I think that is what he was doing. He was the model father to that dolly, it was just a shame to leave it behind.

When I told his nanny all about his antics she cried in recognition that all he does when he is at playgroup is pick up the dollies and wheel them around in a buggy. Being a twin his favourite is a double buggy and apparently he cannot be prised from it during the group.

Now I am sorely tempted to buy him his very own dolly to play with. I just don't know if I can cope with its beady little eyes following me around the room and there will be hell to pay from his big brother as I still haven't bought him that dress I promised him years ago.......

Hello strangers

2010-11-03T13:56:00.000Z

To quote the inimitable Harry from The Only Way is Essex 'OH MY GOD'. So much has happened in the last few weeks which is why there has been radio silence chez FDMTG. And then I go and kick off my first post in ages with the shameful confession of my new guilty pleasure - the so dreadful it's addictive The Only Way is Essex.

I just love it, they are all so touchingly cardboard and shallow, with their Tango spray tans, oh-so-unnatural hair extensions and deliciously chavvy accents. The real reason I adore it so much is because at heart I will always be an Essex girl myself. Had I not been plucked out of this most maligned of counties at the tender age of 12 I have no doubt that I would have misspent my youth flaunting my cleavage and suggestively licking my lip gloss at The Sugar Hut in an unveiled attempt to shag blokes like Mark. Oh the shame.

My infinitely classier and more high brow husband is still shocked at just how authentic an Essix accent I can come out with. When I put it on his middle class sensibilities have him cringing in disgust as he begs me to revert to my everyday, classless tones. So I am loving the antics of the Essex crew and marvelling at their attention to detail when it comes to dolling themselves up.

It's no wonder we never really see any of them doing any work, as they must spend all the hours they aren't propping up the bars in the nightspots of Brentwood, getting their nails/hair/make up done, being spray tanned, sticking on vajazzles, working out at the gym and researching where to get the best boob job. And that's just the boys.

I guess I am living proof that you can take the girl out of Essex, but you can't take Essex out of the girl.

Aside from my latest addiction the other things that have been keeping me from blogging are, in no particular order, a family crisis of too much tedium and painfulness to share, multiple birthday parties - thank God they are all over now and the momentous occasion which saw the final boy take to his feet (warning super cute video alert, though due to all the maternal shrieking it's best viewed with the sound off). Oh and throw in much work related stress and perhaps it is no wonder that the poor old blog has been pushed to the back of the queue.

But now I am back and raring to report on the mischief made by my all-walking family. I finally feel as if I have four sons, as opposed a mixed bag of sons and babies, however I do think that collective noun for my sons should be a 'chaos', as their capacity to wreak it has increased ten-fold with their developing perambulation skills.

It's party time

2010-10-06T11:49:00.000+01:00

October is a busy month chez FDMTG as boy one and two both have their birthdays this month, so I find myself in the annual round of chasing up RSVPs to find out if 1, 10, 20 or 30 of their friends plans to attend, tracking down elusive themed party decorations, expelling expletives over the cost of balloons - how can a puff of helium in a plastic bag cost so much - and generally tearing my hair out.

I am not sure quite how children's parties go so out of control. Back in my day parties were held at home, there was pass the parcel with just the one prize, pin the tail on the donkey, jelly and ice cream and a slice of cake wrapped in a napkin to take away.

Nowadays you have to hire a hall and a professional entertainer months in advance, order decorations, usually themed to go with some long defunct show or film that the boys are currently obsessed with, at great expense online and amass a party bag that would have constituted a proper present back in the 70s.

And I consider my parties to be relatively restrained by modern standards. I don't hire in face painters or a bouncy castle and my party bags are a modest collection of cheap toys and a slice of cake. My boys have left parties in the past clutching hardback books as going away presents that probably cost more than the gift they had given to the birthday child.

The problem is that I LOVED birthday parties when I was young, which is why I love throwing them now. I still remember the excitement of going to my friend Sara's parties. I loved her house with its pastel carpets and neat decor, I loved the excitement of ripping the newspaper layers off pass the parcel, the enormous anticipation to see who would be the lucky one to win the prize. The thrill if it was you who got to unwrap that small package of sweets.

I adored the wonky iced home made fairy cakes showered with silver balls and multicoloured hundreds and thousands, none of your fancy swirly iced cup cakes back in the day. The ham sandwiches on white bread, the Hula Hoops and Monster Munch, the joy of mixing jewel bright jelly into milky ice cream and sucking up the messy results through a straw.

I want to give my children those treasured memories of special days with their friends, though I am not sure that they have the same degree of appreciation as they are just so pampered. What was a huge treat to me, is just an everyday weekend to them. They got to parties all the time and each one is more extravagant than the last, so it is hard to tantalise their jaded palates.

I know this is my fault as a parent. I know I should get tough and make my children appreciate how lucky they are so they can experience the same excitement I felt over birthday parties. Trouble is I find it so hard to spoil their fun by rolling out my own version of the Monty Python Four Yorkshiremen sketch. So fingers crossed I will have pulled out enough stops to pique their interest this year, now I must go and track down a Dr Who birthday cake.

Bye bye baby

2010-10-05T12:28:00.000+01:00

My oldest boy is in Year 2, my middle son is in Reception and my twins are almost two. I think I can safely say that the baby stage is behind me now. While we still have dual potty training to negotiate and twin two is stubbornly refusing to walk, we are on the home run now.

In one way that makes me feel relieved and hopeful that I might one day stop feeling so exhausted all the time, but in another it makes me feel a huge sense of loss that my baby days are over for good. I relish my sons' growing independence, but in the past by the time my youngest child was starting to walk, talk and feed himself I was plotting my next baby. This time I am entering uncharted territory as I know there won't be the patter of little feet on the way ever again.

I have wanted babies since I was in my mid-twenties. I had a few bumps along the way what with a first husband who wanted nothing to do with children, or indeed me as it turned out, but I eventually had my first boy when I was 32, then the next at 34 and the final two at 37. So for the last decade and a half my thoughts have been taken up with the acquisition of babies.

I spent most of my 20s longing for babies and all of my 30s pregnant or dealing with babies, so what does the next chapter of life hold? I am a little scared to look as my mind is still firmly rooted in the breeding phase.

I still can't pass Mothercare without cooing over the tiny newborn clothes. I can't quite get my head round the fact that I will never have to stock up on those bright yellow packs of Pampers New Born nappies, though I feel less sentimental about those brick sized maternity towels that sat so uncomfortably in my post baby pants.

I am sure there are other mothers who feel a sense of release that they will never again have to waddle about swollen with child, that they will never have to battle with feeding a newborn, or endure the endless sleepless nights that accompany the arrival of a new baby. These are the mums who ruthlessly throw out baby clothes the moment their child has grown out of them, toss out the buggy the instant their toddler is up on his feet, and joyfully button up their pre-baby jeans as they turn their trim, toned backs on the messy business of child rearing.

I am not one of those mothers. I am still hanging onto my huge post preggy belly, along with a whole lot more baggage that came along with my babies. I know I won't have another child, I don't even want one, but what I do want is a blueprint as to what happens next? As my children grow up and I am forced to wave goodbye to all things baby? Will the nostalgia fade, or must I simply hold on till I can grab my grandchildren out of their mother's arms to drink in that sweet scent of newborn baby?

Our just desserts

2010-10-04T13:43:00.001+01:00

They say that we get the children we deserve. Is that so? Well what I want to know is what did I do to deserve the hoard of mess making monkeys who have descended into my calm and orderly life over the last seven years?

I grew up in a house where tidying was scorned as somehow demeaning, with the end result that our house was usually extremely messy, if not to say dirty. There was the year when we had no sink, so the washing up mouldered in the bath waiting for someone to lower themselves to actually, you know, do it.

There was the ecosystem that lurked at the back of the kitchen cupboards, which once spawned a whole generation of baby mice. There was the teetering alpine landscape of papers and documents that was forever on the brink of a devastating avalanche.

There was the DIY that just never got done; from the complex - wires dangling from the ceiling with light switches attached - to the aestetic - wallpaper that hung from the walls in desolate strips, revealing patches of the last owner's taste in interior decor. I think you get the picture. My parents were not house proud.

I however was a changeling, a cuckoo in this supremely untidy nest. I would close the door on the house of horrors and retreat to the neat as a pin sanctuary of my bedroom. I must have been the only teenager who voluntarily did my own hoovering, dusting and washing, all in an attempt to create a little oasis of tidiness amidst this desert of detritus.

I haven't changed. I still tidy up everything I used to make my lunch with before I take a bite, I still find myself getting a little bit twitchy when a pile of magazines is askew or the sofa cushions aren't lined up correctly. I will admit to drafting in help to keep these OCD tendancies at bay. I have a super tidy nanny and a cleaner twice a week, so while I tap away on the keyboard I know my house isn't gradually disappearing under a morass of mess.

But I am under siege from my own children. Or as they shall hitherto be known, the hoard of mess making monkeys. From the moment we began to amass baby stuff during my first pregnancy the clean lines of my home have become increasingly blurred by the ever growing heap of plastic crap that pursues children wherever they go. From the change mats, mobiles and bottles of babyhood to the Lego bricks that find their way into every nook and cranny and dismembered action figures of today, I am fighting a losing battle.

My children seem to be ruled by some primeaval instinct to spread toys around their territory. No matter how often I scream (or cajole or bribe) at them to put things away, they just don't seem to be physically capable of tidying effectively.

Though be fair the oldest has shown some signs that we may be related. When he was a toddler he would hold out his dirty hands out to me and cry 'Mucky, mucky', until I wiped them clean. His favourite activity was to then take the wipes and wipe all over the floor with them, thus revealing that I am not as good a housewife as I might like, as they always came up black with grime.

When I once took him to messy play at the local arts centre the poor child almost had a nervous breakdown. He looked at the paint streaked over his clothes and went into a tearful overdrive of 'Mucky, mucky', until I took him off to the toilets, stripped and washed him down. The teacher took me aside and said I should probably help him to learn to cope with mess a little better. I huffed in disgust as I pulled him out of the class, wiping furiously at the last remnants of paint stuck in his golden toddler curls. We didn't go back.

When he went to school he invariably came home with stickers for being good at tidy up time, which always made me laugh as despite his neater nature any mention of a similar routine at home was met with wailing protests and a grinding of play dough into the carpet.

But the other three deserve Phds in mess making. They can turn a beautifully tidy room into a sea of plastic toys, leaky cups, discarded raisins, smears of felt tip and ripped books in seconds. And their attempts at tidying up are from the classic male school of helping out. So utterly incompetent that you are compelled to snatch the toys from their dawdling hands and do it yourself.

In fact some attempts to tidy up from son number two are more likely to create mess rather than clear it away. Like when he decides to clean the windows with moisturised baby wipes, leaving smears of oily cream all over them, or when he insists on carrying plates to the dishwasher, slopping their contents onto a freshly mopped floor as he goes.

I dream of the days when I can tidy a room and expect to return to it sometime later and find it in the same pristine state. Now I feel as if my life is one long round of straightening up rooms, for as I am busily tidying up in one, my hoard of mess making monkeys is unleashed next door with predictable consequences.

So do I deserve these mess making monkeys? Perhaps it is payback for my priggish youth, when I am sure my tidiness served as a silent reproach for my parents' slovenliness. Or perhaps it is just because some greater power decided that I needed to be kept busy. Who knows? But justice will be served if their own children inherit their unmatched skills for untidiness and their wives are clever enough to leave the mess for them to tidy up.

Halloween comes early

2010-10-01T19:01:00.000+01:00

As my oldest was born on Halloween almost seven years ago now, we like to go to town on what always was an essentially American holiday. He is lucky he was born when he was, back in my day you were lucky if you got to dunk for apples on Halloween. Now every house in our suburb has glowing Jack O'Lanterns grinning spookily from their porches, and glittering black tinsel dangling sparkling spiders draped across the door.

Every year we go trick or treating, another new invention imported from across the Pond, but one that I have grown to love as I will always associate it with my boy's birthday. I will never forget the year when we first took his little brother. The sight of him wobbling off in his fat pumpkin suit, plastic bag in hand ready to his booty at each door was just adorable. And the grin on his face when he saw how many sweets he had amassed had to be seen to be believed.

As I am pretty sure my children don't read my blog - well certain in the case of three of them as they can't read - I will admit to binning the vast majority of sweets and then denying any knowledge of them when they asked about their whereabouts. Some mums opt for eating the sweets (for the good of their children, you understand). But as I have spent the equivalent of at least two Caribbean holidays at the dentist replacing teeth already worn out by my own childhood sweetie habit, I feel it is best to rid the house of such temptation.

This year Halloween falls on a Sunday so I imagine the streets around our house will be filled with miniature vampires and ghouls begging for treats. I think it would totally flummox most of them if you asked for a trick. But I wouldn't try it with some of the misfit teenagers who knocked on the door last year - I wasn't even sure if their outfits were in fact fancy dress, or just what they wore to menace people on an everyday basis.

Courtesy of Tesco we will be well prepared for the birthday celebrations this year as they hosted a lovely event in London yesterday for a select few mummy bloggers (none of whose blogs I had ever heard of - blush - but I am sure they are brilliant and much more professional than my own little offering) to show off the new Halloween costumes and give a sneak preview of Monsters vs. Aliens: Mutant Pumpkins from Outer Space.

Both were a hit with the boys, as you can see from the pictures of my little bats (though I am not sure if the oldest looks more like a bat or part of a 70s glam rock tribute band), but the film was a particular success with son number two giving it a standing ovation at the end. We've already watched our DVD again today, and I can see I will be royally sick of it by the time Halloween comes around.

The fine art of kvelling

2010-09-29T12:00:00.002+01:00

It is becoming clear to me that my children are exceptionally gifted and talented, and while The Daily Mail assures me this is no guarantee of success, I still see every reason to kvell about it. For the uninitiated kvelling is the Jewish parent's (usually the mother) habit of boasting about their offspring no matter how mediocre their achievements may be. As a shiksa I learned this skill from my Jewish mother-in-law, who in fairness has plenty to kvell about in her sons.

You see while the older two are plainly geniuses in the making, the twins are even more advanced (that is if you gloss over the fact that twin two at almost 20 months has still to take his first step). You see as well as talking - incessantly, if incomprehensibly - they are now reading too.

I found twin one standing on tip toes straining to pull a book from the embarrassingly disorganised and overstuffed bookcase. He was hooting 'B, b, b', which plainly meant 'book'. When I handed him the tome he was after he plonked himself down on his be-nappied behind, opened it up and started gabbling away. Obviously he knew exactly what he was reading out loud, and it was my own limited intelligence that meant I couldn't understand every word.

Then twin two joined in on the act. Sitting up in his big brother's bed, book in hand (upside down, but surely that just means it takes even more skill to read it), burbling away and slowly turning the pages. I can't wait to tell the mother-in-law all about how my under-two-year-old was tackling Harry Potter with such aplomb.

But it's not just with the written word that they are showing precocious skill. My nanny recently showed me a picture of them duetting on the piano together. She didn't mention how melodious it had sounded, but they looked impressive perched on the stool, fingers on the keys and gurning for the cameraphone.

What will it be next? Perhaps in one of their stints mixing mud and water in the garden they will stumble upon the cure for cancer, or maybe as they unpack the kitchen cupboards onto the floor they will model some complex molecular structure out of spoons and plastic beakers. They sky is the limit, so yah boo sucks to the Daily Mail, my talented children are the exceptions that prove the rule.

Ask the experts

2010-09-27T11:41:00.000+01:00

Thanks to this blog and my contributions to Parentdish, I am sometimes referred to as a 'parenting expert'. I am not sure what this tag means. I have no qualifications in parenting other than having given birth to four boys, and so far kept them relatively free from harm. Perhaps that is enough though, as to me parenting has never been something academic based on ideologies and theories.

When my boys were born I learned first hand the meaning of unconditional love. I didn't think about it, or plan it; it just hit me like a train. I had brought these precious, vulnerable people into the world and it was my job to try to protect them, to be a port of call in whatever storms their lives will bring. To be their cheerleader, their shoulder to cry on, their champion and their biggest fan.

I am under no illusion that children need to be given boundaries and sycophantic love is in no way beneficial, but if my mother love can help them to feel safe in the big, bad world then I believe I have done my job. But that makes it sound like a chore, and I have found it to be more like an instinct. As I would shy away from fire, or avoid a precipitous drop, I love my children. It is built into me like the primeval urge that it is.

I cannot imagine giving birth to a child and simply not feeling that way. Or feeling that way but letting life get in the way of that emotional response. Perhaps I have been lucky that it was so simple and straightforward for me, maybe for others it is a hard fought battle that can never be won. That is so sad for all involved.

I make no claims to deserve the title of expert on anything in life, but I do believe that the one thing that qualifies you as a good parent is if you make sure that love for your child informs every choice you make. I believe we all owe that to our children, as we are the ones who chose to take on that huge responsibility by bringing them into the world. The only payback we can expect is to hope for their happiness and wellbeing.

Silence is golden

2010-09-21T11:36:00.000+01:00

I went to visit a friend today who has an adorable three-month-old baby and what struck me most was the silent calm in her house. It took me right back to the peaceful early months with my babies, when they did far more sleeping than screaming. Everyone thinks that the new baby stage is the worst, and the sleepless nights are tough, but the serenity of a calm or sleeping baby is not to be underestimated.

I still recall the sedative effect of baby twin two. I could hold his body in my arms and instantly feel relaxed as he dozed in my arms. The feeling of his milky sweet breathe on my cheek, the supple slump of his tiny body on my shoulder all induced a blissful state of relaxation.

When the older boys were out at school and nursery and the babies were snoozing in their Moses basket the house was a place of infinite calm. An oasis of peace amidst a desert of rushing around doing chores, breaking up fights and generally attempting to run a household.

My house now is never this quiet, unless everyone is out. I can always hear the twins' toy disputes raging down below, or the trundle of the walker being pushed around at top speed, or the clash as all the children's cutlery is unloaded onto the tiled floor for the umpteenth time. Once the boys are home there is the screaming over the XBox, the yelling from the trampoline, the weedling cries of mummy as they attempt to tempt me from my keyboard.

And that's without mentioning the constant stream of people who keep my my domestic life afloat. The lovely nanny clucking and chatting to the boys, the cleaner bustling around the house, my mother just popping round to drop off a book and steal a cuddle from one of the toddling twins. It never ends.

I am thinking that my friend should perhaps sell tickets to us more harassed mothers as I am sure that half an hour in her peaceful house did me far more good than an age spent being pampered at a spa, with the added bonus of a delicious baby cuddle thrown in for free.

Quality time

2010-09-15T17:28:00.000+01:00

"I want mummy". This is a cry that is commonly to be heard in my house. The boys behave as if I ration my time with them until the point where they are virtually starved of maternal affection. It's as if I am one of those old fashioned mothers who fills her time with luncheons and games of bridge, only breaking off for a brief goodnight kiss before the children are spirited back to some far off nursery with their starched nanny.

For goodness sake I work from home three days a week. I do every school drop off and often sneak off to do pick ups too. I pop down frequently in the day for a hug or a quick chat. I am not some distant figure who only looms large at breakfast and bedtime, and yet my boys act as if I never there.

I bend over backwards to fit in special trips with the older boys, taking them out for meals, to the theatre, shopping and days out. If push comes to shove I will always sacrifice work to be there for my boys.

I miss the boys all the time I am not with them too though, so perhaps I should have more sympathy for their feelings. Perhaps I should understand that all the hours we spend together count for nothing when held against those hours we spend apart. But it makes me feel so torn. I would love drop everything and be with them all the time, but we have bills to pay.

My husband was trying to explain this to our son when he burst into tears as I revealed I was going out to meetings on two days in a row, but this seemed to have him sobbing even harder. Even my mother said that the boys might prefer me to the money I earn - though I am not sure the mortgage company would.

I just can't win. I often wonder if by bending over backwards to deliver as much quality time as I can I actually makes things worse. The boys might be happier if I didn't keep randomly popping up whenever I have 10 minutes free. But I am too selfish to give up my stolen cuddles and I think that they would miss them too.

I suppose I will just have to carry on doing what every other mum does, muddling through whilst feeling guilty.

First day at school

2010-09-14T11:26:00.000+01:00

Yesterday was number two son's first day at school. In his inimitable fashion, when the time came for mummy to leave he didn't even look up from playing with the toy dinosaurs as he threw out a nonchalant 'Bye mum'. He simply oozes confidence and has a magnetic attraction for other children that I can't help but envy.

Within seconds of entering any new situation he has picked up a coterie of mates who hang on his every word. At a park he will be playing with children in an instant and a passerby would think they had been friends for years. This summer he did two weeks in at a summer school. Within a couple of days I was already getting invites for playdates.

What a contrast to his own dear mum who was as socially awkward as he is sophisticated. When I look back on my first day of primary school there is no comparison between our experiences. Where he sauntered in and picked up a conversation with his playmates as if they had been friends forever, I remember being paralysed with shyness and unable to even lift my eyes to look at the other children, let alone address a word to them.

You might assume this is because my son had been in nursery with at least a portion of his class, but I lived in a tiny village so there were virtually no strangers in my classroom. It's just that the whole idea of school filled me with dread, whereas he has been counting down the days before he could start 'big' school.

I suppose it helps that his brother is there, and it also helps that school has changed immeasurably since I went. Back in my schooldays the happiness of the children didn't even make it onto the teachers agenda. I remember being stuck behind a desk unable to do the simplest things like have a drink or go to the loo without asking for permission. Being terrified of the whole experience and longing for the moment my mum would pick me up and deliver me from this hell.

By contrast my son was most reluctant to leave once his first half-day was up. He was puzzled as to why he wasn't staying for a whole school day like his brother. On the way home he quizzed me as to when he would be able to go to school 'properly'.

I suspect a lot of the difference is down to personality, but I also think that schools want children to enjoy themselves too. Perhaps sometimes to the detriment of their academic achievement, but I remember being crippled by shyness induced by the bullies at my school, while my teachers turned a blind eye - if indeed they noticed at all.

I was kicked by the boys, had my hair pulled by the girls. I was mercilessly teased because my mum was the only one who took the suggestion that pupils might not want to wear uniform seriously. I would stand in my jumble sale pink jumper amidst a sea of deep green school cardigans and feel a prize idiot.

I didn't fit the mould of a petite and pretty little girl, and boy did I pay for that. School started badly and didn't get much better for several years. So I am very glad that times have changed and my own little boy declared his first day at school as 'fantastic'. Let's hope it's as much of a mark of how his school career will go as my impression on my first day was for me.

Party politics

2010-09-06T16:31:00.000+01:00

I am the first to admit that I am no expert on etiquette. While some young ladies may have been learning deportment and how to deploy the silverware, I was more likely to be found in some low dive necking vodka, sucking on Marlboro reds and flirting with boys, but even I know that when you are invited to a party you should let the host know if you intend to turn up or not.

Well I guess there are some exceptions to this rule. Hideously drunken student revels do not require an RSVP as the more bodies necking lethal punch, snogging and vomiting in the garden the better is the best rule of thumb at those bashes. But in most other cases if someone is kind enough to invite you, or your offspring, to a party, then the least you can do is put pen to paper, or fingers to keypad, and reply, either in the positive or the negative.

But oddly, this little lifeskill seems to be one that many, many modern parents have simply skipped. Whenever I whizz out invites to my boys' birthday parties I will get some lovely parents who reply promptly, letting me know if their child can come or not. Then I get a few (who I will admit are more like me), who will let me know within a week or two of receiving the invitation. I think the latter is acceptable, as long as you give enough notice before the party.

But then there are those who simply don't say anything, leaving the hostess in a quandary as to what to do. Should I lay on food and party bags for all the non-replying guests, just in case they turn up on the day? After all I would hate for a child to go without sandwiches to chuck on the floor in favour of snorting up as many sugar-laden treats as they can lay their hands on. And I don't want to be faced with a weeping infant who is the only one not to go home with a party bag stuffed with plastic crap for them to instantly lose down the back of the car seat on their way home.

That said if their parents haven't got the common courtesy to simply let one know if their child is going to turn up or not, perhaps being left out would be a useful life lesson to learn - for the parents at the very least.

I think that perhaps one year I should employ a doorman with a list of those children whose parents haven't bothered to let me know they are coming. He could scan his clipboard and halt all the offenders at the door with a curt "You're name's not down, you're not coming in".

Sadly I suspect that such hard line tactics might lead to a slump in popularity for my poor boys. So it looks like I will just have to grin and bear it, and make sure I have a stash of spare party bags and sandwiches, just like every other year.

Bathtime blues

2010-09-02T17:53:00.000+01:00

Before I became a mum I thought I knew which bits I would enjoy the most and bathtime was definitely one of them, probably because it was something I remembered fondly from my own childhood. But I found that when you are the grown up bathing doesn't hold quite the same allure.

In fact I have discovered that bathtime my least favourite times of the day, and the job that I will most eagerly palm off on anyone else foolish enough to volunteer, or simply be in the vicinity come the washing hour. While I liked nothing more than to while away hours slicking on foamy moustaches, slopping water over the sides of the tub and splashing my poor old mum, I hate being on the receiving end of water play.

If I am in charge of bathtime it is a strictly time limited activity devoted entirely to cleaning the boys. They are in, washed and out before they can think of demanding bubbles or that I sculpt their soapy hair into outlandish punk styles. If I can fit in tooth brushing in under 10 minutes I am a happy woman. I know this is mean, but I just can't bear to witness the carnage that goes with a successful (from the boy's point of view) bathtime.

The sodden bathmat, floor swimming in soap suds, their skin prune-wrinkled after hours under water. The towels dunked in the bath, leaving a trail of drips over the landing carpet, the hair still white with soapy bubbles that despite water being flung everywhere still haven't been rinsed out. I am a bath time killjoy.

This has come as real surprise to me, as when my first son was a baby I loved bath time. When he was first born bathtime was like a religious ritual. I had had the importance of the bedtime routine drummed into me by so many parenting books nothing could disturb our schedule. I would reverentially bathe his little body, using all organic unguents, I would cuddle him up in a special fluffy towel to dry him, then anoint him with baby massage oil, and finally pop him up in his hypoallergenically laundered babygro. Of course he still screamed blue murder the moment we put him in the cot and refused to succumb to sleep, but I still quite enjoyed the whole process.

But it's just not the same with four boys to cleanse of a night. They are unruly as seals playing in the surf and a million times more messy. Gone are the peaceful days of blowing bubbles and baby massages, now it's like manning a sheep dip. Still at least it adds another useful skill to my every growing CV. `

Schoolgirl error

2010-08-31T16:05:00.000+01:00

Oops. My boy was almost humiliated by his useless mother who was convinced that he went back to school tomorrow, but was helpfully disabused of this impression by some helpful school mum friends. Trouble is my boys' school loves to play musical chairs with inset days in order to bump up its attendance figures.

Don't get me started on quite why the teachers can't train during the aeons of school holidays they already spend out of the classroom, but if we are to accept the argument that teaching is so arduous that you need at least six weeks off to recover from a term of managing primary school children, which now I come to think of it isn't quite as preposterous as I first thought, the school regularly snatches back inset days from us parents chomping at the bit to return our beloved offspring to the classroom.

Quite what inset days are for I am not sure, perhaps the teachers simply sit around knocking back neat vodka and having a calming smoke in preparation for the new term. Well I know that is what I would need if I were subjected to a class of 30 under-10s day in day out. I am a jibbering wreck after just six weeks in the company of my four small boys.

Whatever it is they get up to, the school has decided to get smart and match up inset days with the days with the days their pupils are most likely to skive off anyway. In our area of North London that means that the we have two inset days booked for the end of next week, that conveniently match up to the Jewish New Year.

However, there is another inset day that is to be held tomorrow, thereby delaying the start of school by a full 24 hours. Not sure what the purpose of this one is, other than to make all of us who paid through the nose for full price holidays gnash our teeth. For if all three inset days had been tacked on to the end of the holiday, the children would have had this (infinitely cheaper) week off school and I could have gone to a tropical island paradise instead of having a wet week in Wales.

Ah well, at least my son was saved from walking up to a closed school gate tomorrow, and at least I am all up to date with uniform, thanks in part to the kind donation of a school uniform pack from the lovely people from Clothing at Tesco. In return for their generosity I have posted a picture of some of my goodies below and I am nominating fellow mummy blogger Adventures of a Lady in Training to receive her very own pack of school clothes. Enjoy.

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside

2010-08-31T13:26:00.001+01:00

Driving rain, howling wind, grains of sand painfully whipping your face, toes dipped in the waves instantly blue with cold and the temperatures shivering in the low teens. The joys of a British seaside holiday.

As my boys huddled in wetsuits, shrouded in towels to keep out the cold. As we crunched on sandwiches gritty with sand, licked ice creams that were only marginally colder than the air temperature and watched as the black clouds above opened up their bellies to pour cold water on all notions of a sunny day beside the seaside, I vowed never to darken the shores of my native land again.

The thing is Britain may be beautiful, with is verdant fields, rocky cliffs, pretty bays and acres of sandy beaches, but it is also bloody cold and wet, particularly during the summer holidays. You might think that in August you would have an outside chance of good weather, but you would, of course, be wrong. We had to put the heating on during our week in a cottage in Wales, and I was more interested in ordering warming hot chocolates than a Flake 99.

This is not a summer holiday, this is an endurance test. My poor children can make the best of anything, and my eldest was happy to swim in the frozen waves, lips turning a scary bluish tinge after a few moments in the water, while the twins loved slinging pebbles into the icy stream that ran down the centre of the beach. But this is definitely not grown up fun.

For me a beach is about lying on a cushioned lounger, powder white sand hot between my toes, the sea azure clear and bath water warm. If I take a dip it is among flashes of bright tropical fishes, not at the risk of severe hypothermia. I want to drink cocktails, not a hot mug of tea, and I want a beach picnic to be charcoal grilled fresh snapper, not greasy fish and chips.

I think that our perception of holidays squews with age. The reason we found ourselves shivering in Wales at all is thanks to my dewy-eyed memories of childhood holidays spent on the very same beaches, walking along clifftops decked in wild flowers, endlessly hunting for marine treasures in the myriad rockpools, diving under the waves as we dared ourselves to swim ever closer to a creepy shipwreck. All these memories are bright with sunshine, but surely this can't actually have been the case? It was Wales after all.

I just hope that when they are older their memories of our Welsh holiday will blot out all the rain clouds and simply recall the one perfect sunny day that lit up our week of freezing rain.

My little wrecking balls

2010-08-13T16:54:00.000+01:00

I am upstairs. The boys are downstairs. I can just imagine what will greet me when I descend into the pit of destruction that they will have created in my brief absence. I suspect my sons may possess a special talent for mess making never before witnessed in a civilised(ish) household.

This morning the twins played in our dining room cum playroom for all of half and hour, and by the time they were finished the entire floor was obscured by a mass of discarded toys. They then moved upstairs to continue their work and had soon emptied all the toy storage in their bedroom transforming the carpet into a plastic jungle.

Lunch time didn't stop them in their tracks. As soon as they had eaten their fill they began to dismantle the leftover sandwiches, mushing them into super sticky globs of food and lobbing them across the room, under their chairs and at each other. It was scene of devastation when I scraped them clean for the only period of time that they aren't making a mess - their nap.

Though I say they don't make a mess, but that's not strictly true. Every time I go in to wake them up all the toys from their cots are strewn across the floor with gay abandon, any blankets or socks are stuffed between the cots or down the side of the mattress, and if they have a messy nappy then more often than not its unmentionable contents will be adorning their once clean sheets.

I think it must be genetic though, as their big brothers aren't much better. They are quite brilliant at getting toys out, yet borderline moronic when it comes to putting them away again. They will drag out board games, Playmobile, DVDs, Lego, felt tips and toy cars and spread them in a thin, yet strangely painful when met with a bare foot, layer around the house.

I was amazed when a friend moved to Oz recently and she handed over some old toys to another friend who has just had a new baby, not by her generosity, but by the fact that she still had all the parts. Toys come into our house to be dismembered. I don't think we own a single set or game that retains all its constituent parts.

When my first son was little I used to diligently collect together all the bits and bobs of each toy and keep them all together in labelled boxes. Then one day he emptied all his worldly possessions onto the carpet and mixed them around like some deranged witch stirring her cauldron.

It was carnage. Mr Potato Head lost an eye, several jigsaws ended up missing vital organs in the chaos while I Operation's heart was broken for good. After that I kind of gave up and allowed my boys to surf on a tide of mess, just so long as it was all shoved into boxes and bags under the bed at the end of the day.

Now my eldest son's midsleeper bed is held up by a mountain of broken toys and the remains of dressing up costumes, as well as the sheafs of leaflets he insists on picking up wherever we go. While son number two is often mislaid whilst burrowing under his own bed in search of some long lost play thing.

As if to prove my point I must sign off now as my boys have just yelled up the stairs that twin two has been very naughty and has emptied an entire tissue box all over the living room....

The conundrum of the school coat

2010-08-12T17:23:00.001+01:00

There are times when my life seems to be spiralling out of control. When the deadlines and washing bunch up in mountains of Alpine proportion, when the food for lunch boxes is still in the shop, when the tea is late and the boys appear to be brought up by Cartoon Network. And then there are the times when I can pat myself on the back for my enviable organisational skills.

This is one of those times. I am stickler for purchasing school uniform well in advance, for which read sometime in July before they even break up. Why is this? Because the first year my boy went to school I blithely assumed that I could rock up in late August and buy everything I needed in a single shopping trip. How naive was I?

Other super organised mums had scoured the shelves months before leaving them as bare as a wheat field after a plague of locusts has swooped through. As I disconsolately picked through the few shirts, vests and trousers that hung lank and unwanted on the racks, finding nothing in my boy's size, I vowed that I would never get caught out like this again.

From that term onwards I was on the web scooping up three-for-two deals as soon as they popped up, cackling at how much cash I had saved. I revelled in having my pick of vests, shirts, socks and shoes in my boys' sizes. Small things please nowadays.

This year I have been lucky enough to have been given a helping hand in my quest to win the most organised mum prize by the lovely people at Very.co.uk. You see while the basics of school uniform are easy enough to come by, assuming you adopt my early bird tactics, the school coat is another matter entirely.

It has to be light enough to cover the early autumn, but warm enough to keep my boy toasty when the cold winter weather hits, it also has to meet the exacting standards of my eldest who could give Gok Wan a run for his money when it comes to being fussy about his clothes. To this end Very has kindly sent me a black fleece lined Animal jacket and very handsome he looks in it.

But my mini fashionista is more than capable of looking a gift horse in the mouth and turning his nose up at it, to make a cocktail of my metaphors, so it was with nervous trepidation that I tried it on his majesty. However, he declared the lining soft (high praise indeed from Mr Fussy) and said that collar wasn't scratchy (a big problem with little boy's coats apparently). He then proceeded to tear off around the house in it, taunting his little brother over his lack of a new jacket. I guess that means it passed the test.

So a very big thank you to Very for solving this complex problem for me. Now I just need someone to step up and sort out his shoes and we are good to go back to school.

Telly addicts

2010-08-10T19:08:00.000+01:00

Oh darling television, how I have missed you so. From Cartoon Network for its soporific effect on my older boys, to the calming tones of CBeebies for the twins, how have I lived without my electronic babysitter for two weeks?

I know it is generally thought to be a 'bad thing' to allow your children near a TV set, and if you do dare to stoop so low then you should at least make sure their viewing is virtuous and strictly time limited. But I am sorry, I have no idea how parents coped before the advent of the telly.

I try to monitor how much they watch, and I do ensure that my boys have far more time playing outside or beating one another over the head with random plastic toys in the house, than they do slumped in a hypnotic stupor in front of the screen. But I think I would have lost the plot years ago if I couldn't have bought myself the odd 10 minutes (OK I admit it hour or so) with bribe of some quality screen time.

Whether it's keeping the twins quiet while I snatch a shower after breakfast, or pacifying the older ones when I absolutely must make that work call or hit that looming deadline, TV has saved my sanity, and professional reputation, on more than one occasion.

Of course this virtual entertainment is no substitute for spending time with the children, but I will say one thing for it, it has taught them lots of things I never knew. Son number two has an encyclopedic knowledge of the best deals available from domestic energy suppliers, and often pipes up with some random fact that he has picked up during his hours in front of the box.

His little cousin once impressed his parents no end by correctly identifying a particular constellation of stars. As they sat back congratulating themselves on having sired a genius, he revealed that he had picked up this particular nugget of information from Peppa Pig. So far from rotting his brain it had enhanced his education to a point where he may be regarded as virtually a prodigy.

So I am glad to be back home with this life enhancing tool, not least because its lure has enabled me to write this post in peace. Bliss

Welcome home

2010-08-09T18:56:00.000+01:00

So we are back from our two weeks in the sun in the South of France and boy could I do with a holiday. We stayed in a lovely villa with a private pool, the sun shone, the wine flowed, the cheese oozed and the children were relentless. As anyone who reads this blog is aware, I love my boys, but my goodness they are hard work.

At home I have a support system of nanny, grandparents, school and a Early Learning Centre's worth of toys. On holiday I was stripped of all of these luxuries and left at the coal face of parenting for exuberant small boys. I am exhausted, worn out. I need to lie down on a beach for two weeks to recover.

During our 'holiday' we enjoyed such pursuits as fishing twin one out of the pool - which he fell into a grand total of five times over the two weeks - you'd have thought he have learned his cornering skills left something to be desired after the second splash landing, but no in he went again and again, only to be instantly scooped out by one of his ever vigilant parents.

Other fun and games included watching like hawks to ensure none of the boys sneaked down to the pool while we weren't looking, carting a disconsolate twin two around as he was only happy when glued to his mummy, screaming wails of despair at all other times, or refereeing incessant fights between the two older boys, whose favourite holiday game was baiting one another.

Then there was the fun hunt for high chairs. Despite staying in a child friendly resort, most restauranteurs looked at me as if I had asked them to serve up a dirty nappy when I requested two high chairs. The blanket response was a French shrug of the shoulders and a sharp 'Non' when asked for somewhere suitable for toddlers to dine.

The end result was many meals spent with both parents fielding wriggling toddlers on their laps, trying in vain to make a safe zone on the table cloth that was free of knives, glasses or any other sharp objects that could be used for damage and destruction of either property or people. I think the reason the English believe French children are so well behaved in restaurants is because the French are more sensible than to try to take them out to eat until they are old enough to understand reason and work a knife and fork for themselves.

As we drove around the delightful Provencal countryside, I was almost drooling as we whizzed past little vineyards offering desgustation of the local tipple, or shady courtyard eateries hidden away in delightful medieval villages. I longed to stop and hike to see the view at the top of some ancient ramparts or to splash my feet in they crystal waters of a deep green river.

Instead we went to a hot and dusty park filled with animated cartoon characters singing piped French pop, ate hot dogs while under attack from the vicious local wasp population and marvelled at the sugary confections on offer at the Haribo museum.

I concluded that perhaps the south of France is not the dream destination for a family with four small children. Next time round I think we will travel a deux to the delightful looking luxury hotel I spotted in the gorgeous village of Gordes, and the children can stay at home.

Here comes the sun

2010-07-21T17:18:00.000+01:00

Or more accurately here we go off into the sun. It is almost time for us to brave a car filled with four fractious children in our epic quest for two weeks in the sunshine. I have already located and packed earplugs and copious amounts of junk food and DVDs in a vain attempt to keep everyone happy on the road.

Usually peace reigns until about two hours before we arrive, at which point the whinging begins, reaching an ear bleedingly painful pitch at around an hour before we arrive. Thus ensuring that by the time we actually reach our destination I have to be physically restrained from throttling the lot of them, until my husband can find a bottle of wine and funnel it down my throat. At which point the holiday once again seems like a good idea.

Anyway the upshot of this jollity is that FDMTG will be shutting up shop for the next couple of weeks, while I recoup my creative juices in time for copious posting about our fun and games abroad.

But if you miss me while you are away, then you can always get your fix from my new column on Parentdish UK. It's called Slugs, Snails and Puppy Dog Tales, an unmissable weekly missive about my beloved boys. I will admit it is a little out of date as I wrote a few to keep it going while I am away and they are all about twin one's stubborn refusal to walk, which he miraculously overcame on Monday. But hopefully it's a fun read anyway, and there are a lot less mistakes and typos thanks to the wonderful editor at Parentdish, so that's a bonus.

Bonne Vacances to everyone and I shall be composing my virtual postcard on my return.

Look who's walking

2010-07-19T16:41:00.001+01:00

Am writing this in a state of high excitement as twin one has just taken his very first steps. So far, despite being a working mum, I have seen the first steps of all three of my boys (the fourth still being stuck at a crawl for the moment). It is just such a monumentally thrilling moment marking the transition from baby to toddler.

As son number two screeched out 'He's a toddler now mummy'. Indeed he is, albeit a wobbly and slightly unconfident one. I am so proud that he has overcome the fear that has so obviously been holding him back as he is just so proud of himself. As he tottered his first few steps from the living room doorway to the sofa where I was sitting I could feel my eyes filling with tears at his huge achievement.

I was squealing away to his nanny to look at my clever boy, while reaching for video camera and phone to tell his dad, but the most important emotion I felt was such immense love for my clever boy. He has teetered on the brink of this next stage for months and months and it is just so wonderful to see him make the breakthrough.

Now I just have to work out how to deal with one tottering walker with one stubborn crawler. Advice on a postcard please.

End of term

2010-07-19T11:29:00.000+01:00

It is the last week of term. As I walk along the familiar route to school with my six-year-old's hand in mine, it hits me that this is the last week we will share our one-to-one chats on the school run. For two years he and I have walked the pavements between our house and his classroom sharing our views on matters as diverse as what happens after you die, is there really a God and which is our favourite alien in Ben 10.

This type of quality time is rare in a family as overcrowded as ours and we have both savoured our mother son bonding walks. I would like to say that they need not end when the four-year-old joins us, but he is not one for such erudite discussion. Instead I imagine our walks will be punctuated with much bickering, the odd crying fit and me yelling at him to hurry up as he holds the world record for dawdling.

This makes it sound as if I don't enjoy the company of my middle boy, and this is far from the case. On his own he is a delightful companion, he will chatter away about this, that and the other. His mind is not troubled by such philosophical issues as his big brother, but he is a great conversationalist with a refreshing take on the world. He is also very complimentary, which always goes down well with the ladies, especially his mother.

The problem is when you combine the two boys, it will often result in a rather disorderly and volatile compound. They are masters at winding each other up and competing for parental attention. Not the recipe for a pleasant school run. Perhaps it is time to give daddy a turn at walking the boys to school, while I stay behind and tackle the slightly less challenging task of preventing the twins from battering each other too severely over the latest toy dispute.

Scary monsters

2010-07-15T16:35:00.000+01:00

When I was little I used to love to scare myself silly by watching Dr Who. I would position myself outside the living room door, which was half panelled in glass and peak up through the panes at the onscreen antics of the Daleks and Cybermen.

This was back in the days of Tom Baker, with his maniacal grin and extra long stripey scarf wound around his neck, long before he became the distinctive voice of Little Britain. The days of K-9 and interchangable hot pants wearing female sidekicks.

Half the pleasure was the thrill of being frightened, the grating electronic "We will exterminate" crackling from tinny TV speakers, cardboard Cybermen lumbering awkwardly towards the cowering protagonists, who surely could have escaped them at a light jog. I used to have nightmares about being pursued by these prop cupboard aliens.

On one memorable visit to Madame Tussauds, when I was surely old enough to know better, my mum had to carry me crying out of the Dr Who exhibit as I was sure that wax effigy of The Master had turned around and touched my leg. I haven't had the courage to go back since.

When the all new Dr Who started I was so excited and I loved Christopher Ecclestone's portrayal of the Time Lord, but my husband had no time for the shakey sets and less than slick, ironic British dialogue. He didn't grow up with the Dr and perhaps he was too old to see the appeal. The children, on the other hand, were too young, so I rather let it go by the wayside, missing out on most of David Tennant's stint in the Tardis.

Now, however I have found a new accolyte in son number two. He adores being scared and is tough as old boots when it comes to creepy stuff. He sat through a whole two episodes about the terrifying Weeping Angels without batting an eyelid, while I was jumping all over the place and stealing his cushion to hide behind.

My oldest isn't made of such stern stuff, and too much creepiness on the TV leads gives him terrible nightmares, so Dr Who became my secret treat with number two. We would cosy up on the sofa, pillows to hide behind at the ready, and watch the adventures of Matt Smith and the delectable Amy.

It brought my childhood passion for the time travelling Dr back to life and ignited it in my little one. It made me realise that reliving the pleasures of youth is one of the great things about children. I don't get as much of it as my husband who has happily dusted off his old Lego and Transfomers toys, whilst endlessly watching Back to the Future and Star Wars with them. But now I see the attraction, I just need to persuade him to put some glass panes in the door and then my oldest can join in too.

Stuck in the middle

2010-07-12T13:34:00.002+01:00

Last week I sat in an overheated school gym straining to hear as a panel of Reception teachers told us what to expect when our children enter their classrooms next year. As I fanned myself with a sheaf of important pieces of paper relating to the beginning of son number two's education, I will admit to tuning out, after all I've been there, done that with number one so it's all old hat.

I watched the anxious first timers stick up their hands and ask endless questions about what their little darlings will get to eat for lunch, bizarre this obsession with food, no one seemed in the least bit bothered by what their children will be taught. I sat back, smug in the knowledge that my under indulged little son will eat anything put in front of him. Perhaps because I have never given him any choice in the matter, unlike number one who had a choice of freshly prepared feasts at every meal.

Sometimes I feel guilty that my middle boy's life seems to pass by in the slipstream of his older brother. While we worry and fuss over every little detail of the eldest's life, he just bombs about under the radar lighting up our lives with his jolly smile. My middle boy is the kindest, funniest, sweetest thing, but he never gets the credit he deserves as he is always following in the footsteps of his older brother, or helping us clean up after his younger brothers.

The thing is, while many would say that this is bad thing, and I am sure it has its downsides, he is probably my happiest child. He hates fuss and is a laid back, independent little soul. He can play for hours on his own, but knows how to elicit a cuddle if he needs one. He can be naughty and play us up, but mostly he is just a cheeky little monkey at the heart of our family.

Although I have been waiting for months to send him off to school, he is old for his year and quite disturbingly precocious, now that the time is almost nigh I will admit to the odd pang.

He has been at my side for so long, trotting along chattering away, helping entertain the babies, baking cakes, jumping on the trampoline, begging for a few more minutes of TV, warbling away the lyrics of 'There's nothing sweet about me', just bumbling along in his adorable way, that I now feel bereft at the idea of him being taken away for the best part of the day.

I missed my first son terribly when he went off to school and I still sometimes resent the hours stolen away by the National Curriculum, but I thought I would be glad to finally send number two off. I am not. I will miss my baby. I may not always recognise how precious he is, and for that I am sorry, but I do know what joy and fun he brings into my life, and how sad I will be when it is taken away for the whole of the school day.

I will miss him bubbling along in the background and I will miss his friendly little smile lighting up when I pop downstairs. Now school is almost here I don't want my baby to grow up so fast. I am surprised by the lump in my throat as I imagine him all togged out in his new uniform, but still I find the words blur before my eyes at the thought of it.

Talk the talk

2010-07-05T11:53:00.000+01:00

The twins may still not be able to walk the walk, but they are sure starting to talk the talk. Perhaps this should come as no surprise in our lazy, yet verbose family. They are clearly learning by example that hot air is the most valuable currency in our house. While they wobble about clinging onto the furniture for dear life, and my mummy friends are increasingly beginning to ask 'Are they still not walking?' they sure can chat.

Twin two has graduated from his 'No, no, no' phase, to add in 'Mum, mum, mum' and 'ai-plane' (aeroplane) to his growing vocabluary. In fact he is almost obsessed with aviation as his brother is with gadgetry, and every time anything flies over head his little finger points upwards as his big, greeny blue eyes track its flight path.

He is still clinging to his old 'No, no, nos' too, although now they are put into context as he jabs a finger at the object of his disapproval. Yesterday when I told his twin off for throwing food on the floor (a thrice daily occurance), he turned around, wagged his finger at his brother and said 'No, no, no' to him.

I was grateful for his support as usually his response to being reprimanded for anything is to giggle manically and carry on regardless. Perhaps if we gang up on him my tellings off will have more effect, though I shan't be holding my breath.

Both twins have perfected the comic 'Uh oh' and chorus it out whenever something is dropped or broken - which is pretty frequently giving their penchant for lobbing anything they can get their hands on at the floor with as much force as they can muster.

Still it is lovely to see these seeds of conversation growing in their tiny minds, I can't wait for the baby babble to flow freely. Although as my husband points out it will not be fun when all four of them can argue with us using real words, rather than a cacophony of squeaks and squeals.

Two is a magic number

2010-06-23T23:18:00.001+01:00

Next week is Twins, Triplets and More week. The idea is to raise awareness about the challenges that can face the parents of twins or more. This is a laudable aim, but I think that perhaps one of the best ways to get parents ready for twins is to bolster them up with some of the good news about having two at once.

I love my twins. They have been the most fantastic, frustrating, tiring and amazing addition to my family. Yet I clearly recall when I had my first son standing in my bedroom, staring over his cot and thanking my lucky stars that I had not had twins. The sheer hard work and anxiety of caring for a single newborn had wiped me out and worn me down to a paper thin sliver of exhaustion. If I were one to wear hats I would have removed my headgear in honour of any mother who could cope with two at a time.

But then, after two singletons, there I lay, stretched out on a bed with my belly gelled up ready for the ultrasound of my third pregnancy. As soon as the scanner hit my distended stomach, two little images came up clear as a bell on the screen. My twins lay one on top of the other, as if on bunk beds, both gently waving their limbs at me, content in their own amniotic sacs.

All I can say is that I was glad I was already lying down, as the shock would surely have felled me. I had no inkling that I had twins on board. I had been sicker than usual, but with two older boys aged three and five to run around after, I had put this down to tiredness and a lack of time to cosset myself.

My husband and I walked around the ultrasound clinic, one twin was lying in an awkward position so we were trying to persuade him to move, whilst our pacing gave us a chance to absorb what we had just been told. Our whole lives would have to shift, our house and car were too small to accommodate two new arrivals, and my husband had only just got his head around having one more baby.

I am ashamed to admit it, but for a moment I did consider not going ahead with the pregnancy. I was overwhelmed by the concept of twins and wasn't sure that I could cope. Those dark thoughts from the early days with my firstborn tortured me, and I wondered if I would snap as I had predicted once presented with two babies.

My husband shut down this avenue instantly, telling me I would never forgive myself and would regret it for the rest of my life. I knew he was right, but I was terrified. I have never considered myself a poster girl for motherhood and here I was embarking on a journey that would see me taking care of four children, two of them newborn babies.

When the twins were firstborn it was hard. I didn't breastfeed, but even with the help of my husband and any other willing family member, looking after two babies is tough. The interminable night feeds and the fact that during the day when one slept, the other inevitably woke up. The days when I would spin between two moses baskets, not knowing which one to comfort, and which to leave crying. Juggling two wriggling babies, both of whom were more put out that comforted by my cack handed efforts to care for them.

But the sight of my two tiny boys curled around each other in their crib like kittens in a basket, noses touching, tiny hands reaching out for one another in their sleep, made the hard work seem more bearable. I felt honoured by the fascinating and rare privilege of being able to see two humans develop and grow in parallel. Or at least I did when I had time to have such deep thoughts, which wasn't often in the early days.

I know that those twin mothers mired in the trenches of double doses of nappies, sleepless nights and the sheer slog of taking care of twins, might sneer at my rose-tinted reminiscence, but those rare, heart melting moments were the only thing that got me through those early days.

Snuggling two babies onto my lap after a successful feed, feeling their tiny bodies relax into mine. Allowing us a pause in our day, to just sit and be together amidst all the chaos of caring for them was what kept me sane. Remembering that these weren't just little machines designed to make work for mummy, but actually my precious boys, was the best way to forget about the mountains of washing and the endless sterilising of bottles - if only for an instant or two.

But for me the true joy of twins kicked in when their personalities started to blossom and I could finally get to know each one of them as a person, rather than a chore.

My boys are non-identical in looks and nature. One is a sleek, dark otter, with poker straight hair, that coats his skull like fine fur. His huge eyes are black brown and bright with intelligence. He climbs on anything that sits still for a moment, yet at 16 months his fear of walking remains intact. His brother is a golden lion cub, with flyaway curls and eyes of ocean green blue. He knows his mind and will not be stopped once he has an idea fixed in it.

Each is beginning to communicate, with me and with each other. They screech at one another over disputed ownership of toys, and they combine jabbing little fists with ear piercing squeals to explain their every need, be it for food, drinks, comfort or supremacy.

While I don't sense a huge dependence on one another, I know that for my twins each is like a familiar piece of the furniture to the other. Sometimes I will catch them glancing at each other, only to dissolve into fits of giggles over some joke only they can share. They fight constantly over toys, but equally play for hours together.

With my single boys I was a full time entertainer until they went to nursery. I was constantly plagued by demands to come up with some new diversion, with the twins they have each other, which is far superior to anything mummy could come up with.

I understand now with the insight of a slightly seasoned twin mummy, that having two at a time is actually a blessing, not a curse. It is hard work, but then nothing worth having comes easily, but it is the most rewarding, endlessly interesting and delightful treat to have the joy of two babies at the same time. For me two is definitely a magic number, and to keep that in mind is probably the best preparation for coping with twins I could offer.

A little piece of heaven

2010-06-22T12:39:00.000+01:00

Your golden head is bowed into my chest. I can feel the tickle of the fine hairs at the nape of your neck. I breathe in deeply, drinking in the scent of you. There are top notes of baby shampoo, mixed with the sweet fruity fragrance of the yoghurt you had for lunch and undoubtedly rubbed into your hair.

But the base note is a perfume all of your own, clean, fresh and pure. You smell like you are mine, my baby, my love. I would know you anywhere just from a single sniff of the soft skin of your neck.

Your arms shift slightly as you relax into my body, using me as a pillow. You are not asleep, you are awake and enjoying being a part of me as much as I am loving holding you. I know this is a snatched moment. At 16-months peace and stillness are brief phases.

You are more likely to crawl about in your determined way, arms raising up above your body making you look like a little chameleon on the move. You will hold your hand to your mouth making a 'Wah, wah, wah' sound like and Indian Brave. You will giggle your insane little laugh, or you will wiggle your hands above your head mimicking me when I yell 'Ta dah'.

Your charm knows no bounds, but you can be quite wicked. I have seen you smack your twin to get him to hand over a toy you are sure is rightfully yours. I have seen you steal his food, sticking your hand in his bowl and crawling away dragging it across the floor like a lion cub competing for his slice of the kill. I have seen you wallop him when he dares to touch any toy you are playing with or when he tries to crawl upon my lap when you are in residence.

But I cannot help but helplessly love you. I see you for all that you are, I see you look like an angel all golden curls and green blue eyes, pink skin and rosebud lips. I have seen you act like a demon, screaming maw wide and red, tears running down your cheeks simply because you have not got your way. Either way you are my precious baby and each side of you makes me love you all the more.

Date night

2010-06-21T13:03:00.000+01:00

It's Friday night and I am fizzing with anticipation. I am going on a date. I have two tickets to see Swan Lake at the Albert Hall. I love a ballet, particularly a proper one complete with sparkly tutus and the promise of lots of en pointe. My date is getting dressed, he has chosen a crisp white shirt over skinny grey jeans. His hair is golden, his eyes a striking clear blue and as we walk out of the door together he slips his hand into mine.

My boy and I are going out on the town. No brothers to bother us, just him and me and a whole evening of delights to look forward too. He sits in the front of the car, a rare treat, and helps me to shout at the sat nav. We agree that she has no idea how to navigate London's clog of evening traffic.

Following a mix of her instructions and my instinct ensures that we are late and our pre-theatre supper morphs into a hurried McDs. What a shame, but the boy assures me this is a good thing as 'Now we have to go out for dinner together to make up for it.' He is already planning our next night out, so he must be having fun.

He has his first taste of a black cab. The first he hates thanks to its overpowering air freshener fragrance. It's like swallowing down a fug of recently sprayed perfume, coating our throats with its cloying scent. The second is driven by a typical London cabby, he chats away to the boy about the ballet we are about to see.

The Albert Hall sits like a pink and cream wedding cake, a carved and elaborate confection paying homage to a queen's great love. It throngs with people dressed up to the nines or down in jeans, dinner jackets rub shoulders with sweatshirts, until ticket stubs direct us to our rightful seats. The smart to the boxes and the up close and personal rows, the jeans and sweaters up to the The Gods, to crane down to catch a glimpse of the action.

We are somewhere in between. The adults seated next to us, eye my boy warily. Will he last the night without spoiling theirs by fidgeting and talking? I want to tell them it will be fine, he is special, he is no ordinary six-year-old boy. But they will look upon me as an overindulgent and deluded mother. I decide to let his behaviour speak for itself.

He is wreathed in excitement. Looking down on the round, inky stage, spotting the orchestra taking their seats. Silent and awed by the arrival of the dancers. That said we agree that the first act is a bit boring - the costumes are brown and dull, the dances lack thrills and we both await the arrival of the swans to add their magic.

We are not disappointed. Dry ice fogs the stage, turning it into a misty lake upon which elegant white swans dance and float. When they bow down to allow the prima ballerina her solo, my sons says they look like clams, their skirts forming irridescent shells.

We are entranced and enthralled. My boy spots a trapdoor from which the monster arises, green tendrils of his costume flying, sending bad will spiralling across the stage. Neither of us really knows the story, but it hardly matters, it's the spectacle the counts.

When the show ends he rushes down the stairs to find the back entrance where the dancers had stepped in from. He dashes behind curtains, pursued by the disapproving glances of the staff who are trying to shut up shop. He finds the box that holds all the lighting controls, peering through a keyhole at the many dials and buttons, but there is no sign of those elusive dancers. They are all wiping off greasepaint and hanging up costumes ready for tomorrow's performance.

We walk back to our car through the damp night. It late, hours after bedtime, but his eyes shine in the streetlights, all thoughts of sleep banished by the thrill of being up so late. I assume he will sleep in the car, but instead he is awake to discuss the bits we loved, the bits we didn't and when can we do it all again.

He says to me. 'Thank you mummmy. You are the best mummy in the whole world'. I say that is only because I have the best son in the world. It is true. It's a perfect date. He behaves immpeccably even though it is almost midnight. He is the perfect companion; handsome, engaged, interesting and appreciative.

If only the effect didn't wear off after midnight and the next morning I find him fighting over the Xbox controller with his brother and I am brought back down to earth with a bump.

The power of no

2010-06-17T09:45:00.005+01:00

The twins are just beginning to take their first tentative steps (only metaphorically you understand, they are still maintaining their religious objection to actually walking) into speech. Twin one is as usual leading the way having mastered the complexities of 'Uh oh' and 'Eddo' (Hello), but twin two has brought his own trademark elan to the process.

He might not be able to say much, but what he does say is said with such charm it hardly matters. Ask him any question from 'Do you want to go down?' 'Do you want a drink?' or even 'Do you love mummy?' and his head will shake emphatically, golden curls swirling around his face, big blue eyes shining with sincerity as he says 'No, no, no'.

I am comforting myself with the fact that this is his default answer to any question, so I am assuming that 'No, no, no', is simply a catch all response, rather than a heartfelt sentiment. In fact I know this to be true as when I offered him some chocolate, the head began to shake and the 'No, no, no' was rolled out as he simultaneously reached out and snatched the slab from my hands.

Reaching back into the recesses of my memory I seem to recall that we went through the 'No' phase with all the boys. Undoubtedly this two-letter word is the easiest to master, but perhaps their early adoption of the phrase is due to the frequency with which we use it on them.

As they crawled determinedly towards the precipitous edge of a bed, or went to shove a drool-soaked rice cake into the DVD player, as they snatched a toy from a passing child, or as they held a bowl spilling over with sloppy cereal threateningly over the side of their highchair, all they would have heard from the parental mouth was a screeched 'NO!'. This could go a long way to explaining their precocious understanding of the negative.

Whatever the origin of this fondness for the word no, I can't help but hope it lasts. I love this transitory phase between babbling and talking, when the squeak, chirrups and gurgles of babyhood begin to take the form and substance that will eventually become conversation. I love that they still sound so adorably cute and that we have so many babyisms to look forward to. We still call the TV the tellygibbon, because that is what the firstborn christened it during this phase, medicine is 'meda' and chocolate 'gockgy' for the same reason.

I also love this phase because it means that they are still months off being able to follow me around the house demanding my attention with an incessant stream of 'Mummy. mummy, mummy', until I snap under this linguistic torture.

The patience of a sinner

2010-06-16T12:21:00.003+01:00

This morning, firstborn's second morning back at school following the drama of his bad foot, I begged and pleaded with him to let me drive him to school. But thanks to the eco-brainwashing that has been a staple of his education so far he refused. Apparently if you walk to school on a Wednesday you get a shiny badge, but if you are driven in you get a big, fat C, next to your name. Something my straight A anxiety freak couldn't cope with, so off we set.

Halfway there and just at the point where it would be pointless to summon a car for the rest of the journey, he melts down into tears that his foot hurts. Hmm, I ponder, what would a good mother do at this point? Sweep him up into a cuddle and dry his tears? Carry him all the way to school on her bended back? Or shout at him "You stupid boy, I told you we should have taken the car?". If, like me, your answer was the latter, then I'm afraid we are straight to the back of the class.

Trouble is my boy has such bad timing. On most mornings our walks to school are leisurely strolls, where we discuss how big the oriental poppies outside one of neighbours' houses have grown, or ponder what the cloud formations herald in the way of weather for the day ahead. They are our special, alone time, and are even more precious as they are due to be shattered by the incessant chatter of his little brother when he starts reception next term. But this morning I was booked to do an early photoshoot for work and I had to get back in double quick time.

As he wailed and his face grew wet and red with tears, I began to tear my hair out as to how I would square the circle of needing to do a quick as a flash school run, whilst also wanting to look after my little boy. In the end bad mummy was quashed and I carried him all the way to school, his arms twined around my neck and my back creaking with the effort. My body is made for slouching at a keyboard not schlepping six-year-olds.

We got to school, horribly late, and then he refused to join his class on a tour of his new Year 2 classroom, as he claimed to be unable to walk. Strange this for a boy who ran up to school yesterday so he wouldn't miss his chance to sing at the open evening. Worse was to come as the teacher said she couldn't leave him on his own in the classroom, so I would have to stay.

I glanced at my watch and realised that the make up artist was due at my door in less than 10 minutes. What to do? In the end a supply teacher was found to sit with my boy and I dashed off wrapped in a black cloak of guilt (again) in order to wait a good 15 minutes for anyone to show up for the shoot. Typical.

As I ranted to my husband to vent my feelings of inadequacy, he gently pointed out that as my life is lived on a knife edge it's only to be expected that the slightest tilt of its axis would leave me all in a spin. Firstborn's illness twinned with my nanny's holiday has knocked me for six, if only I were able to stop myself from taking this out on the children with such regularity. As ever my parenting report is reading could do better in big, bold letters.

Psst...over here

2010-06-14T09:19:00.002+01:00

It's summer fete season and I have the good fortune to have an unwell child, which means I have a legitimate excuse to avoid the school gate with its ever present press gang of PTA members. Of course if I dare to breach the perimetre of the school gates in a dash to drop or pick up from nursery I must run the gauntlet of their clip boards and oh-so-polite notices in the classroom door.

It's not that I mind helping out at the school, in fact I quite enjoy whipping up a batch of fairy cakes and I can even be persuaded to brave the baking hot school hall filled with shrieking children that is the fair itself, but God preserve me from manning a stall. I find dealing with my own children in the state of high excitement induced by crowds of their peer group and excessive consumption of overpriced candyfloss hard enough to cope with, let alone dealing with a whole school full of them.

I am just not a child-friendly person. I have friends who can instantly come down to the level of any child, coaxing smiles from tears, telling a joke that it pitched perfectly for their infant audience. These are the mums who have Tardis like bags that hold everything from sachets of Calpol to silencing snacks, a fascinating array of toys and enough nappies and wipes to service a nursery. I am the kind of mum who discovers that she forgot to pack tissues just after her child has sneezed a gush of snot down his face, or that I have no nappies or wipes as the poo seeps through a pastel babygro.

It might sound ironic, coming from a mum of four, but I can't cope with children en masse. Again I know many other mothers who think nothing of having dozens of children milling around their house, taking all the waifs and strays their children collect at nursery, school and in the park and feeding each and every one of them a nutritious home cooked tea. They have sleepovers for dozens and host vast parties for the whole class in their cramped back garden. The mere prospect has me hyperventilating into a brown paper bag.

I had the boys' cousin for a sleepover (our first) this weekend and I was tense with anxiety from the moment he arrived until his dad picked him up the next morning. Not that he was any trouble, well no more than three young boys always are, it's just that I couldn't relax with an alien child, albeit a related one, in our midst.

Perhaps it's because with my own children I can scream and shout at them to get them to behave, whereas with someone else's child I feel the urge to come across as reasonable and fun. Or perhaps it's just the fear that if something were to happen to him in my care I would never be forgiven or forgive myself, or perhaps I just don't like children, other than my own, that much. It's probably a bit of all of these things, but either way the experience has left a pall of exhaustion hanging over me for the entire weekend, so it clearly didn't agree with me.

This is why I duck and dive to avoid the clutches of the PTA. It's not that I don't wholeheartedly support their efforts and I am happy to shell out vast sums of cash to show my solidarity, I don't mind giving up my evenings to cake baking and stuffing pots for the jarbola stall, just please, please, please don't make me have to stand behind our class stall and deal with all those children. I have enough trouble coping with my own.

I am guilty

2010-06-10T09:27:00.002+01:00

Last week was half term and like a good mummy I took several days off work. I stopped on Wednesday once the nanny clocked off, and didn't go back until this Tuesday thanks to an inset day that was helpfully tacked onto the end of the holiday. We went paddling in the Diana Memorial Fountain with daddy, we played in the sand for hours and hours, we went on a boat to Greenwich and toured the Maritime museum. In short a good time was had by all.

The net result of this was that I had a stack of work waiting in a sullen pile waiting for me to return to the chains that normally bind me to my desk. Tuesday was a day from hell where interview, followed interview, followed interview. Wednesday I was knee deep in uploading content to the website I edit when the phone shrilled a hole in my concentration. It was grandma who was on boy watch that afternoon to tell me that the firstborn's stubborn verucca had developed a unsightly accessory in the form of a ginormous blister that was threatening to take over his whole foot.

Down went the tools once again, website half finished, but all thought of work were dashed away by my concern for the boy. I rushed over and was overwhelmed by the magnitude of his swollen tootsie. It was off to the walk in clinic, naturally the GP was closed, where his blister was lanced and he was put on super strength antibiotics to clear up the underlying infection.

Trouble is, while the immediate problem is solved we are left with a limping six-year-old who feels very sorry for himself. And when six-year-olds feel sorry for themselves the one person they want to know about it is mum. He has been laying on the guilt trip about me daring to work ever since the early hours of the morning (when admittedly I did have to shoo him away so I could do a quick spot on the radio).

The end result is that I feel those horrible tendrils of maternal guilt wrapping a stranglehold grip around my heartstrings. I want to bin all my productive plans and sit on the sofa cuddling him in my arms and telling him how loved he is. But if I do that I will have to cancel a long overdue visit to the office of one of my main employers, which I won't be able to reschedule for a week. Not an option as I am working to a tight deadline for a big project that must be completed before I disappear for the whole summer holiday.

Oh the joy of working motherhood. I love my boys and I always try to prioritise them, taking time off when I know they will be off school and rushing to their side in even the tiniest of an emergency. But when their convalescence clashes with work is when it really starts to bite. Should I cancel an important meeting just to give him exactly what he wants, even though now he is happily off playing with his grandparents who are in charge of childcare today? Or should I leave him in their capable hands and deal with the pit of bubbling guilt and whisk into London to do my job?

I know he will be fine, in fact I can hear him giggling downstairs now, so I guess the call of my career will be met, but it's on days like this that I wish I was a SAHM who could simply devote myself to my boy when he needs me. Mind you if I am brutally honest I would probably be tearing my hair out with frustration and boredom within half an hour of coping with a vaguely unwell six year old and his three smaller brothers, so perhaps all my maternal fantasies are just that, and I am better off leaving well alone while I tussle with HTML.

Sex in the City

2010-06-01T16:34:00.002+01:00

I went to see the SATC 2 movie last Friday. It was opening night and cinema thronged with thirtysomething women who have grown up to the antics of Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda. We all fancied that we could identify with one or other of them, and we all wished we had a shoe collection to rival any one of them. I sat through the entire series, glued to the implausible plot lines, ridiculous fashion and the quaint idea that female friendship really does transcend all.

I loved the first movie, when we all got the satisfaction of finally seeing the Big/Carrie storyline reach it's white tulle conclusion, albeit with a few bumps along the way. But movie number two left me cold. The problem, apart from the risible attempt to bring a serious commentary on women's rights in the Middle East into a frothy chick flick, was that married, menopausal mothers just aren't that glam.

When Carrie and co were bed hopping and sharing angst over their latest love affairs, I was hooked. I was on the edge of my seat as I waited to find out what would happen between Smith and Samantha, what was it that Miranda saw in speccy Steve, and could Charlotte sink her waspish ways to wed her semite in shining armour? But do I really want to know how sexy Samantha overcomes hot flushes? Do I care about Charlotte's woes over motherhood, and could I care less about Carrie's worries about becoming an old married couple or Miranda's work\life balance dilemmas? No.

Watching the girls whizz around the streets of Manhattan in their skyscraper heels was delicious escapism. I would revel in the fashion, the sophisticated bars and luscious young men. The cocktails, the brunches, the to die for apartments and glamourous careers. It was just the contrast I needed to making ends meet in rainy London, with a love life whose highlight was a takeaway on the sofa on a Friday night.

But the latest movie shows me that no matter how expensive the heels, sophisticated the decor or elegant the friends, as soon as age, marriage and motherhood catches us, we are all the same under the skin whether it's smooth and burnished with Fake Bake or chapped by washing up liquid. I don't want to know. I want the girls to remain perfectly glamourous. I don't want to see those starry women grow wrinkled, the fabulous dresses making them look like so much mutton dressed as lamb, the sex scenes becoming that little bit uncomfortable, not because of their kinkiness, but because of the creaking you can almost hear as those limbs entangle.

So I bid a sad adieu to SATC. It was great while it lasted, but now it's as stomach churning as watching your mum snog a waiter at a wedding.

Babies

2010-06-01T12:08:00.002+01:00

I honestly, cross my heart, swear that I do not want any more babies, ever. Well at least not until grandkids and the benefit of them is that I get to skip the whole pregnancy, labour, birth and sleepless nights shenanigins. But when I stumble across pictures of my newborn sons I still feel a faint tug of the heartstrings when I realise I will never have another baby of my own.

I was searching for an email address today and found an old picture message I had sent just after the twins were born. It's a fuzzy snap of my babies, swaddled in their hospital blankets sleeping nose-to-nose in their see-through plastic crib. At 15-months it's a long time since those boys could sleep in a tiny crib, but seeing this picture took me right back to those otherworldly days spent in the cocoon of a hospital room, schedule dictated by feeding, check ups and gradually getting to know my two new sons.

After each birth their was a period spent in the bubble of new motherhood. Naturally it was more marked, and longer, with my first boy. The sheer horror of the birth followed by a painful adjustment to caring for my tiny boy kept me swaddled from reality for months, rather than days or weeks. My routine was sharpened by anxiety that I was getting things right, worrying that he was feeding enough, and why was he sleeping so little. My whole world shrank to a tight grip around my precious baby.

Of course things settle down, faster and faster the more children you have, but I still have a strange nostalgia for that post traumatic after birth period. When you are divorced from normality by the profundity of what has happened to you. When you are swaddled into a hospital routine yourself, and horrible as this might be, it also has a unique fascination. Nothing in your life has been or will be like it again. Any more trips to hospital are likely to be entirely of a negative nature, with no sprinkling of joy to give them that edge of ecstatic hysteria. I will never trail out of a hospital dragging foil helium balloons and a car seat filled with the rest of my life.

I wouldn't want to relive those day and I never want to deal with the physical and emotional demands of a newborn baby again, but those memories are etched, flashbulb bright, on my mind, and staring at that grainy, mobile phone snap of my boys, takes me right back beneath the blankets of my hospital bed, tiny boys draped delicately in my arms, like a crisp new page opening on a new chapter in my life.

Stress monster

2010-05-28T15:27:00.002+01:00

There are many times when I am glad to be a freelance writer. The days when I can sneak out of my office for a swift cuddle with the twins, the mornings I can spend wandering up to school and discussing, life, the universe and Star Wars with my boy, the odd occasion when I can play hooky and have coffee with my boys after school, but then there are days like today when I wish that I was either a proper mummy or a proper employee.

Trouble is Bank Holidays don't really register when you are self employed so when I got a commission late yesterday to write something for Tuesday I said yes without a second thought, not realising that the rest of the world was already in holiday mode and getting anyone to comment would be like finding a stiff whisky in a temperance meeting.

Though perhaps this is better than those people who vaguely say they will call when they can, for which read the phone will ring when you are up to your ears in changing a nappy, burning the pizza, refereeing a screaming match or saving a child from almost certain death.

There have been many times when I have answered the phone to a very important interviewee or editor whist dangling a baby coated in poo from his ankles, then there have been the times when the Xbox has had to step in swiftly to play the role of nanny to keep the boys quiet while I rush upstairs to my office and put on my professional voice. there was the awful time when my firstborn rolled off the bed in seconds when I'd turned my back to listen to a phone call from a PR. Oh the shame.

You see us freelancers are like a hybrid between working and stay at home mums. The perks can be good, but when the going gets tough and you have to combine being a mum with some semblance of professionalism, the cracks soon begin to yawn. Today I find myself standing on a rumbling San Andreas fault line, anxiously waiting for that emminent professor to call when I am in the middle of wiping a particularly ripe bottom.

4x4

2010-05-26T10:43:00.005+01:00

Following a question put to me by Plan B I decided that I ought to get back to what this blog is all about. Namely, revealing the truth of what it's like to raise a family of four. So here's my list of the skills necessary to cling on to shreds of sanity amidst the chaos of children:

Selective hearing
Even when the twins were newborn I had to learn how to tune out their wails as it's simply impossible to meet everyone's needs the moment they arise. It's hard to step over a child whose face is justifiably slick with snot and tears because he has just fallen over, because his baby brother is about to kill himself by toppling head first down a flight of stairs, but it has to be done. It is hard to ignore a tiny baby screaming for a bottle, because you have to wipe his brother's bum before he takes off and leaves an unmentionable trail around the house, but needs must when you are a mum of four.

Multitasking
This is a subset of point one, but to run a family of four you need to be a genius with logistics and learn to prioritise. I can almost see my brain colour-coding the boys in relation to the severity of their needs. Code red is imminent danger of death, while a serene green is whinging because they are hungry/bored/in need of a nap. It's a complex balancing act making sure that just enough of their needs are met to keep them all happyish.

A self sacrificing nature
I sometimes look back on the days pre four children when my husband or I used to get the odd break. Perhaps one of us with push our two boys to the park and leave the other to read the paper, watch a Grand Prix or just some time for his or herself. This doesn't happen any more, neither of us will willingly take all four out alone, as we know that the fine balancing act mentioned above is prone to unravel in the great outdoors. As you struggle to change the nappy of a wriggling twin, his brother will rapidly crawl off to teeter beside the brook that handily runs next to our local playground, while the older brothers will take advantage of your inattention to try to poke each other's eyes out with a stick.

Charm
You will need it by the bucketload if you are going to persuade anyone to babysit, let alone take on all four of your children so you can go away for more than a few hours. Grandparents love to dandle a baby, and are happy to manage two or so grandchildren, but once you hit four the offers to take them on dissolve faster than Disprin.

Stamina
I remember when I used to only have two children I could spend short snatches of the day sitting down, now when I look after all four my bum doesn't see sight of a cushion from morning til night. The moment one is calmly occupied, the next will require your attention, and that's not to mention the mountain of housework left in the wake of four small children. I cannot count the number of times our washing machine goes on in one week, and the trail of toys is never ending. Once you have finished picking up one pile of plastic detritus another has mysteriously accumulated while your back was turned.

A blind eye
For turning on the mess that was once your pristine home, on the screaming children you are avoiding while you attempt to cook tea/empty the washing machine/answer the telephone and on the plaintive looks from your husband who you last seduced circa 2003, which is coincidentally also the year our first son was born.

Deep pockets
I know that money isn't the key to a happy childhood, although my older boys would surely disagree as they think that if I were to buy them both a DS they'd be ecstatic, but even if you skimp and scrimp four children don't come cheap. When our family expanded from two to four with the birth of the twins we shelled out tens of thousands of pounds on essentials such as a loft extension so there was somewhere for everyone to sleep and a new car that had enough seats for us all to travel together. Since then hidden costs have burst out from their hiding places, for example we have discovered that the only restaurant where it's feasible for us all to go out for a family meal is MacD's, and we have had to think long and hard about which boys we like best in order to decide who gets to do extra activities.

A big heart
For all the negatives of having four children, I couldn't imagine my life without any one of them now. Although I don't think I would ever have chosen to have four, now that they are here I wouldn't change a thing. When I am sitting on the sofa, twins on my knees and big boys draped over me, I am the happiest I have ever been. I love to watch the boys interact with each other, to see the oldest playing gently with his baby brother is adorable in the extreme. I have found my heart has expanded with each new addition to the family as I learn to love them all.

So in answer to the original question, which was whether I would recommend having four children. I would have to say no sane person would even consider it, but then I've always thought sanity was much overrated.

Self indulgent content removed, due to thinking better of it

2010-05-25T20:00:00.004+01:00

Today I felt inspired to do something I haven't done since I was a teenager. And no it wasn't get pissed on neat vodka, snog a random spotty youth or wear fishnet tights and too much kohl. Instead I was inspired to that most pretentious of pursuits - poetry.

I let my husband read the fruits of my labour and he was underwhelmed to put it politely. I did put it up here, but on second thoughts he probably had a point, so I have hidden it along with my blushes.

I think I will stick to what I know best, writing about the mayhem of raising four small boys. It's clearly more my forte.

My Billy Elliot boy

2010-05-20T13:04:00.004+01:00

I love my boys, I really do, but I am just not interested in boyish pursuits. I have had boyfriends who required me to shiver beside a football pitch, or attempt to follow the score during interminable cricket games, even my normally quite reasonable husband is a devoted fan of F1, but to me it just sounds like angry wasps caught in a jar and is as interesting to watch. Whenever people stop me and say that I almost have enough boys to field a five-a-side team, I shudder in horror. None of my sons has shown that much interest in spending his time kicking a football about and I thank god for it.

The four-year-old does do a weekly football class, peopled exclusively by small boys and their football mad dads, who kit them out in the full strip of their favourite players, despite the fact that the ball skills taught amount to little more than tripping over the blasted thing as they charge around the hall. But he seems to devote far more time to gossiping with his friends than picking up the finer points of how to score a goal, and I am sure he thinks the main point of the exercise is to collect the sticker they give out at the end of the lesson each week. He has never shown any interest in watching football on TV and I doubt he could tell Arsenal from Manchester United, even if a sweet depended on it.

So my house full of boys isn't the sports dominated den some people seem to assume it will be. In fact the latest craze to hit his ballet. My eldest son asked, of his own free will I hasten to add, if he could try his hand (or should that be feet?) at ballet dancing. I jumped at the chance, here were classes I could identify with having shivered in my own pink tutu trying to master the first position in a draughty village hall.

As we drove to his first class I gave him a stern lecture about how he wasn't to be shy if the class was all girls, and that it is those who are strong enough to be different who thrive in life. He reassured me that he was still as keen as ever to learn how to dance, but inside I was terrified that he would take one look at all those tutus and run away in tears.

The mothers gathered outside were a shock to my system, rather than the rag tag dads who crowd the football and judo classes we normally attend, these were the coiffed yummy mummies I read so much about, dressed in skinny jeans and pretty pumps with their hair French pleated and luxuriously expensive scarfs wound around their willowy necks. Their little girls were floated around their legs like dainty fairies in their pink ballet skirts, hair sleekly pulled back in perfect round buns.

My son took one look at these alien beings and wound himself around my knees like a limpet. As I prised his frozen fingers off my far from skinny jeans, I felt so guilty as those perfect mummies looked aghast that another mother would force her son to do ballet classes. What was I thinking? Was I in the advanced clutches of gender disappointment and so desperate for a girl that I would make my son fill the role of my little girl and dance away to the Sugar Plum Fairy?

I felt the blushes rise hot and unwarranted. I wanted to shout "But he begged me to come", as my son wailed and screeched that he no desire to try ballet and could we just go home. A kindly teacher wrenched him from me and reassured me that all the boys are the same as she shooed me from the classroom.

I hovered by the window, aching to see him joining in, but hearing nothing but his inconsolable sobs. In the end I rushed off to the nearest coffee shop, unable to watch this torture any more. When I returned fortified by a cappuccino I found him skulking at the back of the class, but at least he was standing with them.

As I went in to collect him I will admit to heaving a sigh of relief that this was the end of ballet, and we would never again have to run the gauntlet of those delicate dancing mums and their pretty little daughters. That is until he looked up at me with tear streaked eyes, gave a huge grin and said "I love ballet mummy". So there we were next week, my little Billy Elliot and me, and yah boo sucks to all those people who told me all I would ever do was freeze beside a football pitch with my brood of little boys.

Do you ever wish

2010-05-18T12:13:00.004+01:00

that you could just pack your children away for a day or two? Not because you don't adore them, but because you could just do with a real rest? I am having one of those days when I long to be without children. They don't happen often, but lately I have just been feeling so tired that I just want to go to bed without the fear that at some point in the night/early morning a small boy will worm his way under the duvet and snuffle and cough into my ear until I awaken, groggy and disoriented.

I was talking to another mum with three small children today, and bemoaning the loss of down time that is the lot of the parent with many children. There is never a time when you shouldn't be doing something other than curling up on the sofa with a good book. This is not to say that I don't regularly skive off and do just that, but there is always a nagging sensation at the back of my mind that really I should be ferreting through the dirty laundry to put on yet another wash, or that I should have made that urgent phone call for work, or that I should sew the elastic onto the eldest's new ballet shoes or that there are a full week's worth of school shirts that need ironing.

It is exhausting just thinking about all the work that goes into keeping the family ticking over, let alone actually doing it. My to do list is a Sisyphean task that will, as you might expect, never been completed. There are always birthday presents to be bought, name labels to be stuck in, odd socks to be paired up again, food to be bought, cooked and managed. Mostly I just get on with it, but sometimes I just want to book the next ticket out to Rio de Janeiro and forget that I am a working mum of four.

I want to toss away my responsibilites like so many Dickensian chains around my neck, and lie, guilt free on a sandy beach, with nothing to worry about beyond where my next cocktail is coming from. It's bizarre really as when I was footloose and fancy free, I always felt there was more to life and that all the hedonistic pleasures of life were somewhat superficial. To a point I was right as my children bring meaning to my life, and I wouldn't really be without them, it's just that on occassion I want to skip off to that parallel universe where there isn't always something else I should be doing.

Perhaps I am just a bit tired and run down, but to have a few days when exhaustion wasn't my constant companion would be such a delight. To stay up late and sleep in in the morning until I wanted to wake up, and to spend my day doing exactly what I wanted to do, not what I ought to do, to have a weekend dominated by adult pursuits rather than driving to a myriad of classes and hanging around in crowded playgrounds, that would be very heaven in this time of parenthood.

Ordinary life

2010-05-17T11:11:00.006+01:00

"When I look back on my ordinary life I see so much magic though I missed it at the time", Jamie Cullum, Photograph.

This lyric never fails but to bring a tear to my eye, and I have already told my husband this is the song I want to play me out when I go feet first. Why do I love it so much? Because it encapsulates just what it is that makes each human experience so unique. Most of us aren't that outstanding on the outside, only a few can be rock stars, actors, presidents and prime ministers, but for each of us life is filled with everyday magic that we are too busy to notice.

I thought I would do my own personal little meme and list some random magically ordinary moments from my life:

Staring into the bottomless pit of my newborn babies black, almond eyes. Knowing that this would be the most profound love affair I would ever have and feeling unbounded excitement at getting to know these brand new people.

The gummy first smile of my firstborn baby. The moment I understood a line from a long forgotten film, when a mother tells her child "You will never know how much I love you".

Looking out at the seasons changing from my bedroom window. Remembering the long days when I lay, beached by my twin pregnancy, the branches stark and black against a sky bleached white with imminent snowfall. Or the acid green shoots of new leaves heralding the arrival of spring, or the foaming white blossom on the chestnut trees that never fails to lift my spirits and make me think of wedding days.

Swimming in the shiny blue swimming pool of the hotel where I got married. Thrilled by the baby growing inside me and my impending wedding. Rushing through the corridors of the hotel on the way to the chapel, dress and veil billowing behind me, silver heels clicking on the marble floor. For once I was living the glamour I only usually see in the pages of magazines.

The thud of one of my sons landing on me, throwing his tiny arms around me for a rumbustious cuddle.

Standing in the garden, hair unwashed, jeans baggy, T-shirt grubby and hearing my four-year-old say: "Mummy you are so beautiful".

Walking to school with the blare of traffic all around us, caught in my own bubble with my six-year-old, discussing what we will explore next in the fantasy worlds we construct together, hearing how he is doing, about spats with his friends and lessons he has learned.

Watching my beautiful blonde twin shove grapes into his mouth as if they were the last food on earth. Seeing him gleefully dribble their juice down his clean on top and hold out a sticky hand for more and more and more.

Watching my sleek, dark twin cling to his daddy, while gently patting his shoulder as if to say "You are my own precious daddy".

Hearing my four-year-old explode into giggles over a joke or tickles or just the absurdity of life.

Watching twin one clamber upright using his biggest brother's pyjama leg to hoist him up, his big brother smiling down at him throughout.

Finding all four boys perched in the twins' two cots, the big boys entertaining their little brothers with songs, games and peek-a-boo.

Discovering the twins, heads bent together at the slats that separate their two cots, trying to help one another figure out a way to post a plastic fish onto the floor below.

Listening to Jamie Cullum in concert last night and reaching down to hold my husband's hand. Marvelling that we are still as much in love today as we were all those years ago when I rushed to marry him in my billowing dress.

There has been much magic in my ordinary life and I try hard not to miss it as I am going along, but I am grateful to this song for reminding me how important it is to catch that stardust as it floats on by.

The male of the species

2010-05-12T16:09:00.004+01:00

Living, as I do, in a house full of men in the making, I think I can count myself as somewhat of an expert on the male of the species and of late my field of study seems to be popping up with surprising regularity.

First there was a bantering thread on a forum I use all about how useless one of the regulars' other half was. She was bemoaning his inability to do any task without high level input from her, right down to asking if the washing up liquid had 'gone off' when he was doing the dishes. This prompted much merriment on the generally pathetic nature of men when it comes to domestic tasks, with tales of men given colour-coded rotas to help them keep on top of their chores, to those who sound as if they would have difficulty breathing for themselves if they didn't have a woman to tell them how to do it.

I chimed into this frothing feminine tirade to say how different my own husband is from this stereotypical man. He is a wonder around the house. Admittedly neither of us cleans as we pay someone else to do that for us, but as to the rest of the hard work that goes into running a house and a brood of boys, well he does more than his fair share. He did the lion's share of night feeds when they were babies, has changed countless nappies, he cooks, tidies and entertains children without any prompting. We really are a team and he more than pulls his weight on the domestic front.

The next time this matter arose was during a discussion on LBC 97.3 about the lack of women in the Cameron Clegg cabinet. So far the leopard skin shoe wearing Theresa May is the token girly in a sea of grey suited men. This didn't really perturb me, after all I think the best person for the job should get it, rather than parachuting in women to even things up. However, when the commentator from the Fawcett Society asked how we would feel if the situation were reversed and the country was being run by women, it did give me pause for thought. I suspect that we would be up in arms if the ladies were left in charge, so why are we so complacent when it's the other way round?

Then my fellow blogger and friend Nappy Valley Girl posted a homage to her own husband, who is at least as much of an asset to the household as my own man, being handy with both a screwdriver and a model train track - essential skills in a house full of boys.

I suppose this makes me wonder what it will be like for my own boys when they are grown up. Will they pull their weight like their father? Or will they find a woman to wait on them? I doubt it somehow, but I wonder if the world will have changed to such a point that an all female cabinet wouldn't cause the raise of an eyebrow?

Power walking

2010-05-12T10:03:00.004+01:00

After a few days hiatus following the excitement of the General Election and its aftermath, I have finally managed to peel myself away from BBC News 24 in order to concentrate on more important things, like updating FDMTG. I must admit the momentous happenings of the last few days have had little impact on my boys despite their vital role in upholding democracy last Thursday. Although they are most excited by a coalition government between the trees and the birds. When you think about it like that it makes some sense that the Conservatives and Lib Dems should team up, their party logos work so well together.

Despite the thrills and spills on Downing Street yesterday, it was a bit of a bad day, as I found myself locked away working on various projects and have been rather suffering from cabin fever as a result. I worked out that I hadn't been out of the house apart from one school run for three days. This had the effect of making me feel rather gloomy. My remedy was to go downstairs and cuddle the twins.

At 15 months they are just so gorgeous. Still round and squidgy as babies, but with the animation and personality of the toddlers they will surely become one day soon. That said they are still firmly boycotting any move towards upright perambulation. Twin one can cruise with ease around the furniture, but try taking him out of his comfort zone and you are met with the stormy frown that presages a downpour of tears. Twin two is still working out the mechanics of standing, so I think walking is still a step too far for him.

Twins are subject to developmental delays, although I am not sure this is the root cause of their rooted state, as my eldest didn't crawl until he was 14 months and failed to walk until he was 18 months. At least this means that the twins stationary state doesn't cause any anxiety. To be honest I am not sure if it will be better or worse when they walk. Of course it will give our arms a break not to have to carry them hither and thither, but having witnessed two older twins dash off in opposite directions at top speed in a soft play area, I can see the benefits of my crawlers.

I do feel a tinge of fear at the idea of two little boys shooting off on their own distinct paths of destruction. The other day I had all four boys at the park. I felt sorry for my oldest who desperately wanted mummy to watch his acrobatic feats, but was ignored as I tried in vain to stop the twins from eating stones from the playground floor/climbing up the slide as another child hurtled down it/streaking through an impromptu game of football/crawling into the brook beside the playground/being crushed under the fast spinning roundabout. And this is while they are both still confined to their hands and knees.

This compounded the worries that had been planted the week before when we met up with a friend who has a delightful daughter who is just three months older than the twins. She is an adventurous soul and as we tried to sit and chat was intent on disappearing to explore the four corners of the (large) park, via patches of stinging nettles and lethal brambles, picking up tin cans and cigarette butts along the way. Her mum is training for a charity run this autumn, but I should imagine keeping up her little girl is exercise enough to have her match fit in time for the starters' whistle.

So while Gordon Brown takes his last steps out of Number 10, and David Cameron takes his first steps in as our new PM, we remain on tenterhooks for any sign of movement in our own hotbed of infant intrigue.

Casting our votes

2010-05-06T17:11:00.002+01:00

So much for teaching the children about democracy. I wheeled into our local polling station with three out of four of the boys in tow, two of whom were howling and the third of whom wanted the whole process explained to him before and then started to sulk when we revealed you can't actually vote until you are 18. He was itching to get his hands on the pencil and get down to spoiling a few ballot papers.

Though after hearing his reasoning vis a vis casting votes I think it is perhaps sensible not to allow preschoolers the vote. He was adamant that he wanted to vote for "The ones with the roses". To which I replied "Do you know who they are?". "No, but I think it looks pretty". I hope that by the time he comes of age he will have a more considered approach to casting his vote.

The eldest missed out on the voting jamboree as when offered the chance to come along sneered "No that's boooring". The apathy of youth. But he does at least have a better grip on politics than his little brother. Yesterday he asked who Gordon Brown is. "He's the Prime Minister, he's in charge of the government and they run the country", I reply. "What does he look like?", was the next question so up popped Google images and soon my screen was filled with his gurning mug. "Errrgh. He's ugly", screeched my son.

So I pull up a picture of arch rival David Cameron. "He looks nicer, but what about the other one?", says my boy. Clearly he has enough of a grip on the election to know there are three parties in the running. I am so proud. So I find some photos of Nick Clegg. "Oh he's lovely," coos my little boy. "I would vote for him". It just goes to show how far a pretty face can get you, at least with the primary school crowd.

As a helicopter trailing a banner promoting Channel 4's election coverage hovers above my house and the after work crowd begin to trail into the polling station across the road I, unlike my offspring, am feeling very excited. I would dearly love to stay up all night and watch the swing-o-meter tell of epic victory and defeat. But if there is one sure bet this evening, it is that I will be snoring into my pillow by 11pm whether red, blue or yellow is in the lead.

Electioneering

2010-05-05T17:24:00.003+01:00

I think I could teach Clegg, Cameron and Brown a thing or two about canvassing for votes after the huge success of my trawl for new followers. I am thrilled to announce that I am not only back up to 50, but have gained an extra one for luck. Clearly the cornerstone of my strategy was pathetic begging, but then again some of our would be leaders seem to have that technique down pat already, and it remains to be seen how effective it will turn out to be tomorrow. Either way I would like to welcome my two new followers to the exclusive FDMTG fold and thank them for joining up.

It occurred to me the other day that while I started my blog to record the life and times of my four boys after the birth of the twins, there has been much silence of late regarding the development of the youngest of my brood. I think it's because after those dark days of sleepless nights and six feeds a day, each, things have calmed down immeasurably. The twins have slotted into the family and it's as if they have always been with us.

That said I am still waiting for the moment when our family coalesces into a single unit, because it still seems as if we have two separate sets of children. The older boys form a rowdy, destructive and in equal parts discordant and amiable unit, while the twins are a cuddly, pre-toddler shaped gang of two. Their big brothers take a benign interest in the little ones, but I await the day when all four play together with anticipation and trepidation.

For now though the twins are going through an adorable stage. There are still no signs of walking, but twin one is cruising around quite happily, one minute reaching for the TV remote control or an iPhone, the next disappearing off upstairs through a carelessly open stair gate. He has grown the sweetest curl of dark brown hair which pokes out behind one ear, and has developed an undying adoration for daddy after they bonded over a shared love for gadgetry.

On the down side he has copied his brother's less than appealing habit of requesting something by pointing at it and screaming. I guess he thought 'Well if it worked for him.....".

Twin two still sports his crazy halo of fluffy blonde hair as I am incapable of getting it cut. I keep steeling myself to take him to the hairdresser as I am no fan of long haired boys (sorry to all those who are, but each to their own), but I just can't do it. I think in some way it will make him less of a baby to me, and I am in no hurry to see my youngest two grow up into little boys.

Although he is firmly sticking to crawling and none of this standing up nonsense his brother indulges in, he is ahead of him in terms of communication. While he still resorts to screaming requests if they are not answered within a nanosecond of him making them, he now starts any conversation with a pointing finger and a gurgly "Gah". I am not sure what this catch all phrase is meant to imply, but it is unbearably cute.

I carried him home from the school run the other day, and he kept swivelling around in my arms, pointing at everything, slapping on a toothy grin and exclaiming "Gah. Gah, gah, gah". What a conversationalist, I can see we are going to be up into the small hours as we unravel knotty philosophical conundrums together.

Tomorrow I think I will take them along for their first taste of democracy and wheel them to the polling booth. I am assuming that it will be pushchair friendly, at least until the cuts under the new government come in and all ramps are taken away and sold off to help pay off the national debt. I am not sure what they will make of it, but I am sure that the Gah party would get their vote should they be allowed to gum the ballot paper.

You just can't get (away from) the staff

2010-05-04T12:22:00.002+01:00

I read with interest about Victoria Beckham's army of staff, but rather than feel scorn for poor Posh Spice, I actually feel sorry for her. You see I also employ staff to help me run my busy life. OK, rather less than 10 people and I have no need for security, but I still employ a part time nanny, a cleaner and a gardener. Does that make me a spoilt madam? Or just a busy working mum who hasn't the time or, I will admit it, the inclination, to spend my down time scrubbing the loo or mowing the lawn.

My nanny is a necessity as anyone who has ever tried to work from home without one will tell you. There is no way I could do my job without someone to care for the boys while I do it. We could argue the pros and cons of working mums, but if you do work you need childcare, and if you have twins, plus two older boys, a nanny is actually the most cost effective care you can get.

So now that I have got my chippy justifications out of the way, I will move onto the crux of my post, which is the fact that feel sorry for VB as her house must be constantly teeming with staff. If she is anything like me, while she may rely on their help to allow her to care for her children and pursue a career, but she may also resent their constant presence in her home. My nanny is lovely, but she is also always in my house. I will disappear upstairs to eat a sandwich at my desk, rather than invade her space. She has the run of my house, while I am locked up in my study.

The reason I tolerate this is because it is better for my boys this way. If I were to constantly be around and yet unavailable, they would become disturbed and upset. But if I am out of sight, out of mind, they are happier and bond better with their nanny. I have learned this over many years of working from home with children.

My cleaner comes twice a week and turns the house upside down. If by some miracle all the boys and the nanny are out, then you can guarantee that the cleaner will be in. She has a special skill of managing to be in every room of the house at once. I can't sit in peace in my living room, as she will soon bustle in with a hoover and start lifting up the furniture. Of course I would far rather this than have to do the cleaning myself, but I do feel displaced by her presence and once again find myself ensconced in my little office with all escape routes barred.

The only day I have alone with my children is Friday, when I don't work. I tend to find that I spend much of it catching up on those household chores that I don't pay someone else to do, but I cannot tell you how much I savour the hour or so during the twins' nap when the house is silent, and effectively empty, and I am on my own, alone, with no one else in my space.

So this is why I pity poor Posh, for she must never have that solitary moment of silence, when her home is her castle, when there is no PA or florist bustling around her, when her kitchen is free from its chefs and bottlewashers. I am sure that just like me she wouldn't prefer to do all her dirty work herself, after all why would she when she can afford to get someone else to do it for her? But sometimes I suspect that she too might long for a few moments of precious alone time and that is why I can find a shred of sympathy in my heart for the privileged Posh.

Perfect day

2010-04-26T17:11:00.006+01:00

Sitting in the sunshine, shaded by an arching dark blue parasol, the sky azure blue, dusted with the occasional smudge of bright white cloud, I mused over what would make my perfect day. A lie in of course, I am a parent after all, followed by a trip into London to see a proper grown up exhibition, a leisurely lunch and a spot of shopping. As I looked around the garden table, littered with the debris of our family lunch, half chewed pitta bread and smears of hummus liberally coating the high chairs, cocktail sausages, chunks of cheddar, ripped hunks of baguette and sticky juice spills, I sighed. This day of leisure was surely just a fantasy.

The next day twin one is sick, he has been awake through the night screaming in pain, and we are all weary and careworn. What to do with a family housebound by the illness of one of its tiniest members? Boy two is spirited away to his grandparents and, as we ponder how to entertain our oldest, I remember my pie in the sky plans for a perfect day out. I shall ask him along. He jumps at the chance and I am to spend the day with my ideal man (no offence to other half, but his hatred of shopping means he falls just short of perfection).

We escape the screaming chaos of lunchtime with the twins, leaving my husband in his pyjamas and in charge. We almost skipped through the park to our nearest Tube station. His little hand is entwined in mine and he beams at the treat of having his beloved mummy all to himself. We chat about this and that, school, friends, our plans for the day. The journey passes in a blur of counting stations and celebrating our good fortune to have escaped alone together.

It is such bliss to only have to cope with one, civilised and independent six-year-old, as opposed to a brood of unruly boys, half of whom cannot walk, eat by themselves or speak in anything other than ear-splitting screams.

The exhibition we'd planned to see, Grace Kelly: Style Icon was sold out, but such was our joy at spending time together, this failed to dampen our spirits. We rush through the baroque halls of the V&A, gasping in awe at the glistening treasures, the sparkling jewellery, the carved icons, the sheer opulence and excess of our ancestors. We found a silver wine bowl that my son could have swum in and a jewel encrusted tiara made from gems as big and colourful as boiled sweets. We marvel at glittering snuff boxes, the intricacy of the carving on a religious scroll and the rich, red glow of the sun shining through ancient stained glass.

He describes the way the diamonds dripping from some long dead aristocrat's necklace throw off light like a crowd on a dark night taking photos, the glints from the precious stones like their myriad flashes against a velvet black background. I am impressed by his eloquence and imagination.

We dash through 20th Century design, the highlights being a chair made from a zebra, it's stiff, black mane running up the backrest and bowl with the billboards of Piccadilly Circus painted inside it. My boy is so enthusiastic, so interested, so stimulating, such fun. Such a glowing beam to light up the dusty moats floating lazily in the ornate halls of the museum.

Lunch is a picnic al fresco beside a gently spurting fountain. We watch a toddler paddle in the pool beneath its sputtering flow. The sun glints on the puddles from a recent downpour. As we share our drinks my boy screws up his nose as the sparkling water fizzes and burns on his tongue. Pigeons flap and beg for our crumbs and tourists rest and consult their maps, searching for the next stop on their tour of our city.

After lunch it's time to shop. My boy is good at shopping, even better than me, which is impressive as I am a black belt in the art of frittering away money. We pick toys for everyone, including me. He persuades me to buy a paperweight in the shape of a huge diamond, we are both transfixed by the icy fire reflected off its contoured edges.

Then it's off on a red double decker bus, sweeping its way to Knightsbridge. I have told him of a shop that is almost as big as the museum, but stuffed with exotic treats to buy, and the biggest toy department he has ever seen. As we climb off outside Harrods, he gasps and says "It looks more like a palace than a shop". Well it's certainly a temple to consumerism and we push open the plate glass doors in happy anticipation.

First stop is the food hall to select glossy dark chocolates that nestle in a crinkling nest of silver paper in their stiff golden box, a present to appease poor daddy who has missed out on our marvellous expedition. Then on to the sweets, my boy twirls around amidst aisles coloured with jars full to the brim with a rainbow of jelly beans and displays bristling with lollipops in an array of flavours that would make Willy Wonka's mouth water. It's so hard to choose but in the end we come away with some sweet delights wrapped in that distinctive green and gold plastic bag.

We swish up in the lift to the fourth floor toy department and my boy can hardly contain himself, tiny helicopters and giant balloons whizz past us as demonstrators tempt him with their wares. He runs from Lego to Ben 10, via a teddy ten times the size of him and a giant stuffed gorilla. In an attempt to keep some check on my finances I gently steer him to the buckets overflowing with pocket money toys, bouncy balls filled with glimmering glitter, spy glasses that allow you to see what's behind you, wriggly toys furry with soft plastic fronds, bubble machines and fake poo.

Eventually we choose a few trinkets that the boys will lose in less time than it takes the cashier to bag them up and head home. The tube is packed, but as soon as two seats are free my boy curls up under my arm and falls asleep, exhausted by our adventure. I watch his eyelids flicker and wonder if he is dreaming of museums filled with jewel bright sweets, toy shop shelves groaning under snuffboxes, a fantastical mix of everything we have seen today.

As I savour the warmth and weight of my sleeping son, I realise that I was right, it really was the most perfect day.

Cry baby

2010-04-22T15:31:00.003+01:00

To cry or not to cry? That is the question that vexes most mothers of newborn babies. Should we leave our infants to bawl their heads off in order to teach them to go to sleep by themselves, or should we rush and tend to their every squeak in order to salve their tender souls? Childcare expert, Penelope Leach has gone so far as to say those hard hearted mothers who leave their babes to scream are putting them at risk of brain damage in the future.

Penelope Leach is not a woman for whom I have a soft spot after her preachings put me under immense pressure when I had my first son. Her book, Your Baby and Child, The essential guide for every parent was recommended to me by my NCT teacher. As I was entirely clueless as to the process of caring for a baby I promptly went out and bought it and treated it as my bible, only problem was on every page I discovered I was doing something wrong.

The most memorable misdemeanour I recall was reading that I must smile at my baby at all times, lest he feel unloved. This at a time in my life when the moments tears weren't flowing down my cheeks were few and far between. I was a raging mess of hormones, guilt and suffering from a nasty bout of postnatal depression. I would gurn at the poor boy in a terrifying approximation of a smile, and all because this old witch had told me he would grow up feeling unloved if I didn't.

She is a psychologist whose theories are entirely child-centric and the latest is that you must rush to your baby as soon as he cries or else his poor little brain will be flooded with the stress hormone cortisol, which could cause brain damage in the long run. I stress the word could and that this expert finding is at odds with recent research from Australia's Murdoch Children's Research Institute which suggests that controlled crying has no detrimental effect on babies.

I am no expert, but I do know that controlled crying is the only thing that got me through with my four boys. Each one of them learnt to sleep through the night by being left to wail for a few moments before a parent rushed in to comfort them. At first they wailed a little more, but invariably they went off to sleep within a few moments. But the real point of this is that I couldn't have coped if they hadn't learned how to sleep.

No mother can function on no sleep, and caring for small children is hard graft. If leaving your baby to cry for short bursts enables you to create a sleep pattern that allows you to rest, you will be a better mother at the end of it. Of course I would never say that babies should be left to shriek endlessly, but to rush to comfort a child at every squeak is just setting yourself up for trouble.

I suppose I am falling into the trap of all these so called experts and laying down the law over what is wrong or right when it comes to parenting. Perhaps there are tougher mums who can cope on no sleep and if this is the case then there is no harm to leaping every time your baby squeals. But for most mums creating a sleep routine that allows us to rest makes us better mothers, and the last thing we need is another expert weighing in and making us feel guilty about just trying to get through as best we can.

Paranoia

2010-04-22T14:42:00.003+01:00

I don't normally do this, post about blogging. For me my blog is really a little self indulgence that allows me to write about what I want and how I want, with the added bonus of a few readers leaving their very welcome comments. But lately I have begun to feel a little paranoid. It's got worse than those simple times when I would check my Google analytics and feel blue if the little red figures indicated my readership had gone down, and unjustifiably elated if they were green, indicating I had attracted a few more readers to my wifflings. To be honest I don't understand many of the figures thrown up at me there, so this is about as complex as it gets.

I have moments when I think I ought to devote myself to furthering the cause of my blog. I long to be one of those bloggers whose posts attract zillions of comments, but since I rarely find the time to comment on other blogs, I think this is perhaps a little unreasonable of me. Trouble is life and work tend to come between me and devoting myself entirely to my beloved blog, so I suspect it will never be more than a hobby with a few much loved followers, whose comments I absolutely lap up.

However, just recently I launched a modest campaign to boost my number of followers from 49 to 50. This amounted to putting a little box on the blog and begging. You can imagine my thrill when some kind soul took pity on me and decided to follow the blog. Cue streamers, champagne and much (virtual) celebration. I had arrived, I had 50 whole followers (well I assume they are whole, but as some don't even show their faces I could be wrong).

But the other day I returned to beloved blog only to find that one of my followers had deserted. The horror of finding myself back down to 49 was almost too much to bear. What had made this person who had once loved FDMTG so much that they had signed up for regular bulletins to decide that enough was enough and that they wanted out. It's as bad as being unfriended on Facebook.

Was it something I said, something I'd done? A post that went down the wrong way? I suppose I shall never know as now they don't follow me anymore. Given that my blog is more about personal satisifaction than a desire to garner new readers, or at least that's what I like to tell myself, why does it bother me so when one jumps ship?

Perhaps it's because now I am back down to an uneven 49, rather than a neat half hundred. At this level of followers one more or less really counts. No doubt if I was wallowing in followers I wound hardly notice if I slipped from 1,049 to 1,050, but I am way off those dizzy heights.

I shall try not to let the question of the missing follower keep me awake at night, but if you do stray back to my blog, I should like you to know the upset you caused by deciding not to follow me any more.

City girl

2010-04-21T09:52:00.003+01:00

My lovely friend and ace blogger Nappy Valley Girl has inspired this post with her own musings today.

Like me NVG finds herself marooned in the suburbs by circumstance and parenthood, and although we are both still within touching distance of a throbbing metropolis, her New York and me London, we are both consigned to the territory of double garages, 4x4s and Starbucks being the most chi chi coffee establishment in town. Actually I am guessing at what it's like for NVG as I have yet to visit her but this is the picture I get based on her regular bulletins from across the pond.

Of course it wasn't always so. When we first met we were both working for a magazine based on the borders between Soho and Bloomsbury. The office was rickety and far from practical - at the end of our days there you had to climb over a wall of chipboard just to get up the stairs to work- but all that London had to offer was literally on our doorstep. These were the days before marriage and kids wore off our edgy coolness, we lived in flats near town and spent our time out at drunken press parties and jetting off on press trips around the world (though the less said about the content of these trips the better).

We were the archetypal city girls and perhaps what bonded us most was that both of us had grown up as ex-pats, her in the altogether more exotic Hong Kong, me in the surprisingly lively capital of Europe, Brussels. What we had loved about our lives was the fact that they were both in the city, we weren't provincial English girls brought up on ponies and pubs. While I can't speak for her, my teenage years were wasted smoking pretentious white Cartier cigarettes, drinking vodka cocktails and searching out the coolest clothes to go clubbing with my gay best friend.

While my fellow ex-pat Brits loved nothing more than seeking out the cheapest beer in the lowest dives Brussels had to offer, we would perch ourselves on the banquettes of the Imaginaire bar, drink violently green Pisang Ambon and watch the BCBG bon ton of Brussels party the night away. There were no drinking regulations, no closing times and although I had my fair share of over indulgence, there was none of the binge drinking culture that so plagues British cities.

I still recall teenage nights spent clubbing all evening, then leaving in the early hours to go and drink espresso at 5am in the city bars that were still buzzing at that time of the morning. The bars of my youth were nothing like the pubs my Brit contemporaries grew up with. Pubs, it seems to me, are designed to get drunk in. They are also segregated into teenage pubs where the landlord turns a blind eye to underage boozers, old man pubs were sodden lushes prop up the bar and bore for England, country pubs with their blazing log fires and ploughmans lunches, gastropubs and trendy pubs that cater, respectively, for foodies and young professionals bent on getting off with each other. Family pubs are to me a misnomer, I have no desire to entertain my children in a temple to getting bladdered.

Continental bars on the other hand are venerable institutions that are as happy to serve a slice of cake and a shot of ink black coffee to a matron in a sleek fur coat, as to serve a group of young men sweating pitchers of beer or a family group a platter of cheese and a round of soft drinks. Grandmothers rub shoulders with teenagers and no one gets noticeably drunk. It is far more civilised and my return to England and its culture of the youth disappearing off to scabby pubs to get pissed was a bit of a shock to the system.

However, I digress, the real point of my post was how much I loved living in a city. How the buzz of its cosmopolitan culture was my life blood. My bedroom faced onto a busy square and I was lulled to sleep by the clash of deliveries to the restaurants and bars below, the rumble of the night buses on the cobbled streets, the yells of football fans driving around the city to celebrate a home win. Every year the students from the local universities used to parade through the streets throwing eggs and flour at everyone who got in their way, I would hang from my bedroom window to watch their messy progress. There is a famous jazz festival that is held each May across the city and the strains of the bands floated up through my window, but all this bustle and noise was a lullaby and I couldn't fall asleep without its muted cacophony.

When I moved back to England it took my three years to get to London. I hated every moment of those years of excile from the city and made every excuse to travel to the capital. Arriving in town never failed to infuse me with a buzz of excitement. When I used to take the train and boat in pre-Eurostar days, arriving in the arched hallways of Victoria and breathing in that dirty city air would fill me with a thrilling fizz of adrenaline. I would dive into the warm and fuggy embrace of the tube to emerge in Oxford Street or on the Kings Road, Camden Town or the elegance of the Embankment aching to explore and begin my urban adventure.

I still get that frisson now when I leave my leafy suburban home, hop on the tube at our quaintly old-fashioned station, complete with proper waiting rooms and a fireplace, and emerge 40 minutes later in the filthy heart of my city. Before Christmas there was talk of moving away, but after one day exploring festive London, the glinting Christmas lights strung across Regent's Street, the opulent displays in the windows of Fortnum & Mason, the festooned arches of the Burlington Arcade, I knew I couldn't do it.

I couldn't follow all my friends who have fled the capital in search of better schools, bigger houses, cleaner air. Every time I visit I feel like a little part of me is dying. I am a city girl and I need the shriek of sirens, the stench of exhaust fumes, the crush of a myriad of different nationalities, the perfume of a thousand exotic cuisines, the shimmering plate glass shop windows showing off wares I can never afford, the rush of black taxis and towering red buses, the sliver grey slice of the Thames running between banks lined with City law firms and modernist theatres and galleries. The corner shops that never close, run by refugees who speak broken English, a takeaway that is always five minutes away, pavements clogged with a local paper filled with national news, the dirt, the disorder, the sheer life of a world class city is what drives me.

NVG says she sometimes misses having a job at the heart of it all, and while I revel in the luxury of working from home, I know what she means. I was in town yesterday for a meeting and it reminded me of the camerarderie of work, of the fun we had together in the office. I am not sure I would be keen to go back, as I don't miss the sweaty commuting or the hours of busy work, the office politics or the ineffectual managers, but the excuse to go into the city on a regular basis might almost make up for it.

So a heartfelt thank you from one City girl to another, for reminding me just what I love about living in London.

The sun has got his hat on

2010-04-20T17:49:00.003+01:00

The air is fragrant with the fresh green scent of mown grass, the trees are blooming with acid bright leaves and the sky is a rich vibrant blue. As I walk through the park the brook glints with diamond flashes of light, ripples on the surface lit like snaking trails of jewels, the surface dappled with the shadows of branches grown heavy with their springtime finery. The careworn, drab garb of winter is cast off in favour of a fecund display of rebirth and growth.

Daisies dot the vivid green grass, little spots of white beauty showing off their widespread petals, daffodils bob their yellow heads, dancing in the breeze on their elegant stems. Beneath the trees indigo violets peek coyly from the deep green undergrowth, while multicoloured patches of crocuses dazzle in the sunlight. Majestic chestnut trees froth with overblown white blossom like a bride dressed up for a spring wedding.

Pristine springtime sees the world washed fresh and bright, the mud patches and bare branches of winter a memory, the dusty burnt brown lawns and heat of the summer a promise of the future.

Before I had children I never much cared for spring, I always loved autumn the best, but all that has changed as after a winter of keeping the boys cooped up inside a stuffy and increasingly oppressive house, it is a joy to greet the first new shoots of spring by flinging the door open and and the children out. This weekend was the first they spent playing in the garden. The twins rolling around in a homemade ball pool, giggling and juggling the plastic spheres, the boys leapt around on the trampoline, sought new stick weapons and harassed innocent insect life with their overenthusiastic curiosity.

We cleared out the chaos that was our garden shed and unearthed a plastic cornucopia of old paddling pools, buckets and spades, beachballs and lonely, single armbands. As fast as I could throw away punctured inflatables and fractured sand toys, the boys rescued them from the black binbag of doom and declared them precious members of their toy family. Despite this assistance we soon amassed a car full of rubbish for the dump, which my husband was dispatched to dispose of.

We are now the proud possessors of a tidy shed and a winnowed stash of summer toys that I am hoping will see a lot more use than they did last year, when the promised barbecue summer turned into a typical British huddle indoors against the rain summer instead.

Boys will be boys

2010-04-19T11:05:00.004+01:00

This Easter my four-year-old was taken to a new playgroup in the local church, not I should add through any great religious conviction on our part, but simply because this is where they are held. At the end he was handed a palm crucifix as is traditional at this time of year. I knew nothing of this until he pointed it at me as he climbed out of the car and pretended to shoot me with it. Despite my strong atheist tendencies I was shocked at seeing a cross used in this way and told him so.

He looked back, puzzled and said "But mummy, Jesus was killed by a crucifix". Ah the logic of youth. I could do nothing but burst out laughing as continued to strafe me with his Holy weapon.

This came back to me when I read about the recent study that reveals that boys love of guns, cars and trains is nothing to do with parental conditioning and everything to do with their basic biological urges. Though I feel this hardly needed to be the basis of a scientific study as a few trips to the park with my boys could have told the boffins exactly the same thing.

Even with a slightly girly boy as my eldest, we have still lived through the various little boy crazes from Bob the Builder, through Power Rangers, Ben 10, Star Wars, Dr Who, and I am reliably informed that we have WWF to look forward too. What joy. Every trip to the park is punctuated with stops to pick up a stick to use as a gun or Light Sabre, and it's always amusing watching my boys fight with the local dogs over ownership of the aforementioned sticks.

The sacrilegious four-year-old built up a whole stockpile of stick weapons under our decking and was devastated when I instigated a zero tolerance policy and binned the lot.

Boys are also drawn to any form of gadgetry, from TV remote controls (you know who you are Twin 1) to the XBox, Wii, computers, iPods, iPhones etc etc. If I ever want to quiet all four in one go I just need to let them loose in the living room with free reign to play with whatever technology they can operate.

I can't imagine what it would be like to live in a house with girls who played with dolls and make up, who wanted to pick flowers rather than fight with sticks, who wanted to watch Hannah Montana rather than endless Ben 10 cartoons, who were drawn by the sparkly allure of the Barbie displays, rather than to the plastic heaven that is the Bakugan aisle.

But by now I don't think I would have the skills necessary to bring up a girl, not unless she was happy to fight with sticks, get muddy jumping over streams and wasn't too bothered if her dolls became unwitting pawns in internecine alien warfare.