Childhood CFS – M.E. in children for Awareness Week.
We don’t do much serious spouting here on LittleStuff, but what’s the point of owning a web site with thousands of visitors if I don’t actually use it occasionally, huh? So.
It’s M.E. Awareness Week this week. I’m far too busy to be anything like a proper, proactive fundraiser and go bake cakes or shave heads or something. So instead, I’ll do what I do best. I’ll ramble on a bit, and tell you a little about me. Well, not me, my son. Who is 12, and has had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (or M.E.) for two years now.
Jolly, No.1, Boy and Pink - aka 'The Four'. One place, one time, sitting still. Now THAT's a rare sight to see.
He was a normal, bright, funny, annoying 9yr old, with ambitions to be a rock star. Or an architect. Either/or. Christmas 2009 he had a run of tonsillitis, and didn’t really seem to pick back up. He had a couple of weeks off in January, again in March, seemed to feel better over the holidays, but simply wasn’t well enough to return to school after Easter. His throat glands were wider than his jawline and visible across the room, he had lumps in his groin and armpits, he would sob with pain in his joints, was sensitive to noise, couldn’t stand company…
The GP said it was a virus… but as the weeks went by more and more blood tests were done.
The tests kept coming back negative, but our child didn’t get any better.
Where had our shining boy gone? In his place we had a stodgy, moody, pale, angry boy, crying through the nights in pain and sadness.
By the beginning of June the GP had hit a dead end – she finally let on that they had been looking very hard for Lymphoma, but had (thankfully) found nothing to physically cause the symptoms, and so she passed us on to the paediatrician.
More scans, more bloods, more x-rays… and finally we met the Consultant in July, who immediately diagnosed CFS.
The shock of the label was balanced by the relief of a diagnosis at last, of a finally knowing WHAT was wrong with the shining boy who had changed so very much in the last 5 months.
I don’t think we really understood, then, what a long road we had ahead. What a huge impact it would have on all of our lives. What effect his illness would have on the childhood of all our children, not just his own.
But it’s two years on, and we finally see the light ahead.
He has an understanding and maturity beyond his years. He understands his limits, he understands the price he will pay if he chooses to visit a friend and use the trampoline, or go swimming, or have a nerf war, or play on the river… he understands that for every hour of fun, he will no doubt endure a couple of nights of sleepless pain, and days feeling sick, clouded by a frustratingly dull-witted brain.
He understands that sometimes, it’s worth it.
With Blue. Who doesn't like hats. Obviously.
He is now in High School (having missed the last term of Yr 5 and an awful lot of Yr 6), and just since Easter is attempting a full day in school. Most days. He doesn’t do PE, and he doesn’t do a full day of lessons yet, he simply uses the extra study room to catch up on work missed and do his homework while his body adjusts to the effect of a full day.
He gets called ‘special’. He gets called ‘the fat kid’. Other kids happily tell him there’s nothing wrong with him.
He’s developed a tough skin – though he’ll quietly tell me of the taunts,in the quiet of his room late on the nights he can’t sleep. Thank goodness he has a large bunch of lovely friends too.
And sometimes he simply retreats to his room, plays his stereo at full volume, and we hear his voice crack as he bellows Santana’s ‘Just Feel Better’…
“I’m gonna try anything that just feels better
Tell me what to do
You know I can’t see through the haze around me
And I do anything to just feel better
I can’t find my way
God I need a change
And I’d do anything to just feel better
Any little thing that just feel better”
He plods through the bad days, laughs through the good ones. And thankfully, the good ones are winning. With a little luck, come September he’ll be starting a new year at school looking like every other boy on the verge of teenager-dom. Hoo-bloody-rah.
You can read more on M.E. / CFS on the AYME website here.
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The Four, The Laundry, The Life… In Which I Am A Bona Fide Rescue Hero.
Rather a long time ago now, I began a regular column right here on LittleStuff – ‘The Four, the Laundry, The Life…‘, a weekly chunter about anything I fancied, really, your usual mumblings about life in a busy house with four children and two businesses to run. But as so often happens The Other Stuff got a bit in the way, and the column took a back seat.
However, tired of the incessant nagging from Certain People (*peers over glasses in a pointed fashion* yes, you know who you are), I’m Back.
Oh Yes.
I knew you’d be pleased.
Don’t squeal too loudly, eh?
So; new and fresh off the press, here’s the first of the 2011 come back tour of The Four, the Laundry, the Life…
The River Stour. Scene of The Lamb Incident
Two days ago I was walking Blue (new-to-you member of The Four household – now 6mth old Rottweiler puppy. Who eats wallpaper and all manner of disgusting things.) late in the afternoon, just as it was getting on for dusk. We headed straight down to the river – only to hear enormous bellowing bleats from the opposite bank. At first I couldn’t place it, but then I saw that a small lamb had slipped down the steep bank and was perched at the edge of the river, in water up to its stomach, bleating furiously at me, clearly unable to get back up.
I stood and looked and muttered useless placatory murmurings at the poor lamb, as I checked my options. There is no one around to help, no fisherman this late in the day, and as dark is closing in fast it’s unlikely anyone else will be along now. I have no clue who owns the fields (and therefore the flock) on the opposite bank. There are no bridges across the river for a mile in either direction. I seriously considered stripping and wading across… and possibly would have done if I hadn’t had Blue with me; she’d simply follow me in and then no doubt get herself drowned.
So I had to go home. Worrying and fretting and dwelling on miserable lamb-dying-of-hypothermia type thoughts as I stumped across the fields. When I got in I spoke to C, and he calmly told me there’s nothing I could do, we didn’t know the farmer, it was just life; yes it was sad, but really not to worry.
I, being more Essex Girl than tough-trained country boy, couldn’t sleep for fretting. It was my first thought when I woke the next day, and I worried all day about the poor lamb bleating sadly, lonely, slowly dying of hypothermia in cold black muddy river waters…
Yesterday afternoon I was determined Blue patrol would absolutely not, no way, no how, go near the river – I had no intention of being haunted forever more with images of a lamb corpse I could have saved.
But then, as we ambled gently across the first fields, I realised that I really needed to know… so gritting my teeth we headed over the stile and back down to the riverbank.
As we approached all was silent, and there appeared no sign… phew…
And then we heard it.
STILL bleating furiously!
Much weaker, much sadder, much muddier, but still there!
This time, further along the river on the opposite bank (the same side as lamb) there was a tractor rolling his fields. So Blue and I legged it (well stumbled quite fast in wellies, ‘legging it’ is a bit of an ambitious statement in the circumstances) back up the hill, over the next stile, down the hill the other side (bloody Dorset and its bloody hedgerows, what’s wrong with a nice easy-to-climb fence between fields, eh?) along the river bank, scrambled through another hedge (hurrah) and we were level with the tractor driver.
I stood on the bank of the river and waved in a polite-but-urgent fashion at the tractor driver.
He politely ignored me.
I waved in a slightly more vigorous no-i-do-mean-i-need-to-speak-to-you fashion.
He spotted me, and cheerily waved back.
*eyes rolling*
So I let rip with a ferociously lunatic wave, in a don’t-you-understand-there’s-a-lamb’s-life-at-stake-here kind of way, and he stopped the tractor and approached (with some caution…).
Oh the relief when he said yes the sheep were his. So I told him! I did! I said (almost word for word) ” last-night-in-the-dark-I-saw-the-lamb-it’s-in-the-river-but-couldn’t-get-to-it-it’s-been-in-there-since-last-night-must-be-freezing-lucky-to-be-alive-still-just-by-the-cow-crossing-right-there-oh-its-still-alive-pleasecouldhecomeandrescueit?”
Slightly bemused by the onslaught I think he got the gist of what I was saying and set off down the river bank. I determinedly stumbled back through the hedge, across the field, up the hill over the stile, back down the hill and along the bank until I was opposite the lamb – just as his much more leaisurely (flat) saunter got him there at almost the same time. Was rather proud of my speed, actually. When I stopped puffing and gasping for oxygen.
So there we were, one each side of the river; I pointed him along, as he could hear the bellowing but couldn’t see it from above, and he slithered down the bank (Instant thoughts? “Oh no! Now I’m going to have to wade in and rescue the farmer instead!”) and he rescued the lamb!
Hurrah!
Not THE lamb, just another we saw recently. That hadn't fallen into a river.
It had a dicky leg, which was obviosuly why it hadn’t been able to clamber up the bank, but with some prodding (and a bit of carrying from said farmer amid muttering about getting soaked and mucky) he hobbled off into the rest of the flock to find its Mum.
At least 22 hours in the river for a tiny lamb – amazing huh?
I was rather proud of Lamb Rescue.
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The Four, the Laundry The Life… “I’ll never be a Proper Mum”
I read this article in the Guardian this morning two days ago (see? If I was a Proper Mum this post wouldn’t have been sitting as a draft for two days) sighing and nodding and feeling slightly cheered.
So – apparently it’s not just me then?
See, I don’t really mention this stuff much. My friends know me well. And I’m sure the teachers at school are fully aware that I’m a mother who rarely brushes hair, and frequently examines school jumpers to decide which will be okay with a quick damp-cloth-rub. But who exactly ARE the ‘Proper Mums’? Because it was made known to me recently that a couple of the Mums at school consider me to be one such because I frequently don’t cluster and chat in the playground (am too busy herding children in late – the Wake & Shake is to give us an extra 5 minutes to scurry in, yes?) and rarely join the up-in-arms groups of fretters. But that’s just because Jolly is third boy. With No.1 son I was just like them – I’m simply a bit longer in the school tooth now, so feel more relaxed in my lack of spellings practice and inability to fill in the reading diary.
So, they think I’M a ‘Proper Mum’. But we all know I’m not (ha! Those that know me are sniggering at the very thought). And what about those women I see cheerily striding around the playground? Well-dressed, hair gleaming, lip gloss in place, children sparklingly clean and pressed, effortlessly galvanising everyone for the latest PTA event? ARE they actually that perfect? Or is it all a facade, and at home they have a grey rim round the bath, black cat hair on the white towels in the airing cupboard, and a laundry pile that never shrinks? Or maybe they just have an army of cleaners, an au pair and no day job?
Or is it just numbers, and if I only had the one (or maybe two) I would be a real life grown up Perfect Parent like them?
No, I think not. I am not destined to be Smart. Not in the the gleamy, well-presented sense.
Nor am I destined for Perfect Parent status with my lack of dedication to my children’s spare hours, the inability to remember to sign them up for extra-curricular activities, my cupboards-bare approach to snacks (they get oh-so-healthy apples or nothing, because it’s all that’s left rolling in the fruit bowl when I once again forget to buy/make anything more exciting for them). And as for staying at parties to chat… surely, that’s one of my few chances to have less of them at home, yes?
And actually – I don’t really mind. Life’s just too short to worry about such stuff.
My children are bright, independent, healthy (well, if you ignore No.1′s chronic illness), fun… and best of all happy. They are also welcomed wherever we go as polite, well-mannered and charming.
For me, that’s Job Done.
Go have a read for yourself - and let me know if you are also nodding in agreement. Or (come on, confess) do you finish it feeling faintly smug?
Read MorePictures by Pink…
We’ve had the Fisher Price Kids Tough Digital Camera on review – ostensibly for Jolly, who at 6/7 is just too young (and ham-fisted) to trust with a proper camera. But as much as he loves it, as soons as he puts it down it is picked up by Pink. Well, it’s supposed to be tough enough to handle a toddler, so we let her to see what would happen (in the interests of serious reviewing of course, and nothing whatsoever to do with tantrum-avoidance defence mechanism if we tried to remove it from her hot little grasp).
Well.
What a surprise this turned out to be.
The full review is coming oh-so-shortly over on LittleStuff, but I thought you might like a sneak peek at just what kind of pics a camera which can be bounced all the way down the stairs (oh yes, it can; we’ve seen it) takes in the hands of small children:
(NB – these are all straight out of camera, no photoshop has touched these images…)
This is one Jolly took when he snuck up on Pink.
And this is her once she knew he was taking a picture...
Pink decided Boy would enjoy a photo shoot 30 seconds after he got up. He didn't.
The first of many self portraits... Naturally she is her own favourite subject.
I so love this. I also love that she figured out putting the camera on the floor and lying down in front of it.
No, the quality isn’t the best, and the file sizes are small, and the colours are off. But they remind me of old polaroid images, and I LOVE downloading them, seeing what they’ve come up with. Not to mention the fact that I don’t wince too badly when I hear the camera clatter to the floor or bouncing down the stairs. Again.
Read MoreThe Four, the Laundry, the Life… In which Green turns Pink.
When we finally decided that perhaps it was time for a room-shift, Pink was removed from the spare room (where her cot had been camping next to the spare bed for… erm… two years *blush*), and moved into the tiniest box room – previously Jolly’s. He, in turn, was moved to the delights of the ex-spare bedroom, which is far more suitably sized to a growing boy, and was only ever actually filled with visitors a few times a year. Needless to say he uses the space a le-e-etle bit more frequently than that.
Anyhoo, Pink inherited Jollys room colour choice too; green. REALLY green. Like full on lime green. We have reviewed thoughtfully decorated with wall stickers, but still – it’s very green. We put up an irresistably sweet fairy lampshade too, in shades of pink. Goes nicely with the green walls, as you can imagine.
So. the time has come – she will finally get a Room Fit For A Girl.
This is the conversation we had last night
“how would you like us to paint your walls, like we painted No.1′s?” (*NB. No.1 has just had his room decoated for the first time since he was 5. Dinosaurs gave given way to the most awesomable pre-teen room you could imagine. Much smugness form non-decorating parents) “How about we paint your walls so they weren’t green any more? Would you like yellow walls?” “no…. Pink” “mmm, how about nice blue walls like the sky?” “no… Pink” “White?” “Pink” (getting a bit louder and much more grunty)“Orange?” Jaw’s jutting now “Pink.”
We decided to admit defeat at this point.
Honestly, we have no idea where it has come from. She is surrounded by boys toys – very few girlie items have been bought for her, and she spends a lot of her time ignoring the beautiful rag dolls to have tea parties with soldiers and cars. And you would not believe how realistic she is when she’s playing snipers.
Ah well. Pink’s better than lime green, yes?
Look who’s back! The return of Mustafa.
Thank you for all the concerned messages, mails and tweets regarding the loss of Mustafa, and some of the genius suggestions of places we had yet to look. Thankfully, just when we had finally given up all hope and were starting to compose begging mails to Maileg themselves for the supply of just-one-more even though they no longer make Mustafas, a gleeful shout erupted from Jolly’s bedroom yesterday afternoon.
“I’ve GOT HIM! I’ve found MUSTAFA! PI-I-I-I-I-I-INK!!! Look who’s home!!!!!”
Pink gasped, gazed, beamed, clasped him to her, quite literally jumped up and down squeaking”‘yippee! yippee!” and then rushed off to reunite him with Daddy mouse and Mimi mouse.
He had been languishing all this time behind Jollys chest of drawers.
Of course.
Anyhoo, the mouse is found, and is back where he belongs…
See how happy he looks to be home?
Nearly as happy as a certain Pink someone was to see him.
Missing – One Mouse. (*Warning – emotional post alert*)
As you, dear reader, will know, a love affair started in this house around Christmas time. These charming little mice did bewitch all of our hearts, but for Pink the love was total. This is her on Christmas Day night, poorly and restless in Mummy & Daddy’s bed:
And so the love began. Mimi and Mustafa (named by Gangy (Granny) on a whim, and apparently unable to change it to anything else) have been constant night time bed companions, and constant day time play companions too. They smoosh happily in her bag to accompany her on the school runs. They have ousted the usual plastic residents of the Happyland play village. They are apparently very partial to a cheese sandwich for lunch (grated please).
So much so that when that bad bad lady at Armstrong Ward wrote to me about a new batch, the family simply had to be added to. A bigger boy mouse was received, pronounced ‘Daddy Mouse!’ and gladly welcomed into the Mousefold. Bedtimes changed a little – now we had three mini beds for Daddy, Mimi and N-nuffa (woe betide anyone else calling him anything other than Mustafa, mind). Mice had to be called to bed, kissed on the nose and tucked up before Pink would receive the same treatment…
But. Tragedy has befallen our little mouse trio. Sadness flows where once merriment lived.
Mustafa is missing.
At first, we thought ‘oh, he’ll turn up’. The first bed time was hard – the Mice family was sadly tucked in, and the empty bed stroked wistfully. Big, tired eyes gazed up, a small lip wobbled. “Where’s N-nuffa, Mummy?”
Glib promises were made that he was off on an adventure, that we would find him in the morning.
A second day went past, with a more thorough search. A second bedtime with a sad little empty bed made ready for the missing Mustafa Mouse.
A sad little hand slept clutching his blanket for another two nights.
Yesterday I noticed that Daddy mouse and Mimi mouse were lying carelessly on the bedroom floor. It seems that an incomplete mice family is too sad to play with. Bedtime last night there were no mice in the bed. Six o’ clock this morning I was woken by sad girl calling quietly for her N-nuffa.
We have overturned the toybox, we have rummaged down the back of the sofa, we have checked in the shoe box, we have peered, poked and prodded into every dark corner we can find.
Where oh where oh where is Mustafa?
Read MoreThe Four, the Laundry, the Life… In Which I Don’t Do Valentines Day.
So the husband and I have been married for (counts on fingers… and toes) 18 years this year. Which means we’ve been together for 20 (*wails* I’m so not o-o-old enough for those numbers…).
A few years ago, we just stopped ‘doing’ valentines. Does that mean that romance is dead? Hardly. But as times gone by, it has changed. Different things matter. When I was 17, it was the most romantic thing in the world that he turned up at my door with a dozen red balloons. When I was 18, I opened the door to a stranger in a suit and cap instead – the limo driver who was taking us out to dinner and a show (Michael Barrymore, doing stand up. Yes, THAT long ago. Yes, I laughed till I cried – he really was funny once). When I was 24 we spent the whole valentines weekend walking, talking, cooking, eating… and planning on having a baby in two years time (I was pregnant a month later).
And much as I love and cherish those memories, have they actually been the most romantic of our time together? No, actually, they haven’t. Far more precious is the memory of us in bed, him lying widthways with his head on my rounded stomach singing Christmas songs to our unborn child. In August.
Or when I had been in labour for 14 hours, and he noticed that my feet were freezing, rummaged in my labour bag, found socks and put them on my feet – without me saying a word.
Or being at a party, catching his eye across a crowded room and him winking slowly at me.
Or the times he has actively taken my icy-cold feet in bed and wrapped them in his legs to warm them.
Or the countless times he has come home with a beautiful bunch of daisies – just because.
Or the times I found my craved-for raw-onion-and-smattering-of-cheese sandwiches at my elbow – despite him knowing just how bad my onion breath is.
Or the thousands of times he has, without me saying a word, wrapped his arms around me and held me tight and not let me go.
So no. We don’t do Valentines Day. We have no need.
I love you C. xxx
Read MoreThe Four, the Laundry, the Life… In Which I Discover the World According To The Boys.
A short while ago, one of my favourite bloggers decided to interview her 5 yr old daughter. Genius idea. So genius, in fact, that it spread. Soon another took up the challenge to investigate the inner mind of their child. then another, and another… and I can resist no longer. I just had to know what my own children would say (except for pink, of course, who would simply say ‘NO!” or “Way-bu-y-o-o-o–oon” to everything. With maybe a ‘Jam, please!’ thrown in). So, here it is. The world according to the Blue Ones – No.1 is 11, so I expected sensible things. Boy is 8 – I *hoped* for moderately sensible. Jolly is 7, and never remotely sensible…
What’s Daddy’s job?
No.1 – “Photographer – are these going to get harder?”
Boy - “Takes pictures at weddings and stuff”
Jolly – “Photographs!”
How old do you have to be to drive a car?
No.1 – “17″ (sigh)
Boy - “18 or older”
Jolly – “over 18 at least”
How old is Mummy?
No.1 – “30… (hesitates, wanting to be honest, but kind) something?”
Boy - “31″
Jolly – “32″
*(35 is right, so they were VERY kind)
How old is Daddy?
No.1 – “43″
Boy - “43″
Jolly – “42″
*He’s 43 – and they all remember his 40th)
When Gangy & Bumpa babysit, where do you think Mummy and Daddy are?
No.1 – “At the cinema, eating.. wherever”
Boy - “At the hospital”
Jolly – “Out somewhere… probably having a baby”
(* I promise we HAVE been out since Pink was born three years ago. Honest.)
What do you think the Queen looks like?
No.1 – “Grey hair, wrinkles, crown… not really sure”
Boy - “Very Posh”
Jolly – “Not that pretty… but I still like her”
What does your brother do to annoy you?
No.1 – “Trash my room”
Boy - “Well No.1 is just a bit generally, like, annoying. And Jolly is just a bit… annoying. And Pink can be just a bit, like, you know, annoying.”
Jolly – “Say rude names to me”
(*I chose carefully not to investigate further on which rude names)
Where would you like to go on holiday this year? Anywhere in the world?
No.1 – “Scotland”
Boy - “The Peak District (pauses, glazes over and smiles longingly)… Or Butlins.”
Jolly – “Scotland or the Peak District. Or Wales. Or any where with moors really.”
Where do babies come from?
No.1 – “You!”
Boy - “Mummys Tummies”
Jolly – “Mummy’s Tummy”
(*I am of course solely responsible for all babies. Ever.)
How do the babies get inside their Mummies?
No.1 – *snort*… *embarrassed giggle*… flushed cheeks…”You don’t REALLY want me to answer that, do you?”
Boy - “erm… I don’t know, actually” (settles down expecting a full explanation right NOW…)
Jolly – “They grow in a big water balloon thingy”
What do you want to be when you grow up?
No.1 – “Oh, well, nothing set yet. You know, I have PLENTY of time to settle on a career choice.”
Boy - “An Author!” (This is new, a month ago it was a rally driver. The he discovered Hiccup the Viking and Astrosaurs.).
Jolly – “Well, I’m going to be an Army Man, but then when I get bored I’m going to design cars”
If you could be anyone else who would you be?
No.1 – “Harry Potter”
Boy - “Tegs” (from the Astrosaurs books)
Jolly – “Friday O’Leary. The truth is LEMON MERINGUE!” (Mr Gum books, in case you’ve not had the pleasure)
Who do you think is in charge of the country.
No.1 – “The Queen. Or the Prime Minister.”
Boy - “The King! Or maybe it’s the Queen…”
Jolly – Well, the Government work for them, I don’t know who they are… The President?”
If you had children what would their names be?
No.1 – “I haven’t thought THAT far ahead!”
Boy - “Henry.”
Jolly – “Frank, George… and for a girl Megan.”
Who is Barack Obama?
No.1 – “President of the USA”
Boy - “I haven’t a clue”
Jolly – *silent blank face*
How much pocket money do you think you should get per week?
No.1 – “£5″ (the actual limit he may earn with chores)
Boy - “£3.50″ (again, the maximum he can currently earn)
Jolly – “£5″ (aspirations towards oldest brothers allowance of riches)
Who is most clever … Mummy or Daddy?
No.1 – “Both of you” *grin*
Boy - “Daddy. Because he just is.”
Jolly – “Both of you” *big shiny eyes and slightly wobbly mouth at the thought of having to choose*
If you were a Mummy what would you let your children do that I don’t?
No.1 – “Stay up later!”
Boy - “Go out on lots more nice outings, play more games together” (*parental wibble…*)
Jolly – “Play xbox every single day. And the Wii. And NEVER do my lunchbox.”
Who’s your best friend in the whole world?
No.1 – “Danny & Olly”
Boy - “Aaron & Josh”
Jolly – “Jake. Today.”
And there, ladies and gentlemen, you have it. the world according the The Blue Ones.
The Four, the Laundry, the Life… In Which No.1 turns 11.
Yes, yes, I know, it seems like only a few days ago we had a birthday in this house. That’s because we did. No.1 and Pink’s birthdays are 7 days apart (and Jolly is just before Christmas. Fine planning, indeed).
So – No.1 is eleven today. ELEVEN! It just seems so big. I know we say that every year, but this one feels like the closing of an era – I see him changing right in front of me, morphing from my darling toddler boy into the wonderful man I know he will become. This is the year he heads off to High School, and really the babyhood is behind him.
His tenth year has been a tough one for my biggest boy – he has been very ill, missed two terms of school, had doctors looking VERY hard for leukaemia, but finally diagnosed with M.E. However since the summer (the restorative powers of days and days spent with his brothers was a joy to watch) he has steadily improved, far quicker than his doctors or therapy team expected, and he’s now finally back in school most days.
So in honour of this seemingly momentous occasion (and not in any way because I did it for Pink and would be in Big Trouble if I didn’t), I’ve done another little montage of my bright, funny, silly, talks-too-much boy.
PS – do keep your eyes peeled for a small yellow Lion called.. er.. Lionel. He pops up quite regularly…
Read MoreThe Four, the Laundry, the Life… The One in Which Pink Turns Three
The thing about being the fourth child is that the big milestones seem.. well, a little less big. For No.1′s third birthday the grandparents came to stay, and we all took off to the zoo for the day. For Pink? Well, about 9.30 Wednesday night I had a quick rummage in a drawer and then debated with C about whether it was worth going out to get some balloons…
But I was a good parent, and I did go. And then I wrapped the small pile of presents (see? No.1 got a BIG pile. Now I just think “ah, she was swamped at Christmas, she really doesn’t need anything else”), blew up the balloons, posted them around the house, and put up the traditional ‘Happy Birthday’ banner in it’s expected slot. All whilst feeling a little wistful that my baby was so big now. Doing a lot of “oh, just think. Three years ago today…”-ing, and smiling sweetly at the memories.
So the morning dawns. Actually, scratch that…
It was still dark – around 4 in the morning when I was awoken by serious screeching and wailing. Staggering in, I find Pink standing up in her cot, hair on end, gibbering in terror.
Ah. Snakes in the bed again.
Being quite keen on getting a little more sleep, I did the only sensible thing – hauled her quick-smart back into bed with us.
So when the day started with the usual scary sudden blurping of the alarm clock, I not only shot up myself, but small pink person threw her hands up in terror also and whacked Daddy (who can always sleep through the alarm) on the head with Fig (ever-present long limbed pink rabbit). Happy Birthday!
On descending the stairs, Pink is surprised and thrilled at all the ba-yoons, but quietly confident it’s MY birthday, not hers. Jolly arrives to join the contented pile on the sofa – Happy birthday Pink!’ he exclaims happily. Grumpily she mutters “No, s’not my birthday. Is Jollys birthday. Ssshhhh.”
She’s not really a morning person.
No.1 is next to arrive, also with excited birthday greetings.
Small pink head is raised in a growing temper now “NO! is NOT my birthday! Is Jolly’s birthday!”
Boy quietly squeezed in next to her – and his own whispered birthday greeting was rewarded with a whack of Fig round the head and a fishwife-like “NO!”.
In the next thirty minutes she proceeded to declare the birthday breakfast crumpets as yuk, screech at the boys for daring to sing happy birthday to her, rage in fury at the prospect of wearing a RED skirt (oh the horror) – and I do mean full on raging; greet her really very poorly Daddy who had dragged himself from his bed to see her open her presents with a “NOOOO! NOT birthday! Go AWAY!” and then as the grand finale she ran off to her hiding place behind the armchair, and point blank refused to come out without LOTS of physical resistance, and a lot more screeching and flailing and crying.
At which point we gave it up as a bad job – the boys got themselves ready for school, C went gratefully back to bed and we did the school run in baffled and dampened spirits. The boys asked for us to wait till they get home before we do the presents, so she had nothing all day. The grandparents rang – she of course refused to speak to them… and to top it all off nicely, we spent an hour of the morning in the doctors surgery waiting for the nurse to take some of my blood. With no toys, no magazines, and the heater on too high. I gave it up as a bad job an hour after our appointment was supposed to be and came home with all my blood intact.
Still, she was actually very very sweet for the rest of the day, and it WAS her birthday. So here – this is my girl and her first three years… (and yes, I know there are typos, and no I’m not going back to correct them)…
The Four, the Laundry, the Life…
so, by popular request, I have been voted to do some more personal blogging on here (it’s a tough job, I know, but someone had to volunteer…). So, for those who don’t know us, here’s a quick recap on who ‘we’ are…
Me – 35. married since I was *just* 18 to the same man. Four children. Run LittleStuff with the oh-so-fabulous Katy, and also assist husband with his business. Love to read, love to write, love tea, and daisies, and duvets, and animals, and to walk and talk and laugh. Love Life.
C – husband; amazing photographer, bestest friend and personal comedian. Love him.
No.1 – 10 year old son, diagnosed with ME (or Chronic Fatigue Syndrome) last year. Amazing, bright boy (no, really, officially Gifted and Talented, they tell me), unbelievably clever at lego modelling and creating stop motions – and equally unbelievable talent at talking non-stop for very long periods of time on Very Dull Things. Typical eldest-child head full of guilt and responsibility, no matter how much we try and fix that. Wicked streak of silliness too, and a laugh that makes the sun smile.
Boy – middle son, aged 8, a long string bean, never stops moving, loves to run, dance, sing, jump and be happy. Clown of the family, utterly passionate in all he does, wears his heart on his sleeve, life is lived at headlong pace, moral compass is physically attached to Magnetic North, our very own Enid Blyton 1940′s boy.He just makes the world a better place.
Jolly – youngest son, 7 – soft, sensitive, loud, liquid giggle, likes nothing more than cars, soldiers, playmobil knights and his family. Lives in a cloud; inside the daydreams is a very sharp brain, we are told. But difficult to know for sure through the fluffiness. Contented like a cat whenever he is held, but one of life’s worriers.
Pink – The Girl, 2 – headstrong, willful, opinionated and believes she IS the princess of the family. Totally charms all who meet her, very very bright, sparky, meltingly beautiful when she smiles… and utterly adored. She’s probably right about the princess thing…
So. There you are. That’s ‘us’.
Read MoreShe CRAWLS!!!!!
Pink, with the aid of the candeloo nightlight we’re reviewing (no, I’m not kidding) has finally decided to make the effort, and get moving.
She crawled! She really did!
Many apologies for the ghastly rug she’s on – it was in the holiday cottage, and I wasn’t about to stop her progress to put her somewhere prettier.
On the upside, you can see just how much she loves her candeloo light…
(Click here for part ONE of the candeloo tooli review by Katy, and right here for tooli review part 2 by Laura )
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