Birthday Blessings

Granny's seventy-somethingth birthday today.  I announced to my husband last night that I was going to get up this morning and go to church with her.  He didn't believe me at all which is fair enough as I normally don't open my eyes until at least 10 on a Sunday.

I rose at 8.45 as promised, and was going to take Sebi with me anyway, but found that hockey had been cancelled due to ice, and so as Stu was going to the gym it was going to be three of us going to church.  I had less resistance to the idea than I expected; the boys are rather devoted to their Granny.  They bounced into church and she was completely delighted and surprised to see them.  Lovely.  Now just an hour's service to get through.

I explained to Sebi that the vicar read the words in normal type and we read everything in bold.  Thus when we stood up as the service started, the vicar started speaking and Sebi joined in with:

"Introduction and Opening Hymn."

"Not that bold writing Darling", I hissed in his ear, "that's a title, you don't read that bit".

"But you said..."

My fault.  Entirely.  I accept it.  The rest of the service passed without incident, (apart from the 50 times that Zak dropped his hymn book and service sheet on the floor), until we reached the Peace.  Whilst Zak was quite happy to shake hands all around the church, Sebi was questioning me as to how he knew if he was going to want peace to be with people if he didn't know them.  He could not like them and then he wouldn't care if they had peace or not, or maybe even would prefer that they didn't.  We compromised on a handshake for everyone without him saying anything.  He eyeballed me whilst shaking all of these hands making it perfectly clear to me that he was not wishing peace upon anyone. Hopefully the congregation thought he was a mute.

They didn't want to come up for Communion as they thought it was unfair that we got bread and wine whilst they just got a pat on the head.  I see their point I suppose.  The last hurdle was when Sebi read ahead to the last page and told me that he didn't want to say that he would give his body and soul as a living sacrifice to Jesus Christ as he would rather keep his body and soul to himself.  Rather than getting into a theological debate I just told him that he could stay quiet during that bit, which he did with great vigour.

At the end of the service Granny thanked her Grandsons for their fantastic behaviour and said that it had made her birthday them being there.

"At least we only have to do it for one week", quipped Zak, "it's so boring I feel sorry for you having to go every week".  I don't think the vicar heard.  When he said goodbye to me at the door and said it was lovely to meet me whilst I was visiting my Mother, I didn't correct him.  He doesn't have to know we live down the road and I don't think he'll be seeing us again any time soon.  Happy Birthday Mother! :-)

Sebi's Stroppy Sunday...

Normally our Sundays are spent scoffing roast beef and apple pie at my parents' house. Today however, Sebi was going to a football party at 12 so Mum and Dad got some respite and we arranged our Sunday around that.  Stu and Zak were going swimming then I was going to drop Seb at the party; the three of us were going to go to lunch and then I would pick Sebi up again.

The best laid plans and all...

We arrived at the football party and as the doors to the hall opened, every little boy that had been waiting eagerly outside grabbed a football and started running happily about. Every little boy that is, bar one.  His eyes filled with tears and he looked balefully at me and said:

"Why have you brought me here?"

Erm, because you bloody asked me to?!  Fortunately, most other mothers had dumped and run whilst their little darlings enjoyed the activity on offer but I felt really sorry for the mum-of-birthday-boy who I have never met before who was hovering helplessly nearby.  If it hadn't been for her I probably would have booted him through the door and legged it out for lunch but instead I put on my best sympathetic face and coaxed my little anti-footballite into the hall.

A very well-meaning party leader immediately noticed the small sad face and tried to encourage Sebi to participate.  I could have told him straight away that he was wasting his breath and there was no way Seb was going to engage with him, but instead I pasted on a concerned motherly gaze and acted surprised when Sebi didn't immediately spring up and participate once the man had asked.  Once he was safely out of the way, I hissed at Sebi:

"Why don't you just go and kick a ball about - everybody else is?"

I received a withering glare that was like looking in a mirror whilst Sebi painstakingly explained to me that he didn't know WHICH ball he was meant to play with.  Equally patiently I explained to Sebi that there were so many balls around he could just kick any one and then if somebody else kicked that one he could choose another one and run about with it.

"What's the fun in that?"

I'd lost the battle.  I knew this now but felt I should show willing for another few minutes. Back comes the eager party man and suggests that Sebi might like to join in with the warm up that doesn't even involve any footballs, just running.  Big, fat, awkward, three-way-stary silence, broken only by me saying that we were perfectly happy sitting and watching.  The minute he turned his back we were up, coats on, apologising profusely to mum-of-birthday-boy and legging it for the exit.

I said my piece as soon as we got in the car and then we both fumed silently until we reached home.

"Change of plan", I yelled as we walked through the door, "we're going to Cafe Rouge, they sell champagne".

My husband began to remind me that I don't drink on Sundays but as he arrived in the hall and saw his youngest son who was meant to be at a party and the expression on both of our faces, he inwardly waved a fond farewell to his cheap greasy burger meal for three and resigned himself to a champagne lunch for four instead.

Later, as we had a moment alone, I informed Stu that I thought this proved Sebi was definitely floating somewhere near the autistic spectrum: unwillingness to participate in new activities, preferring to play on his own, resistance to change not to mention unable to look at anything from a non-literal perspective and his rather impressive OCD tendencies...

"Maybe he's just tired instead", (subtext 'and a little fucker that you have created by pandering to him for seven years'). suggested Stu, who then told me that I'd once again slept through the middle of the night nightmare situation.  Somebody told Sebi a riddle in the week about a girl who was murdered in her bed and it has unsettled his sleep somewhat since.  When I've been putting him to bed, I have comforted him and promised him that no murderer would ever make their way through Mummy and that I would lay down my life to protect him.

"What good is that if you have drunk a bottle of champagne and got your earplugs in; you won't even wake up", he replied.  Good point, well made.  I'll just leave Daddy to sort that one out too then.

(Loving the fact that he comes with a warning on him...😠)

Stay-at-Pub Mummy

Due to the boys' school going back two days before mine; I am in the middle of two precious days at home, without work, whilst they are at school.

Yesterday morning, we all floated downstairs, full of smiles at our change in routine; a later start and Mummy at home. Everybody had something different for breakfast - my smile did not crack.  We walked to school on a beautiful frosty morning, waved the chiddlers a fond farewell and I went off on a refreshing morning run.  I love my job but I had a flicker of doubt yesterday morning that I should be working full time when the kids are still at primary school as the whole experience had been so pleasant.

Fast forward twenty four hours: Mummy got up later this morning due to a larger amount of alcohol consumption yesterday.  The Friday treat of Dairylea Dunkers had been overlooked in the post-holiday quick-shop and so two packets of rubbish Monday - Thursday raisins were mutinously packed into school bags.  When I was standing on the doorstep ready to go the not-quite-as-cute-as-yesterday rugrats announced that they hadn't done their teeth. Of course, Sebi does the full two minutes on the tooth timer I bought him even though I was yelling that a few less seconds really wouldn't make that much difference for one day.

"But why did you buy me the timer then if it doesn't make any difference?"

He then had to add on a few seconds as he had stopped to talk to me.

We hurtled up the road and bumped into the boy that Zak had told me had been mean in the playground yesterday who then started walking with us.  They are walking and having a nice chat, with yesterday's argument obviously forgotten but I cannot help myself at finally being able to be Mother Protector so am hissing into Zak's ear:

"Do you want me to say something?  Shall I give him a Mummy Special Glare?"

Zak put his hood up, his head down and walked a little faster, hoping that the ground would swallow me whole.

I got so sick of playground politics when I was a full time Mum but nowadays a trip to the playground is a treat.  Sebi's gorgeous teacher still managed to smile at me for the second day on the trot as I leapt about in her face telling her that MY school still isn't back at work today and I'm going to the pub for lunch AGAIN.

When I saw my partner in crime for today, Ali, I jumped up and down waving with excitement that we were pub-lunching.  Ayelet in front of her thought I was jumping about because I was excited to see her instead and then realised I was waving at the person behind her...#awks

"Don't be sad.  I was only waving at Ali because I was excited about drinking wine at lunchtime";  I said; trying to make Ayelet feel better but in fact handing out insults all round.

So, it is best for everybody that I have a Dry January (8th - 12th) and head back to work next week.  I'm not cut out for this stay at home Mum business because I don't bloody stay at home; I stay in the pub.

Felices Vacaciones

We decided to strike whilst the flying iron was hot and headed off to Spain for a week after Christmas.

I think there may have been a slight bit of unspoken trepidation from pretty much everyone I know as to whether I was going to make it on this holiday or not.  I got on the plane with no hysterics however and hardly even a sweaty palm.  Zak was checking on me during take off whereas Sebi chipped in with: 'Does that wing look broken to you?"  I'd like to think he doesn't do it on purpose...but...!

I was determined to get a feel of the 'real Spain' and so we ventured into a fairly untouristy part of Andalucia.  I was pretty good at languages at school and a couple of years ago in Lanzarote, I cheerfully ordered for everyone in Spanish, so just assumed I would sail through it again.  Oh no.  It is a little bit different when nobody at all anywhere speaks any English, and everyone is completely relying on you to get them anything to eat, and an A in GCSE Spanish approximately a thousand years ago doesn't really seem to help at all! Day 1 was painful.  I headed off to the supermarket; got lost in the old town and then couldn't find my way either to the supermarket or back to the hotel.  It didn't help that I stuck out like a sore thumb in my bikini with a playsuit on top whilst the Spaniards were in jumpers, coats and scarves!

I grew in confidence however, and, by about Day 4, I was ordering confidently and not even recoiling in horror any longer if the waiters dared to talk back to me!  It's all well and good practising your phrase in your head and saying it out loud but then for goodness sake don't ask me any questions; I'm done!

We decided to eat out on New Year's Eve as the hotel was fully booked for its Gala Dinner.  As we headed out into the town we noticed that everything was shutting its shutters and everyone was heading off the streets into their houses.  My husband refused to give up however and we walked every inch of pavement in Almunecar looking for food and drink.  Eventually we found a take away selling burgers and chips.  Zak's eyes lit up but my dear husband was unwilling to sacrifice our family's NY meal to a takeaway.  I'm a firm believer of any port in a storm and so quickly ordered food for the four of us.  Stu told me that he wasn't eating take away on New Year's Eve and so I pretended I had only ordered for the kids.  A couple of hours later the cold chips were washed down a treat with Cava in our hotel room after we trudged past everyone in their finery gala-dinnering.  Pure class...

Sebi's OCD tendencies were on clear show as he started a stone collection on the beach. Out of the ten thousand million pebbles on the beach would you believe that both of the boys' favourite stones happened to be the same bloody one? What are the chances? World War 3 kicked off until we accidentally managed to get exhibit A eaten by the sea. When we came back to the beach the next day Sebi suddenly announced he wanted to check that his stone collection was still intact.  We all had our hearts in our mouths but miraculously it was still as it had been - thank goodness.  Another disaster averted.

The journey back was equally as uneventful.  My children have inherited their mother's champagne tastes however, and, when offered burger and chips in Malaga airport demanded to use 'Grandad's special card again to get into the nice lounge with WIFI and free food'.  Sorry Dad.  Thanks for that; we owe you, a lot.  We toasted Grandad's generosity as we sat down in the oasis but I had to laugh when Zak asked if all the other people were allowed in the lounge purely because of Grandad too!

A bit of winter sun and family time did wonders at this time of year.  I now need to wring out my liver and return to the real world of work for a few months before we head off on the birthday jolly.  As Zak said, I'm sure we can use our leftover euros in Muscat! ;-)