In which I am mostly overcaffeinated

I have had a very busy day. Actually, I haven't, and the fact that I even think it was busy means that I need to take my broken toe back to work and see what a proper day looks like again. The husband is on holidays, and so I was free to gad about all day, within the limitations of the bus routes.
I spent the morning doing a bit of dissertation, but mostly bunging small children into their clothes and force-feeding them porridge and bits of banana. Not hard work.
Then I met a friend for coffee, which turned into lunch, and a ventilating session for himself (about his mother) and me (about the wastage of money in the NHS). He went off, and I realised I'd left behind the caramel square I had been tasked to bring home, so had to trundle back round to where we'd had lunch. Fortunately, it was still there, although it had been taken into the kitchen for safekeeping.
Home, via a bookshop.
Small amount of ironing. Made very handy dinner, then was delivered to my dissertation class. The good people at the University had sent the email about the class to the wrong dissertation group, so we were all there in error. In order to prevent a riot, the tutor had us all discuss how we were getting along, and then we left - almost two hours earlier than we'd expected.
A friend offered to bring me home, so we went via yet more coffee and more buns, and a ventilating session for her (about the parlous job situation) and me (about the people we work with).
Home. Idly looked over my talk for tomorrow. Blogged. Utterly prostrate after my so-called busy day. I hate to say it, but I need to get back to work.

Feet of lead

I've to give a talk on Thursday, and have been troubled by it for some days now. Inspiration finally struck tonight, and I had it done in no time flat - glad it did, but why must it take do long to be inspired?*

* Maybe it's not as great as I'd like to think. 

Where am I?

I have to give a short talk later in the week, about my career and how I got to this not-so-illustrious stage. I feel rather a fraud, as I am still in a training post, so am not really any place other than in the middle of it all. In addition, there are some much more important people on the programme and so I don't want to appear like a pretentious dolt. 

I still can't get anything much in the shoe line over my broken toe, so I am not even sure what to wear. I suspect that jeans would be out. I might have to wear guttees, though. 

My big boy was having too much fun playing with his cousin to have his usual two-hour afternoon sleep today, so he took himself off to bed at 7.30pm, wearing all his clothes. I pulled him out at 9.30pm, changed his nappy and put on his pyjama bottoms. Sure, he will be half-dressed in the morning. Much more efficient. I might try it myself.

Head melting

I have had one of those weekends where it seems that the contents of my skull are exceeding its capacity by about 40%. It is not that my head is sore, it just feels rather crammed and about to burst, exuberantly, all over the kitchen.

One of my very nice sisters-in-law arrived yesterday, on her way to spend a few days at home. We all went out for breakfast, via a small issue with a large toy scorpion and an unhappy two-year-old ("It's scary. I don't want it," he said, quietly but firmly. It is a trifle embarrassing when he takes an instant dislike to gifts.) (But it was rather creepy.) The spouse headed off Out West with his sister, and the boys and I settled in for a day to ourselves.

The unhappy one was just away for an afternoon sleep, the smaller and happy one was snoozing, and I was contemplating (a) coffee (b) dissertation (c) a magazine (d) a combination when my really good friend, E phoned:
"Right, you said you wanted to get out. Come for coffee!"
"I can't, I'm sorry - spouse away Out West with his sister. Will you come round to my house?"
"No, come out! Meet me then! Get in the car!"
"Sure I can't drive, you eejit, my toe is still broken!"
"I'm coming to get you. We can bring the boys with us."
"We can't, the wee one's asleep and the big one's just away to sleep!"
"I'll come round."

I hate making people feel like I don't want to see them now that I have children. Anyway, E was on her way and there wasn't a bite of sweet stuff in the house, or anything nice to eat. So I made the fastest scones ever (surprisingly successful). I couldn't put on the mixer and wake the small people, and my baking cupboard needs replenished so I am a bit short on various ingredients, so I ended up making white chocolate blondies, which again were amazingly successful. E arrived just as the blondies came out of the oven, and I had a very enjoyable time. She was totally harassed by my big boy, who thinks she is brilliant, so I am not convinced that she found it very relaxing, but she is man enough not to rub it in.

In the middle of all of this, another chum started texting because his mother was driving him potty and he likes to escape in these situations. Next, the postman arrived with a very nasty letter, and an invoice for £500. I am pretty sure that this is unjustified, even though I was expecting it, but it still made me feel rather wobbly all weekend and I am still not quite settled about it all. I have written a polite, but firm, letter, pointing out the error in their assessment of the situation, and am returning their bill by registered post in the morning. It is all rather worrying. The last dealings I had with this outfit were not long before my small boy was due to be born, and I felt so ill after an unpleasant phone conversation with them that I had to come home early from work. I would point out that I am not the wobbly kind, so perhaps this is an indication of how problematic this outfit has become.

I am still feeling wobbly today. I have got very little work done this weekend. 

My brain hurts

I've been writing (not enough) and procrastinating (wildly), and I'm very tired of both. I do not know how to develop my goldfish-like attention span. Must write more!

Waster

Of course, I didn't write oodles of glorious prose, or even a couple of hundred words of a shiterature review. But I am hard at it, and am now only 1100 words behind target! Joy! Rapture!
I was deserted by the husband yesterday; he went away Out West to see his parents. I had to tell the big boy that Daddy was working very late. He is very attached to his father. I decided, a long time ago, that I was going to sing him a song*, so that when he is a big man and I am just a memory, he will sing the song to his own little ones and think of his Mammy, who loves him so much.

The song has been through a few revisions, but is currently "Mama's going to buy you a mockingbird." Because he is the sweetest little boy in town. Sorry. I didn't say it wasn't going to be cheese-ridden. So I bunged him into bed last night, in his Batman budgie-smugglers (and a nappy, I am no fool), and his Spiderman pyjamas, and his DRWHO I LOVES DRWHO MAMMY ESTER MINATE vest. "Sing me a song," says he, for we have this wee routine about it. "Oh yes, pet, what song do you want me to sing?" "Sing me the baby song! Sing me the baby song like Daddy sings it!"

Daddy has sung it to him twice, and has to look up the words on his iPhone. I have sung it until I am hoarse and could write a treatise on the lyrical content.

He is very attached to his father. I am disgruntled. I am away to bed in a huff.


* I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but the big boy doesn't seem to care.

Febrile convulsion

I have managed 90 rotten words so far, but am now going upstairs and am not going to bed until I've got a slightly more respectable tally for the day. I had multiple interruptions from my big boy, and I am so wrecked with emotion at going back to work soon that I have little heart for chasing him away. Then I rather unexpectedly had to visit a cousin in hospital. It was unexpected because I did not expect to be able to go, but also because we (sister and I) had slightly forgotten to arrange to visit her, and Hints were being dropped. So, we went, and had a much more jolly time than is allowed. My cousin is recuperating after surgery, having fallen at home. She is now sufficiently mended to tease her about being drunk, which she was not. In the manner of large families, she is the oldest cousin on Dad's side, and is 74. My sister is the youngest on this side, and she is 32. The nursing staff were somewhat befuddled when we asked if we could visit and they enquired if we were relatives....The nicest part about this very large extended family is that we are almost all in reasonably frequent contact. It really is very pleasing. 

Writing fever

I have been footering at a course of study for the last two-and-a-half years. It's one of those delightful ones where you spend all day working, and then go to a class after work, to be lectured by educationalists. It makes me quite cross, because nine-tenths of the evidence they base their edicts upon is pure bunkum. Anyway, I need to gain a qualification in education, so that I can in some way legitimise my teaching commitments. In these brave new clinical days, it's not enough to pitch up and teach a group of students any more, no, you've got to have a certificate that you've been exposed to the theory of it all. That sounds very anti-education, and it's not meant to do so. It's just hard to spend all day using a reproducible evidence base to guide clinical practice, and then trot off to class in the evenings and look at the results of focus groups, where you can interpret it any damned way you like.

Anyway. I'm supposed to be producing a dissertation this year, towards a Masters. The one of you who may be reading may remember that I once produced a nearly proper bit of thesis and got a day out in my best clothes on the  strength of it. So 20 000 words seems like a piece of banana cake. Except it's not, naturally, because I've left it until beyond the last possible moment, and am now trying to cut as many corners as I possibly can. I started yesterday, and have given myself the unambitious target of a thousand words a day. Day two is over, and I'm happy to say that I'm at 2064. And that's with bunking off until 4pm. I'm going rapidly bonkers, being shut in the house all day with a broken toe. So the sister took a day off work to spring me, took me out for a large brunch and a bit of a hobble round the shops. I bought a small birthday present for a young friend. I tried on a lot of jeans. I do not like shopping for jeans. But I did like going out with my sister. 

Llivestock

Yesterday, we had an imaginary dog. Unfortunately, I kicked over his non-imaginary water bowl. Twice. Flipping mutt.

Hop-along

Today I have done an urgent errand, had a very nice chunk of sticky toffee pudding (for therapeutic purposes, in order to give my friend some respite from his endless PhD), and been chatted up by a ageing phycologist. It has been quite the day. My leg and ankle are very sore from hobbling about and saving my broken toe, but at least I have made a start on he literature review for my Masters. It seemed like a good idea at the time. 

In which I am belatedly quick-witted

I find many things irksome, and I really don't try very hard to conceal it when I do. Perhaps I should. One of the things that irks me the most, or rather, one of the type of people who irks me the most, are the Competitive Mummies. 

I have two children. They are the most excellent creatures ever to grace the face of the Earth. They are handsome, clever, witty and charming. Well, I think so. But you (as a casual observer) would be forgiven for watching for a short while, and then quietly slipping away, muttering to yourself, "Unruly spawn! Beastly, vile creatures [explanatory note: the older one is very fond of picking his nose and eating what he finds. I am unable to disabuse him of the notion that 'boogers' are a delicacy] with nasty habits, doubly-incontinent and incoherent of speech. The little one is practically bald!"

The only thing in my favour since I reproduced is that I don't actually care if your child walked sooner than mine, or can talk more, or is already toilet trained. As my own wonderful Mammy says: "Do you know many adults who can't walk, talk or go to the toilet?"However,  I am in a minority. I am a little tired of the ceaseless comparisons, overt and covert, and the whole atmosphere that surrounds gatherings of Mummies. Sorry, lads, I'm not your Mummy. I'm your Mammy, and she's a whole other animal entirely.

On Sunday, a sort-of-colleague of the Spouse landed in the seat beside us at Mass. Her two children are both very similar ages to mine, and as soon as the Priest left the altar, she took pains to explain how fast her little one could crawl, and that he was pulling himself up to stand. Combine this with feigned horror at his tender age, and pointed looks at my fat wee lump who thinks rolling over is revolutionary (pardon the pun), and you'll understand why I spent Mass praying not to say anything mean to her. Dear Reader (and I think that there may not even be one of you), I was very good. Of course, I simmered all day and then had a brainwave at 4.30pm. What I should have said was, "Oh, isn't it funny how they grow up - sure remember how <my older> walked so much sooner than <your older>, and sure you'd never see the difference now at all!" 

I suppose it doesn't count as being good if you hold on to it until Tuesday and then blog about it. Ah well.

I remember when the Spouse and I were going out together. It was nice. I certainly didn't spend the evening  washing dishes, hearing a voice from upstairs thunder, "No! Take your hand out of there and flush it!" 

I think there's going to be a lot of poo on this blog. In more ways than one.

Hashtag Irish Mammy

- Away to Mass for St Patrick's Day, and not a shamrock between us! Desprit altogether, this house. 

- But I have on my green jumper!

- Yes, but it is a bit of a shitty green. But it suits you! Isn't it lucky that the colour of S H ONE T (for we must currently spell all words that do not bear repeating by a two-year-old) suits you?

I think that other couples have much more cerebral conversations, perhaps about poetry or The Arts, or maybe about shared interests or mutual hobbies. The Big One is away to bed, and the love of my life has already fallen asleep on the armchair. Another exciting evening awaits. I am away to scrub a saucepan. 

Breakdown

Three days into my new blog, and I have broken down already. In my defence, I was so tired last night, I went to bed with unbrushed teeth. It's just as well I hadn't painted my face yesterday morning, or I'd have taken that to bed as well. I am tired of hobbling, but at least the short people were much nicer yesterday than they were on Thursday. 

Rather pleasantly, yesterday brought two cheques from Ernie, each for £25. It is very old-fashioned, and probably from a different social class or something, but I do like the premium bonds. 

Today, I am going to a birthday party for my excellent nephew, who is three. There will be cake and ice-cream. Underneath the juvenile high spirits, it is also a small celebration that my sister is still alive to enjoy these events. Given the level of 'excitement' when her son was born, she really shouldn't be here at all. Thank God that she came through it, and that's definitely a post for another time. 

My nerdy big boy is watching Dr Who on his Daddy's iPad, and my little one is kicking the cot to bits in an attempt to get someone to lift him and give him a bottle. I must get up. 

Updating and downregulating

I have spent a large proportion of the day fiddling with my computer, letting it think about things, and returning to fiddle with it again. However, I have now upgraded to OS X Mavericks, which makes me feel really quite Top Gunnish. All my photos have survived the journey, which is the very best bit of all.
I have found myself in possession of two small children. One of them is two years and (almost) eight months old, and the other one is almost eight months old. Having them so close together seemed like an excellent idea at the time, and I am sure I will find it wonderful when they are playing together and being good chums. Meanwhile, the big one is ligging about like a small alcoholic (bizzare mood swings, partly-coherent speech, random acts of violence, and mostly incontinent), whilst the wee one is teething like mad and hates the world today, despite usually being the nicest baby in the county. I am not allowed (or able) to put any weight on the broken toe, so am leaning on my heel/side of foot, giving me a rolling sailor-like gait. Add this to the short people and I am really quite tired tonight. No, forget that. I am bloody exhausted and so is everyone who comes in contact with me and mine.We are not very good company.

Hello, and welcome.

It's interesting, the things you learn. This weekend, I learned not to lift heavy objects with people who cannot follow instructions. Particularly if you are married to them (the co-lifter, I mean, not the heavy object). As a result of the application of a kerbstone, I am now nursing a broken toe. I have never broken a bone before. It was surprisingly sore. I am somewhat grumpy about this episode.