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for running around a park, then sinking more booze than is reasonable for a woman if my age and stature. Poor, poor liver.

Boo, for not writing the last essay, and sulking a bit about having to and putting it off.

Boo for Seth having the pox, but hurrah for bicarb in the bath and his robustness. He is not suffering and has stopped scratching. He is still screaming though. Am wondering if he'll ever stop. Still he is a wonderful genius and freakishly similar to his dad in all respects.  

Argh, for realising that two counselling placements is going to be rather hard to juggle, and expensive.  

Hurrah, for getting on the scales and weighing less than before.

Hurrah and boo! for my new jeans that are now too big.

Hurrah for my beautiful Ezra who is just magnificent and I adore him in all his bloody marvelous majestical fabulousness.    

Boo for Johns ginger beard. It is bushy and so so very wrong.

Mind blowing. For me anyway. Five years ago, I was coming out of epidural numbness, into the excruciating pain of a massive abdominal gash, nipple gnawing, and utter and complete panic.

He was so beautiful.

He fell asleep at 7 o'clock last night, during Robin Hood, and I carried him up to bed, feeling his weight and trying not to knock his head against the door frame (I never seem to gauge it right). He woke up an hour later, all rosy cheeked, with his blonde wavy hair curling on the crown. "Is it my birthday, yet?" His little confused face contorting as he processed that he hadn't slept for long enough.

Yesterday, he got a 'privilege card' at school. A silver card, not unlike a membership card for a casino, or a gym. Very grown up. I asked his teacher about it, and she replied "for those children who are always good, and when charts and stamps aren't enough, because they are consistently helpful and kind and well behaved. Its in recognition of that. We give them to the older children in exchange for privileges, such as staying inside at break time, and extra time to use the computers, but for the little ones, the concept can be confusing. The card seems to be reward enough".

Ezra slept with his card last night and couldn't let it out of his sight for a second. The pride on his face when he showed me forced tears to brim in my eyes, and my voice was shakey as I tried to chat nonchalantly to one of the parents.

At parents evening last week, his teacher showed me a peice of writing he had done independantly, and I filled up again. We had been practicing at home, but he had suddenly taken a leap and I hadn't been there when it happened. I was overwhelmed by his independance and capability, and sheer bloody magnificence.

That big boy is considerate of other people's feelings, probably more than their bodies (which is evidenced in the way he is shocked when flying Ben10 4 arms can hurt someone when they connect). He always resolves Seth's problems, and so beautifully. He's more empathic towards his brother than I could ever hope to be. I hear him counselling him in the evening when they've gone to bed and I am in awe of his compassion and generosity. "Seth, don't worry, we'll sort it out" he often says throwing his arm around his brother, "Thank you Ezra" Seth returns the cuddle and looks up admiringly at his biggest ally.        

My first baby, is in many ways, so far away from those first few hours, when it was just me and him. Yet, when he climbed in bed with me last night, and snuggled up into my arms, it was as though no time had past.   

Me: Come here Ezra, while I give you a cuddle (cradles massive child like a baby)

Ez: Muuuuuuum, I'm not a baby!! (tolerates rocking and cooing)

John: You do realise Mum will do that to you until she can no longer pick you up?

Seth: Get away from me Mum, you not making me a baby again. I been one of dem already!!

later, whilst watching a mother try and spoon babyfood into her rapidly dodging child

Me: Seth, when you were a baby, you used to eat babyfood

Seth: When I'm a baby again, you can feed me that

Me: You won't be a baby again Seth, you'll only get older

Seth: But when I was you, mum I used to feed me babyfood

Me: When you were me?

Seth: When I was you, before I was me.

Me: ?????? 

on (less than) 20 quid

Day one. Ben10 day on CartoonNetwork. The new Ben10 alien force is revealed. Ben 10 is older, and I fancy both Ben10 and Kevin11. Kevin fancies Gwen (you'll only understand this if you'v watched Ben10. If you haven't, luckylucky you) and so I worry for a bit about the apropriateness of the cartoon. Then realise I would let them watch South Park if it meant they were quiet.  Ben10 day, broken only by a leisurely jaunt through a menacingly rough estate. On emerging at teh other end, my tired and increasingly frustrated parents were joyous at the arrival of the giddy pair.

Day two. Drive Father of children to work, pretend to be put out whilst secretly glad of 'something to do'. Moan on blog and google 10k runs whilst kids watch more Ben10 and batter each other. Visit to The Industrial Museum, then more parental visiting before 'A TRIP TO MORRISONS.'

I used to go to the industrial museum when I was bored in the holidays. Its really dry, but I feel my children should have to endure it like I had to all those years ago.

My entertaining skills know no bounds. I'm saving the The Photography Museum for when they're really bored. Who said that visiting museums with a three and a four year is not a great idea. "lalalala" *sticks fingers in ears*.  The last time we spent precisely 9 minutes looking at exhibitions, and 45 minutes in the museum shop.  

Plans for days three to seven include, making paper mache masks, freezing our extremities of in the now vandalised local park, and drinking Cobra beer (me, not the kids, and not in the park. Well, not visibly, anyway)  

I'll leave you with this titbit

Seth: Mum, why are you my mum?

Ezra: Because she has to, thats why. Its her job. 

Hurrah! I handed in the deadly assignment and as time progresses, I only want to tear off my skin a tiny bit whenever  I think about it.

So, I'm now onto the next thing, namely my birthday. I shall be thirty four. Thats mid thirties. How did that happen, yadda yadda.

Anyway, I've given up on being a size zero for the big day, and am instead concentrating on my next and newest fascination: 

and:

I don't think I've gone Rockabilly, and I did live in docs for about 5 years (though mine were steel toe-capped babies, these are positively dainty by comparison.)

I think its more of a retrospective homage to my fashion favourites of years gone by. That swishy skirt and boot combo I wore when I was five, and have revisited in various forms ever since. I wonder what my 84th birthday vision will be.

I must be growing into myself, because I am far less interested in how this will look to the viewing public, and much more interested in what I will see when I look down at my feet, and how I will feel when I twizzle around.

I think this is my version of The Outfit. Some people go for the fairytale wedding dress, some go for sparkly shimmer. Some are a vision in Prada or Chanel.

I love the idea of a cheeky glimpse of red swirls under a demure black dress, and the sturdy shock of a rock solid boot on a woman who is still playing dress up.          

Poor ole Seth's got the run's. Or rather, he's got no control over his bowel, and we've got he runs. Except now its just me. Running.

I am a bit of a sadist in that I like it when the kids are sick- Not really sick. Then I worry and panic and become wild-eyed and frenzied. Rather, colds, and slight fevers, because then the lads want to be snuggled and tucked up, and fed warm milk and hear stories. They are calm and mostly stationary. We all behave the way I imagined motherhood would be before I actually had real children.

However, Seth is not conventionally sick. He is maddeningly mobile and loud and as active as normal- he's just squirting freely from his derriere.

Arses.     

Knitting. I love the authenticity of clacking away, and seeing my hard work transform yarn into something beautiful. There's something elemental, and faithful about making stuff.

My pregnancies are marked by two things; Heartburn and knitting. My babies, and my friends babies wore garments imbued with love and hope.

When my mum was first in hospital, a lovely friend sent me a cardigan she owned. An item I had frequently admired. The letter accompanying it suggested I wear it when I needed comfort. I wear it now and think of the love and kindness of my lovely lasses

I want to make my mum a cashmere shawl to keep her warm when the warfarin, inactivity and sadness creep into her bones.

I want to make my boys, and my friends babies, hats to keep their noggins warm. Scarves that my lasses can wrap around themselves when the booze and kebabs only partially heat their safe journey home.

Like flying carpets, technicoloured dreamcoats, and sorting hats, I imagine that my affection and adoration are stitched within my higgledy tension and botched finish, making them magical. 

I simply don't have the time anymore. The babies are bigger, so their hats take more stitches, my lads take, well, just more. I now have counselling work, and coursework and all that other stuff involving cleaning and cooking. Yet, I still want to make.

So, here I am, facing the labour saving knitting machine. Should I buy one?

Knitters, what say you? 

If you could connect with one person from your past, who would it be and why?
Submitted by NayNay72.

Been there, done that. Scared em off again.

It suddenly dawned on me that I might need to be more organised, when I was calling a client and had my TOP SECRET CLIENT NOTEBOOK open on the bed next to me. The next thing I know Seth has scrawled all over my TOP SECRET NOTES and I explode into a panic of disorderly despair.

Things were once so simple. Energy suppliers were centralised. I tell you privatisation has done me no favours (is this the point where anyone under the age of 25 reminisces about GCSE history. Yeah gads, I'm starting to sound alarmingly like my Mother again)  I come from a family where Dad did all the bills and stuff, and they were all kept in a kitchen drawer and paid, in cash, weekly or monthly. Housekeeping was paid to Mum via a stash of notes left behind the clock on the mantlepiece, and there was no such thing as 'credit' and 'HP' in our house, so there was no call for files, or spreadsheets. Kitchen Drawer, the font of all household knowledge.

Meanwhile, I've found myself surrounded by ring binders, which I've just yanked out of the kitchen cupboard. (See, the fruit never falls far and all that) calenders everywhere, in the front room, on the computer, on my phone, in my handbag, notebooks and lists and piles of stuff everywhere. And thats just house/family related stuff.

I don't remember my mum having a big f*ck off chart on the kitchen wall detailing what everyone is up to during the week. As we ran out of the door we shouted "off to *insert activity, in my case usually completely fabricated* back before tea/dark/Eastenders" and yet I'm staring at an A1 whiteboard thingemy, and trying to work out when I can see the voice therapist, as its currently clashing with soft play and squash?  

No one told me when I entered into this whole family business there'd be so much (paper)work involved. Life used to be simple. I got a cheque from the LEA- I spent it on new clothes and some booze. I got a cheque from The Student Loan company- I spent it on a holiday to Ibiza. As I earned a crust I then cannily set up direct debits for rent and minimum payments and then got down to the serious work of spending my money till the hole in the wall said "no funds available."    

I don't even know how it happened, as it used to be John who looked after money/housey things, but suddenly I'm the one searching for cheaper car insurance and juggling credit cards for 12 months free balance transfers and making sure the bills are paid on time.

I'm legendarily dreadful at filing and record keeping and accounting and whatnot. Ask my old boss.

So I'm doing all this and then I get a job which involves TOP SECRET STUFF, and embark on a course that involves reading lots of books and writing lots of essays and even more TOP SECRET STUFF, and I realise (don't laugh) I need a home office.

Ez: "What time do you go to bed mum and dad?" about 8, or 9 or 13 o'clock?"

Me: "About elevenish"

Ez: "Sometimes me and Seth pretend we've got foot guns" aims toes at me and fires.

Me: ...............

Later, Seth is coming down the slide, when another boy slides after him, kicking him in the head

Seth: "That bloody kid, he do kick me in the head when he come down that slide, mummy"

Me: "oh, poor Sethy" pause "Did you say a sweary word Seth?"

Meanwhile, kicking boy's father tells him off for kicking Seth in the head, and looks at me for validation.  

Seth: "No, I said, that bloody kid he do kick me in the head. Boy isn't a sweary word. I don't say Fuck because Daddy do say that is a sweary word"

Boys father grimaces at language and encourages his boys to run off. Other Mum's in the park start to grin at each other, whilst I dig myself further

Me: "Bloody, is a sweary word. And don't say that word either- even in explanation"

Ez: "No it in't its baslemy"

Me: "Its not really blasphemy, its..."

Seth: "Its not sweary, Dad said"

Me: "Whatever it is, its rude"

Seth: Shouting "Mummy, that rude boy, he do kick me in my head"

Ez: "He's not rude, he is naughty. Whats a baslemy, Mummy? Is that word that Seth said in the car baslemy or sweary?"

Me: "It was an accident"

Ez: "Mum, mum. Seth, what was that word you said in the car?".

Seth: "Bugger! Mum, can I do a wee outside?" Pulls down shorts and pants in the middle of the playground.

Me: "Enough! Seth, pull up your pants. We'll go for a wee in the toilet. Anymore sweary words and we'll go home"

Seth and Ez lose interest and run off toward toilets, whilst rude boy's dad stares. Mums piss themselves laughing. The ground opens and I fall in.