Introducing: Super Amazing Mum and Manic Mum's 'Peeping Tom' meme!

Well hello everyone! Right, it is spring, and along with the lambs a leaping and the (b*st*rd) birds at 4am a tweeting, SuperAmazingMum and I are about to spring a new idea on you all too. We have had to go in on this one together, pool the effort, as our brain/inspirations/effort/will to live are rather depleted with 7 kids between us, at an all time low, you may say. But we say HA! Watch us work some magic together...Anyway, here is how it works (we're keeping it brief like my husband's undies, he'll kill me when he reads that!)

We are asking you to write your real life true love story you have the next 2 weeks to do it-the linky will be open for 2 weeks.

*Here’s the ‘meme’ name, and the instructions-so get your marigolds on, (or don’t, totally your choice) and get typing, include a picci if you can, so we can all see your beautiful faces.

* The meme name is ‘Peeping Tom’
* Cut and paste the html for the badge onto your blog, or copy the badge picture, and do it that way if you prefer. 

Badge code: 

<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">

<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4YlqgazX5bQ/Tbm8YXMBfAI/AAAAAAAAARU/8TJkhmXZrK0/s1600/peepingtom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4YlqgazX5bQ/Tbm8YXMBfAI/AAAAAAAAARU/8TJkhmXZrK0/s200/peepingtom.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>

* Link up to the linky thing below, so we all get to read it, and obviously write your very own true love, real life story.
* Then write either http://superamazingmum.blogspot.com or http://Manicmums-blogspot.com a 'comment' on this blog, to let us know you've joined in,
* OR you can 'twitter' us @superamazingmum, @manicmum4 to let us know.

This is all very new, and we are 'going with it' to see where you/it takes us...

We are already just too excited to read this first one we are giving you the title for 'my real life, true-love story' you can see mine @ http://manic-mums.blogspot.com/2011/04/my-real-life-true-love-story.html , and don't forget to watch out for Superamazingmum's on the 1st May (she's holding out for her anniversary!!).

There you go, that's it- now it's down to you guys, may the force be with you...!

See you all soon,

Love SAM and Manic mum. xxx

This is a link for the 'linky' thing, but we are having a few technical problems sorting it out! If you click on it, it should send you through to the link...let us know if there's any probs...

Better out than in?

The 'Balrog' AKA my gay dog. love him! see what i mean about the eyes?

I have just got back inside, after spending a good five minutes pulling out the ‘eye bogeys’ (sleep/crust… let’s face it, it all sounds rank, however you put it) out of my hairy gay dog’s eyes. This is a necessity, obviously as I do not do it for sport or self amusement, only that my dog has such long hair (he’s a bearded collie FYI) that all kinds get wedged in him/cling to him/stuck on him…little insects going about their business, heaving around their treasures, only to have my dog gaily sweep by them and collect them up in his fur. Poor unsuspecting bugs. I have since washed my hands, I may add, as I saw some worried faces and brains ticking over going ‘eeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwww, she pulls eye bogeys out her dogs eye hair, and then types away spreading doggy-eye-bogey-diseases all over her keyboard, rough’. He is a complete fool of an animal (although an adorable one) and runs around endlessly afterwards as if he is saying ‘look at MEEEEEE!! I can SSEEEEEEEE!!’, he is still doing it as we speak. Alright, you’re not speaking, it’s me, talking to myself, again.

This was probably one of the nicer things I have done today too…Today went from clearing up a bit (the weather, it’s been grey and drizzly for days) so a bit of cloud clearance, and rain stoppage sent us outside on a ‘wearing out hypo kids and gay dog’ mission. We bundle into the chicken hoof scratched car and as usual are gassed with the stale cat p**s smell still lingering in there from when my cat bumble got ran over and thus whisked down to the vets on Monty’s knee. He thereupon wees on my son’s leg out of sheer terror. The smell has never gone. Unfortunate, for reasons too obvious to spell out. Anyway, we are OUT and on our lil’ way. The woods down the road from us are our port of call. We leap out (we’re a very ‘gleeful’ family, always leaping and bundling and venturing out…What’s the expression? Better out than in? Well that’s us. I reckon we are definitely better out than in. As anyone, I am sure, would vouch for). The walk we are completely unprepared for, we are in some cases sporting ‘pumps’ one is wellied up, but that does not prevent the shoe brigade from joining in the jumping in muddy puddles and getting mud EVERYWHERE. Monty slips over, face and everything covered in stinky slimy mud. It is true that boys are made from slugs and snails and puppy dog’s tails, hang on a minute, I was expecting ‘mud’ to come up in that too, but it doesn’t. Why ever not? I shall email the dude/dudette that made up that rhyme and request they add this word, as I need it to make the comparison with my eldest daughter Lola’s reaction, who when she got mud all up her shin and inner thigh, we all had to wait for  a good 10 minutes, whilst she dedicatedly spat on leaves and tried to clean herself.

un, deux, troi...WEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

The cynicism in France was Alex and my hot topic of conversation as I have a bath tonight. Naked politics-you should try it! Sorry if I have just scared all my viewers with worse than rank mentally disturbing images. It seems that every time I tell someone in France something/anything, I am always met with a cynical expression, and then victim to advice from Madame Pearls of Wisdom. Oooo, you’re going to do that? Oh, I wouldn’t if I were you…if I were you I would certainly not do it that way…’ and other such wise encouragements. It’s as if I have just told them outside the school gates that I planned to sport giant suckers on my hands and thereby enabling myself to vacuum my body to the school wall, then proceed to suction my way by careful desuction, re-vacuuming technique, up the school wall, mounting triumphantly the school roof, and hoy myself off, hurling myself into the school playground with a ‘go gadget go’ helicopter hat made earlier by my 4 kids with the craft aids of sticky back plastic and toilet rolls. Not gonna work, so their advice would therefore be both relevant and understandable. But I am not, so their advice is rubbish, and born out of a need to throw obstacles in my already obstacled up chosen life path…

Right, it’s late, and I am trying to get over my rather bouffant newly cut hair, which I decided to take a leaf out of toddler’s book and join in self-hair cutting. I am now sporting a rather large fringe, which as it stares at me in the face right here, right now, feels like a big fat flapping bigly fringed mistake! You may be the judges-

OK, so the no make up look does me no particular favours- and then there's THAT FRINGE!!

Tamsyn x

My Interview...yes, I am now that famous (!!!!!)

Today I have been ‘tagged’. Yes it’s that time again. Thank you so very much to Bod for Tea  (http://bod-for-tea.blogspot.com/) who actually likes my blog! (BTW your cheque’s in the post). Please click on her link and check this very very lovely lady out. But for now, and without further ado, I have an interview ahead of me-so here it is:

If you could go back in time to relive one moment, what would it be?

Relive one moment-hmmmm this has got me. Stumped at the first hurdle. I’ll make an effort, hang on. *Erhem* The moment in my life that I would love to relive is my wedding day and, although not the actual birth, but the first seconds afterwards when you have your new teeny baby on your chest, and they grip your finger in the most needy and dependent way you could ever imagine-the responsibility, the overwhelming pride (and terror!) that you have finally got your baby there. Those moments I would love to relive. My wedding day has been one of the most intensely emotional moments. When I looked into my soulmate’s eyes and swore to be his forever, I would love to experience this again too.

If you could go back in time and change one thing, what would it be?

Whatever happens in life, the good and the bad, it makes us who we are today. It makes us grow and forces us to re-evaluate the world and our judgements of others, without our past situations/events, we would not be who we are today. I am not saying I wouldn’t change myself (!) but I am saying that I would not change anything in my past, as it has made me who I am today, the mother, the wife, the sister/daughter/aunty/sister-in-law/cousin/friend/worst enemy (?)-not that I am arguably any good at any of these, but I am me, and without my past, I would not be. So in one word, nothing.

What movie or TV character do you think you resemble most in personality?

 

it's the loveheart cap, the butcher waving me off, and the flying pigeon following me that does it...

Long distance Clara-from Pigeon Street, who was a long-distance truck driver and probably still is, who always used to sing as she drove (as I remember it, maybe it’s an incorrect memory and I have made a fool out of myself). School is too far to walk, and I am obliged to take the car, so I often sing ‘long distance claraaaa’ (I do however have a large Tamsyn-remix, I am not soley restricted to pigeon street lyrics) which is all the lyrics I can remember oh, and the ‘coo coo’ of a pigeon at the end. I have a big 7-seater, and feel all misplaced, as I am a tiny little woman in this mahoosive car. Please ‘youtube’ Pigeon Street if you are completely lost.

Which TV or movie character would you like to be?

Monster, off the Muppits. He rules. He is who he is, a pink, drum playing monster, and he bangs things (musical instruments I hasten to add) hard. He rocks, and you can't mess with him...

If you could push one person in the whole world off a cliff and get away with it, who would it be?

That’s straight up murder, I am not that into that…but if you forced me, it’d probably be, oh actually can it be two? Tag team it?  The Consultant who (when I had not yet been diagnosed with streptocoque-B in my first pregnancy, but which caused months and months worth of health issues for me as a consequence), when pregnant with my son, told me to ‘go home and have a warm glass of milk and a lie down’ to ‘calm myself down’ as this was the 4^th consultation I had had, and I was in agony and hysterical at this point, as I was being fobbed off as a neurotic first time mother, when I knew it was not right-and it wasn’t. Arrogant bastard.  The second, I am on a roll! Would be the gynaecologist I saw on a monthly basis, as you are obliged to in France. You have monthly ‘internals’. It was just wrong, when you saw the size of his hands too, like the Big Green Giant with swollenitis-not right. In fact, he and his brother were gynaecologists working together-it all gets ‘wronger’ and ‘wronger’.

Name one habit you want to change in yourself.

Mop-a-holism. If people come over and leave even say at 2 in the morning-I will then actually mop. It is that bad. A midnight mopper. Scary obsessive.

Describe yourself in one word.

All or nothing. I realise this is 2 words, however this was a hard one, but when my list of options was: donkey-lover, chicken-killer, mopaholic, neurotic, cleaning OCD’d up, chocoholic, fish-wife, wally, bigly-forearmed, you can see what I was up against…

Describe the person who named you in this MEME in one word.

Fandabidozy! Seriously, she rocks.

Why do you blog? Answer in one sentence.

Well, it gets me out of the dark corner shaking and rocking…It’s a way to ‘centre’ myself. When I am actually capable of will-killing my own livestock, I need some way of ‘regrouping’ at the end of the day, and my fairly haphazard life-style I document for my kids to read in years to come, and it helps me see the ‘funny’ side…!. 

Name at least 3 people or more to send this MEME, and then inform them.

Superamazingmum

Helloitsgemma

Motherporridge

Sorry ladies, it’s your turn now. No offense if you never get round to it!!! X

busy chooks...boc boc booooooooooooooc

I am not being funny, and OK, this may be THE most eye-wateringly boring blog you have ever read-but how often have you ever seen 6 eggs in one basket (never, cos y'all don't really give a s**t, fair enough), all laid by 3 (now down to 3 due to an unfortunate powerful accidental mind killed chook, 'will-killed' chicken) chickens this morning. Well, in my house this is the most exciting thing that has happened to us in a long while...I may write to Blue Peter...does that still run?

Just a big fat ‘lacker’ of a mother!

possibly the worst pic ever of me and my boy, but it'll do (we don't look like that in real life...!!!)

We have had a wonderful Easter weekend. We went for the day up to see friends 45 minutes from us. We were fed like ducks intended for foie gras (not that we were forced, it was all voluntary!) and the treasure hunt went without a hitch, despite my rubbish clues sometimes becoming a little lost: “You open me in the morning, and shut me at night, I am a …what?” We had various suggestions from ‘cupboard’ to ‘eyes’ to ‘clothes’ (?), to ‘beds’, the answer was supposed to be ‘curtains’ FYI, and we got there in the end. But the kids had fun, and stuffed themselves with chocolate. In fact Lola, my ‘isn’t she calm and mature and smiley and oh so lovely’ angel of a child (yes, I have a child I can take out in public-well one out of four isn’t a bad ratio!) had some kind of weird takeover. After consuming those sweets pretending not to be sweets (you know, those bits of fruit that are extortionately expensive, professing to be ‘better for you’ as the are made from real fruit juice, don’t fall for it, I’ve never seen anything like what happened to my daughter after their consumption). As it’s Easter, and as they are never allowed more than 2 or 3 sweets at a time, I let them eat till they wanted to stop, or were sick, just for laughs…and oh how I wish I hadn’t, and oh how I see now the evidence in front of me of why they are never allowed more than 2 or 3 at any one time. The evidence being this beautiful angel child before me with eyes like Frisbees, making funny faces, talking like she’s got some kind of verbal disease, frantically trying to get anyone and everyone (she’s not in a state to be picky) to pay her attention as she sings and dances crazily. My word. These sweets are kiddie cocaine in disguise. It has to be stopped, at once, by me. DON’T BUY YOUR KIDS SWEETS EVER!! (Did that stop you? Great, then my work here is done). Quite frankly, at the end of the day, when all said and done, when the monkey’s landed and the flumps are going to weightwatchers, it’s just not normal.

We’ve played lots indoors, as unlike you in England, we have not had nice weather, it’s rained again the past 4 days. I wait at the café, to be fed watered down fizzy water soup, served with water coffee with salt and sugar and cornflakes, a plastic burger, crisps, peas and a slice of pizza to accompany it. Thankfully I was not in a real café, to be fair, I’d have sent that back before you could say ‘what’s this F*****G pile of s**t you have served me up here?’ I endure the meal, and pay my daughters in paper and stones. All it was worth! Sorry girls, if you ever read this, I had such fun, and the food was 5 star quality really! Your resources were limited, I understand. Needs must. I have done the same myself, fed you burnt porridge once, insisted you ate it up despite the retching and the pleas, deciding to try it,, as your fuss was a little more believable than normal, where upon I  vomit on the spot, and I finally ‘make it stop’ and take ‘pity please mummy’. Poor sods, who knows how they’re gonna turn out?!

how do I look, mum?

Esmie has been wandering around all day with a purple nose and cheeks and eyes, she had been at it again, self decorating. I wouldn’t mind so much if these events were infrequent. They are, however, not. And I have to parade round my, whether it be, self-decorated/self-hair cutted/self nail varnished everywhere/self-unremoveable-black-treacle-painted, all too often to give the impression that this mother of four has not ‘lost’ it, got to the point of complete neglect and lacking, just a big fat ‘lacker’ of a mother! She honestly has ‘such a character’ though. As I am told, not that I need to be reminded of this, I gave birth to her! She loves to play with Mitzi, the little two are thick as thieves, as are the big two, so it’s all even stevens in the house (who made up that crap expression anyway? Even stevens…? As if you say that?! Unless your called my Dad, sorry Dad, but you even have a head torch…! Love you really, best get that in! It must have been Steven. Sorry Steven, it’s a great saying, I wish I could rhyme my name with something cool like that, introduce a new ‘saying’ but  nothing rhymes, I have just realized, after having just paused in front of the computer going ‘gramsyn tamsyn, nope, that means nothing, pamsyn..no, not going anywhere with that one either, lamsyn…now this is just getting stupid…maybe I’ll change my name, make it easier for myself). But although Esmie gets on so well with them all, she is absolutely her own little person too. She is heard, and she makes sure of that. At bedtime tonight I go up to ‘TUCK ME IN MUMMY, NOW!!’ After she has stopped the ‘bad’ behaviour, and shut up, in my defense, I do certainly not, encourage her teenage-toddler antics. I offer her a few cuddly things to cuddle, all of which are rejected with straight up, blunt ‘no, don’t want it’ s and all the offers are exhausted, whereupon she takes it upon herself to climb down to the bottom of the bed, has a little rummage, and pulls out a slipper and a sock, looks at me in a big huffy way informs me she is going to ‘cuggly’ these tonight. Where’s the lurve??

Carte blanche on the chocolate at friends' House...the calm before the storm...

I am now off to down some hits of gaviscon, I have eaten it UP this weekend, although as I commented on facebook, Easter without cadburys; is like ‘lift the flaps books’ without the flaps-nowhere near as much fun! I hope you have a great bank holiday Monday, and here’s to the shots of gaviscon working it’s magical white hand, and the next week being one where I am not left with the will to rip my own arm off, just so I can laugh about something, or behave in public places like Kevin and Perry on glue…!

Ps. And no ‘will-killing’ animals either…

Silent Sunday

In the field at the bottom of our garden...(2yrs ago)

Easter without Cadbury's is like a 'lift the flaps' book without the flaps: pointless, and no where near as much fun.

Happy Easter everyone!!! *gutted* to be celebrating it without Cadbury's chocolate...life's so unfair.

The imprisoned adolescent within, leaps like out a ninja on speed...

Last week was one thing, leaving me with the desire to rip my own arm off, just so I had something to laugh about. But do you know what? This week has topped it. I have ‘willed killed’ one of chickens, the finger firmly points in my direction, and OH the guilt, I’ll bite ‘the finger’ off, it’s rude to point, and then that’ll ‘learn’ it…

I now find myself subject to barrages of questions about death from kids, I feel as though I should be sporting a judge’s wig, donning a cape and secretly Googling everything, so as to be armed with the appropriate responses. I thought I would share some of the questions, just to let you into my ‘we think mum killed the ‘effing’ chicken’, and we now have SOOOOOO many questions that we will ask intermittently and regularly whether it be with mouthfuls/doing teeth/just before we go to bed/first thing in the morning/whenever we want, cos we want answers dammit’

Here we go, questions and responses from Madame ‘I’ve-just-killed-my-own-chick-ipedea’;

‘Mum, does she still wee and poo now she’s dead?’ Me, ‘no sweetheart, the body’s stopped working, so she doesn’t need to do that anymore’. ‘Why isn’t her body working?’ ‘Cos she’s dead’ ‘why is she dead? Did you kill her mum?’ ‘No, I did not kill her (*doubts self*), sometimes these things happen.’ ‘What colour is she now?’ Well I chose to be honest, she was a weird deep-purpley colour. ‘Won’t she be hungry? Shall we drop some food in the hole you dug for her?’ ‘Not really worth it sweetheart, she doesn’t need food anymore’ ‘Can we cycle over her grave? Will it squish her?’ ‘No, it will not squish her, bit late for that now, she is as hard a prosthetic moob by now.’ ‘What?’ ‘Nothing. Yes you can cycle over her grave if you really feel the need.’ And this one, which made me laugh: ‘does Meg only come out at night now?’ A chicken ghost ‘boc boc boooooooooooooOOOOOOooooOOOOOoOOooc’ is how it would go.

I do hope I managed to answer their thoughts, it’s been like a cross between a ‘Whodunnit?’ (‘mummydunnit’) and children’s Mastermind, with the subject being ‘chicken death’, not my forte.

The dog found a jar of Nutella in the recycling, and he proceeds to lick it out with equally as much zeal as he licks his own b******s. Rude, but true. At tea time, he spews EVERYWHERE, kids don’t see it in time, and walk through it, then burst into tears as it’s just too rank for words, the dog walks through it, just to add insult to injury, and the phone rings. Alex gets the phone- cop out, so I save it for him to clear up, as honest to god, I do deal with most of the s*** and bodily excretions here, but dog puke? Nah, I have my limits, and I seriously would just end up clearing up my own as a result. So the buck (is this a male hare? I just passed him the kitchen roll in reality, not a male hare) is firmly passed to Alex.

hares, a frolicking...

This morning I have to go and register at various complicated companies in France. Normally roughly eighty-nine thousand separate enterprises deal with the same thing in France, and you are obliged to register with them all. My husband’s in the process of changing jobs and things, and whilst he’s out there doing that, I deal with the paper worky side of things-his P.A (unlucky b******d!). I walk into one of the relevant places today, the kids pick out a leaflet each and sit down to read, in some cases look, at. This is standard procedure, they’re all well briefed on etiquette in official French ‘never the right office, you have to go elsewhere, really? Yes. You’re sure, cos the last 4 places insisted it was you? Yes, we’re sure, now p*** off, Madame Du Bois (wood)’ places. The lady behind the desk calls out in her French stern ‘I’m behind a desk and I have ALL the power, mwahahahaha’ megalomaniacal manner, ‘Hey! Kids, no, they’re not toys, put them all back at once, they’re not there to be played with’, bear in mind, there is a queue, there are 4 of them, the building is boring as f*** to kids, and they have all taken one leaflet, and sat down beautifully to read them. I glare at the lady, and all of a sudden, the imprisoned adolescent within, leaps like out a ninja on speed, without warning, Kevin and Perry styley, I deliberately take one of each leaflet going ‘I want that one, and that one, and that one, and that one…’, there’s a fair few to collect, it takes a bit of time, then distribute them to my kids. HA! in your face lady behind the desk wench. Then tell the kids to rip them all into teeeeeny tiny pieces, and throw them like confetti. Alright, I didn’t go that far, but when it was my turn, OOOOOoo you could not feel the lurve, more like utter detestation from her, I stagger to the desk, forcing  myself through the force of the 'hate vibes', I had fckuked it, but I couldn’t care less, pedantic bint. That’ll show ‘em. And guess what? I wasn't even n the right place anyway, apparently, but I'm sure she told me that out of sheer spite.

Well, I must get on, lots more boring stuff to do, more animals to ‘will kill’, Mastermind chair to sit in, worst P.A in the world role to fulfill, leaflets strewn in car to recycle and a Treasure hunt to write clues for tomorrow. I think I am due some Cadbury’s cream eggs as my prize for making through the past fortnight-but do you know what? They don’t ‘do’ Cadbury’s in France-can you even believe it?

Happy Easter all of you! x

I’m as soft as a moob

Before reading this blog, you are all obliged to read firstly, the blog from yesterday, just so you get the FULL trip…seriously, you’ll see why. Go read it, then come back. See you in  a minute!

Flicking chicken poo in your face is never going to be one of my icebreakers that I mention to new acquaintances, it will certainly be however, the reason why I have scrubbed my face with bleach, and the rest of my body, and I am not doing it just the once either. Nor will my icebreaker be that I then followed the sh*t hoying into face, with treading in the huge great pile of chicken sh*t I had just shoveled out of the house (the chicken house, I should add-just so as you’re sure!), and grabbing something covered in chicken sh*t to use that as a device to move something worse looking than everything I had just shoveled out the chicken house. It was one of the most rankoid and vile events, that I shall write about now, and then forget, forever. Now the reason why all this happened, is because I had to sterilise the chicken house. Why? Well, of course it has to be done regularly anyway, but I HAD to today, as yesterday after writing in my blog that I wanted to kill my chickens, well today, I actually did. Not intentionally, and I did not wring her neck (despite rumours in my house amongst the kids and the animals). Meg died of unknown causes, and very suddenly, and after the kids asked me, on hearing that Meg had snuffed it, if it was me, whether I had killed her, as yesterday I had been ‘going on about how much I wanted to kill the f*ck*ng chickens’. How guilty do I feel? The kids have gone to bed distraught (I even shed a little tear, well, she was my responsibility, she had her own character, and I am not hard as nails, in fact I’m as soft as a moob (Google it if your unsure)). I have left Alex out in the garden with his pick-axe, digging a hole in the garden to give meg a decent send off. He is back in, he’s managed to snap his pick axe in the act. Now we have the debate, do we bin her? Or dig the rock-hard ground with nothing but a feeble spade. Let me have a think, I’ll get back to the blog, I’ll sterilise myself with bleach again in the interim. So, I’m back, and kept on going, digging and digging and digging. Alex remarks afterwards that that was the first grave he’d ever dug.  Which I guess I was relieved to hear…

How bad do I feel though? I must have willed her dead. The distraught kids took a lot of consoling, as did Alex. Alright, he didn’t, he actually, after digging her grave, then hoys her in sipping a beer, going ‘see ya, Meg’. I was a little taken a back, I had expected to ‘place’ her gently in, and scatter a few flowers on the grave top. But there you go, that’s life, and the death of our first chicken.

But just to draw matters out a bit, here is the note that I find on my pillow tonight…Monty had left it for us:

AHHHH, and then look...

*GUILTY*

So there we go, R.I.P Meg, and I am going to go round like Mary Poppins on prozac, consoling my upset children and ‘petting’ all the animals, all day long. See you next time, hopefully with the same number of live-stock.

I will beat them all down with my giant flapping capacities, and stun them all.

Monty pulling his 'handsome' face.

There is literally world war III going on in our house as we speak; us against the mutant-ostrich-chickens. And god only knows how it may end. They have officially flapped over the acceptable chicken behaviour line: it’s one thing flapping onto the table and stealing your children’s food out of their little mouths with their nasty pecky beaks. It’s a whole other thing, when they are ripping out every last vegetable I and the kids have so painstakingly planted over the past week. In fact, things have got so bad, that tonight I am *power* blogging. No, not some cathartic, healing process I have been advised by my mutant-chicken-ostrich psychologist to do, not some ‘writing about your woes will heal you’ b******s. It’s like writing a blog in a similar way to a fast and furious walk is done would be called. A *power* blog. Not that my message is going to be of an ever-so deep and even more profound nature, as it usually is (!), but because after I have done this, I am then to go and replant ALL my vegetables, for the 12^th (no word of a lie) time today. The (my dad’s away for a few days, so I’m fine to write the following word, but sorry to any relatives it may otherwise offend) F*CK*NG chickens are flaps away from having their necks wrung. I have been driven flapping mad (again, you see just how these flap jokes stretch…endless fun), and flaps on my heart (alright, that just doesn’t work, I was trying to replace ‘hand’, but obviously I just look like some weird pervert replacing it as I have, and I am too lazy to delete all the text I have just *power* typed). My point is friends: family, and I include ALL the animal kingdom EXCEPT if you flap. No, that excludes the bird race, and just cos chickens flap, does not mean I have to tar all birds with the same terrorizing tendencies. Now, did you know this? There was a chicken who got his head cut off, and proceeded to run a around a bit, he carried on running around a bit, for 18 months…Mike the chicken he’s called- Google him, it’s a real life story! (I’m into those at the mo!) He died, unfortunately, because his owners took him to a show (he was famous and everything!) and forgot to bring his syringe to feed him his food, and he thus starved to death. Idiot owners. Who’d a thunk it? As my grandpa always used to say. 

EEEEEWWWW rank, but you see, it's Mike the chicken- told you it was true!!

Who knows how this war will end? I may well wring their bloody necks, I may not, I imagine I won’t, I have never knowingly or deliberately killed anything, but then again, there is always tomorrow.

I am in my bedroom on the computer, I have to kneel in front of it, as we have it on a wooden chest, it takes me ages to prize myself off the floor, my nimbility is fast fleeing me, on a daily basis. I am like a 95-year-old ex horse-riding gymnast. Not that I have ever done either of those sports (actually I did horse ride as a child, so I’m telling half the truth, took me ages to get my head round the tapping the horse with the whip to make it go, pulling reigns to stop it, frequently doing it the wrong way round and speeding off like a rabbit being chased by one of our MENTAL chickens, when I was in fact trying to stop, any way, I digress, giddy up…), but I imagine your body must be pretty ‘worn’ after those sports practiced for a length of time.

Monty’s bedroom is above us, and he sometimes stays up late under his bed, in his den. It’s full of star wars Lego, which he is obsessed with. He sets up all his Lego men Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader, Anakin, before he fell to the ‘dark side’ (as I believe my chickens have) Leia R2D2, well, I’m not going to sit here and name the whole cast (although I am only saying that because I have now exhausted my star wars names knowledge), they have battles with all the baddies, and he has all his ships that he and his dad have spent hours making, through tears (daddy’s), sweat and pain, again, all daddy’s. I can hear the faint dialogues between General Grievous and Mace Windou (I had to ask Alex his name!) the girls are convinced he is called Mace Window though. It’s ever so sweet. And I only mention it as I can hear him as I type, bless.

may the force be with you all this week...

I have had a load more (yes, the French paper work time is around again) French paper work to trawl through this week, make sense of and provide evidence yet AGAIN of our very existence on the planet. It’s so pointless and time consuming, and there is no *if you have kids, please feel free to take your time in responding, we do not mean to be the cause of more unnecessary stress, and fully comprehend that finding out all the 7000 tiny print documents we are threatening you with severe penalties if not filled out and returned within reception of this letter, as we appreciate that you have probably thrown in the bin or used as papier mache aids* get out clause. Bastards. So you can all wish me luck with that, as I have Mitzi not sleeping due to another ear infection, the second in 3 weeks after she had her grommets put in. it’s all feeling a bit too rubbish at the moment. *keeps it real*

 

And let’s face it, if I adopt my chickens’ attitude, I will beat them all down with my giant flapping capacities, and stun them all. The only way forward I think…so I end today by saying, here’s to flap attitudes, and conquering the war!

Tamsyn x

found a wedding pic, at last...bit late on in the day, but never mind.

Just me and my man...

I just wanted to rip my own arm off, just so I had something to laugh about.

“F*ck off, chickens!” Charming! But justified to be fair. I hear this screamed angrily outside, Alex, is irate, not only have they ‘nested’ and thus torn up my freshly planted cherry tomatoes and strawberries in the veg patch, they are now on the flapping rampage for any masticated crumbs that maybe smoldering (oh yes, it’s been so hot, that I do worry the food matters scrunched into the floor of the car will self-combust) on the car floor, as he is looking for his ‘wax’. Not the hair variety, for his surf-board, just to clarify that. I have never to date witnessed food matters catch alight spontaneously, but there’s always tomorrow, I say.

Harmless bit of playdough fun (despite appearances)-can you guess what it is yet? Rolph Harris would be impressed. Oh, and that's green food colouring on her nose, and no, it did not come off for a day or so.

Talking of wee (go with me), Esmie was born with a reflux from her kidney to her bladder, in brief, the urine (such a posh, vulgar word, I think, like the ‘proper’ name for ‘front bottom’ and the male bit down below, I cannot even bring myself to write them. They’re just too haughty and rude sounding, that’s just my opinion), as I was saying, the urine gets sent down from the kidneys to the bladder, then one has a wee, and end of. With Esmie, the urine travels back up again to her kidney, so she is always at a risk of kidney/urine infections. She is monitored, and to date, everything has been A OK, so I am not neurotically worried, although i do have to 'be aware' as they insist on advising me over here. Last week she was not all that well, and the first thing I have to test is her urine. I drop off her little pot full of wee, in the morning at the clinic. It was quite an ordeal for all involved, suspending her with one arm over the toilet, whilst with the other hand targeting her wee with the pot, only I got weed on all over (inevitably) in the process. I hear wee is sterile though, so you know, there’s worse things that happen at sea (apparently). Fun stuff catching wee, I may take it up as a hobby, or maybe not, probably the most rank idea I’ve ever had, right there. So in order to remind me to collect her results that evening, I write ‘WEE’ in big letters on my hand. I go round all day with this ‘WEE’ stamped on my hand. And forget to collect the results. Thankfully, it all came back good. But this week has been one of those terribly disorganised, late for everything, going to meet someone 20 minutes away, when in fact I was supposed to meeting them down the road. Again, not fun, a time wasting event, that just is pointless and frustrating, leaving you with nothing but self-loathing feelings for being so, so incapable.  *Bursts into helpless tears*. Truly one of those weeks (no I’m not finished yet, to drum my point home), where I just wanted to rip my own arm off, just so I had something to laugh about.

It’s 8.30 pm here, and I have just finally heard the final dying cries of tired hot kids dropping to sleep through sheer exhaustion, and the fact that their ‘last drinks/wees/kisses/cuddles/didn’t feel that kiss and cuddle/back for more excuses’ are now being met with a turned ‘person with impaired hearing’ ear, and it has finally paid off. I have a lot to get through this week, and hope to goodness it is no reflection on last week. We’ve had lots of fun planting our veggies, tending to the garden, hanging out, being attacked by chickens, hijacked by badgers and the like, but the flip side has been bedlam. And I  won't be able to stand any excitement this coming week.

Easter weekend is fast approaching, and we have round 3 of easter eggs to get in-round one never saw it past the first night, round two were out the bag, hidden, and then eaten the same night. So I am holding off getting round three in till the bitter end. We cannot trust ourselves. We are the sort of parents who should never be trusted with their kids’ chocolates. This is a bad place to be in. I am ashamed of us, and will do better next week, promise! I have also unfortunately lost my voice (I am always losing stuff, but this was not even possibly my fault this time), so that’s gonna be challenging, the kids find it hilarious when I have lost my voice, pointing at me and laughing, like there never has been ever, anything funnier. Geers such as “ha ha, we can’t hear you mummy’ and as I try and whisper my response, they laugh even harder. It’s a cruel world, I don’t know how it’s going to pan out this week, I can but live in hope and buy shares in a foghorn company. TO DO list!

See you all again soon,

tamsyn x

Silent Sunday

At the bottom of my garden...

My real life, true love story!!

Happy Anniversary to my man, 7 years married today, you rock my world baby, and I am so lucky I bagged you!

So here is my true-love real-life love story, as promised…I have been looking forward to writing this blog since I began blogging. As, when I originally started blogging, it was my intention to keep it as a (almost) daily blog, a bit of a diary for the kids when they turn around and ask me in years to come what I did all day as a ‘stay at home mummy’. They will read it and see! So one of my blog entries had to be my very own love story! And here it is:

Once upon a time, back in England, when Smurphs could ski, and the grass was purple, and the trees were clean, I met a guy called Alex. I was working in London, straight from graduating in Newcastle, and had no clue what I wanted to do yet with my life! I did some PR work, promotions, tap dancing, OK I made the tap dancing up, but I would have liked to. I met Alex at a party, he had a girl friend at the time, so he was off limits. He struck a chord in my heart, but I thought nothing of it.

At our friends' wedding last summer. I could not find a wedding pic! will get onto that. TO DO list!

0ne year later, out of the blue, my mobile phone rings,

“Hi Tamsyn, I don’t know if you remember me, it’s Alex, I used to go out with Emily*”

Number 1) yes, I did OF COURSE remember him. Number 2) sly dog for immediately getting in there that he had split up with his girlfriend. He invites me for a drink. I was living about 2 and half hours away from him at the time, so going out for a ‘drink’ was going to be a bit of an adventure. But I said ‘yes’ anyway, why not? His eyes, as I remembered them, and all my kids have them, are blue, and clear (apart from the beer glaze) with huge great eyelashes like an ostriches! Not the most flattering description, but an accurate one nonetheless. I proceed to fly about getting ready for my ‘drink’ with Alex. Then commence the 2 and half hour journey to go out for the drink. We got drunker and drunker, only we went for drinks with a few of Alex’s friends too, and he was chatting me up so much, he stopped drinking the drinks being bought for him and he got behind (never known Alex as much of a talker…;) ). The ‘boys’ were not up for this and made Alex down every last one. That night, in fact I should explain, at that time, Alex was living in his Nan’s house, on a camp bed in the dining room! He’d just got back from travelling. So that night, obviously not drinking and driving, I stay at his Nan’s place with him. I never went home again. On the fourth day he proposed to me, and on the first night I knew he was the ‘one’. Two weeks later, we have a place of our own, renting near London, one year later to move to Whitby, by the seaside to ‘chase the waves, baby’, and where we had our son. Anyway, I digress, Alex also knew I was the ‘one’, but for different reasons. That night after downing the billion drinks he had missed out on from over-talky syndrome, Alex was sick EVERYWHERE. All down the stairs, the bathroom, up the walls. His mum and dad were looking after Nan at the time, and were living there too, his mum greets Alex the next morning with ‘morning love, I’ve just finished cleaning your puke off the walls, good night?’ and I still thought he was the ‘one’. He new he’d struck gold!

Within 18 months from our first date, we had Montgomery Buster, 5 months later we were married in the Whitby Registry Office, with just Alex’s best friend to film it, and both sets of parents and Monty. We had been planning a bigger do, but in the end decided we’d rather be married than not, and did it ‘shotgun’ styley! It took nothing away from our marriage, it only served in making more intimate, and it truly was one of the most (I say one of, as each birth of one of the kids has been the same overwhelming experience that you can never hope to ever put in words, and certainly never fathom, until you are there) significant and overwhelming days of my life. Nineteen months after Monty, we have Lola Grace. 15 months later, we have number three, Mitzi Joy (named Joy after my Granny). Then when she is 5 weeks old we have a conversation. If we do not move to France now, make a break for it, then likelihood was, we never would. When Mitzi is 7 weeks old, Lola 14 ½ months, and Monty just turned 3, we do it. We move to France with 2 suitcases, a few odds and sods, terry nappies and baby wipes, and Mitzi’s cot, we arrive in France. Esmie Rose was born when Mitzi was 23 months, to the day. And we now have 4 killer chickens, a gay dog, 3 stray cats, 4 kids, and a veg patch (growing cherry tomatoes, all colour peppers, strawberries, potatoes and leeks, so far, more to seeds sow…vegetable ones, number 5 is no where on the immediate scenes (yet ;)) although I had better stop mentioning the fifth or there may be no more wedding anniversary stories to write about.

Two and a half years ago, the fourth and the final (?!) was born...

So that’s about it! You are all up to date and have just read my real –life true-love story from the beginning, and a very, very, very long time from the end.

Please feel free to leave me a comment, I LOVE hearing from you all. Thank you!

 See you next time, am joining in on ‘Silent Sunday’ tomorrow, and putting up a photo, so hopefully see you all again here soon!

Tamysn x

*Names changed for privacy rights.

Hoping the fishwife threats worked.

Lola in the front carrier, behind the scenes with daddy, me, Monty and Oliver. 'Back in the day' dog walks.

With catlike dexterity, I negotiate the various poo-traps in the garage, reaching my destination with the self satisfaction of Tom Cruize after he completed his 'mission impossible'. I feel as though I am living a s*** nightmare, quite literally. Between the cats and the chickens, an on occasion the dog too, the garage is officially the poo-room. It is utterly rank, but I have nothing I can do about it, short of putting the cats in cages, and the chickens too. Well, caging the chickens is debatable, as I would rather, and quite happily wring all their bloody ostrich necks as we speak. I have never ever in my whole legged life, EVER come across such ENORMOUS birds, I am sure I have somehow managed to mutate them, and they are now evolving into fully fledged chicken-ostriches a new mutant breed. They will be a giant, nasty breed of chicken-ostrich that devour bacon butties and small children alike.

This is so much so the case, that at meal times, I arm my kids with plastic swords, I keep the cricket bat for myself (sounds dark, but in fact it is simply made-in-china rubber, so although brandishing this may raise some RSPCA eyebrows, they would probably understand my plight, and turn a blind eye). They flap with such almighty power at any rate, that the weapons designated to me and kids alike serve only the purpose of preventative aids from being eaten alive, rather than posing any serious threat to the gargantuan birds. The other day, I ran in the house to grab something (scoop up some sanity I stashed behind the eggs in the fridge earlier on), the kids are happily and contentedly sitting at the table in the garden, I stroll back up, when I suddenly find my self in a race,  against a chicken, screaming in slow motion ‘NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!’ as Margo, now fully recovered from dog-devouring episode, flies up on the table and snatches Esmie’s sandwich out of her hand. Monty is too late with his sword, and I left the cricket bat up at the table, once I get back up off my knees, I sunk down on them with my head in my hands after crying ‘NOOOOOOOOO’. I get back up, full of livid murdering chicken thoughts, and CHARGE! Triumphantly picking up my weapon, I’m on a roll, like Boadicea I whack around violently in the general direction of chickens (although she predominantly dealt with Romans, not birds, and she had a proper sword, lucky b*tch). Missing every time, which is just all the more frustrating, and I nearly die on the spot with stress and over exertion, and from the sheer frustration of the whacking-chicken-missing-EVERTIME-they-are-just-too-fast-and-flappy episode.

dog walks when there were 3...

Tonight, after a looong ol’ dog walk, whereupon we hit upon the ‘we’re sporting cramp-ons and proud of it’ group of walkers. They are lovely and chatty, but it does not aid me in my quest-Esmie on my shoulders, poking every orifice known to man in my face, and thoroughly enjoying herself even if she was gutted that the horses in the field we’d brought carrots and apples for, were not there. Lola the ‘I am only cycling downhill, Mummy’ was a sulky uphill, dragging biker. Monty and Lola, as they both had wheeled vehicles, were wearing cycling hats 4 times the size of their heads. Not a good look, but very funny, if they will strain their neck muscles. Mitzi is happy, drifting about, sometimes on the push-along bike I am pushing with toddler on shoulders, she’s chilling, hanging out, taking it all in, picking the beautiful wild flowers, and every so often the tranquility is interrupted by Monty up front yelling ‘CAR!’ like it’s a bunch o’ badgers with guns that have just stopped us in our tracks, taking us hostage. They’d be no matches for me and my hefty forearms though. I was saying that tonight, I have just left them (now at 8.45 pm) ‘camping’ in Monty's room. All their mattresses are on the floor, the travel cot is up (oh yes, still not ready quite yet to unleash my munchkin of a terrible-two-there’s-never-been-worse-year-old), and I am hoping the fishwife threats worked. Well, in reality, I told them ‘if you go to sleep like good kids now, there will be a special surprise on the table for you tomorrow morning’, I prefer bribing the good behaviour out of them-life is short!

Tomorrow will be my 7 year wedding anniversary, I am putting up my real-life true-story up for all to read, as I for one, am very proud of my man, of us, but not the chickens decision, that was a bad decision, definitely not a ‘proud’ moment…I’m sure they were his idea…!

 

my minnies...

 

Esmie with all her minnies. Photo from Christmas at friends' house, having just received the 3 minis; big mini, medium mini and mini-mini, blurred and sliding off into the corner.

Nostrils flared like a dragon on steroids.

‘They’re mating’ I reply to Monty’s request as to what the ‘gendarm' beetles (no idea what the English is, don’t think we have them) are doing with their 'bums stuck against each other’. Here’s the enevitable ‘what’s mating?’ 

me: ‘well, it’s how they make babies’ 

Monty: ‘with their bums stuck against each other?’ 

me: ‘yep, exactly that, cuppa?’

I still think at 7 he’s a bit young to fully comprehend the intricate ins and the outs of the birds and the beeses. When I was little, my birds and bees talk was communicated to me predominantly through a book. A book, as I can remember it, which I was told to read, then ask questions about to mummy and daddy after. It was no Mills and Boon. Oh, no. far, far, far worse, traumatising. It was like ‘R2D2’s’ version of love-making, all nuts and bolts, and very confusing at the age of 8. There was this one male robot, at least I assume with the giant spring he was brandishing between his legs, it was a male robot, and a lady one, which she was obviously so, when I tell you that she had a giant box for a front bottom. I watched as the giant spring did it’s thing in the giant box, and have never had sex as a result. All mine were found underneath the vegetable patch, damned gardening fetish of mine. So you see my dilemma? Short of pulling out a similar book, and awaiting question time after, which probably, and forgivably would go a bit like this: ‘WTF was that about mum?’.  My verdict is; he’s too young. What do you reckon?

'show me some luuuuurve, baby'

Some American/Australian friends pointed out to us the other day, as to whether or not we would go outside to drink our tea. ‘Is it raining, raining?’ I ask Alex, ‘or just raining’ the fact we were prepared to go out in rain full stop, let alone rain, rain, was a very British idea! But I did it again today. We have been dished up rain, rain, and more rain for the start of the hols, which I am not grateful for. My one main goal of any given day, they all blur into one these kid days…is to tire the four Duracelled-up kids out. My energy is never any match for theirs, and so ‘art and craft’ activities serve a purpose, but don’t wear them out in the physical way they need. Papier maché does not require a ‘pause for breath’ break, no matter how slap happily you are approaching it. So this morning, we are up and out, walking the dog down to the recycling bin station at the bottom of the hill. Now down hill is one thing in the drizzle. Drizzle always feels like an insult on your skin-extremities poking out the rain mac.  It gets you so very proper wet. And then just as you’ve reached the bottom, your 4 and a half-year-old is moaning about her dead legs, thus I end up with two in the buggy for the uphill retreat (it was a retreat, I, nor the kids, could face it any longer).  So I commence heave up the hill, taking no prisoners, or moaning kids.  Arms outstretched with big fore arms pumping, (for explanation, see http://manic-mums.blogspot.com/2011/01/oh-look-there-goes-big-forearm-lady.html) legs taking the strain, the wrestling girls would have been proud! Nostrils flared like a dragon on steroids, I set about the uphill struggle, did I mention it was in the rain? Well, it was. I finally make it, and undress, bath and redress four kids. Esmie is confused as to why it was then ‘lunchtime’ not ‘bedtime’. And this takes some explaining.

The weather brightened up later on this afternoon, so I am hoping to outdoor activity it tomorrow…but you never know, well, with me, you probably do! Night all!

Nonchalantly, she picks up her own pooh, and hoys it with gay abandon out onto the bath mat. Nice.

I started off last week having my blog blocked on facebook, as it had been blocked by some straight-arsed b*st*rd for, and I quote, ‘obscene and abusive content’. All I have to say to that is (turn away, dad) B*LL*CKS SH*T B*LL*CKS! and FYI Mr Facebook moderator, a 'cock' is  a male chicken, not a reference to male member.

But there you go. Life goes onwards and onwards…you can but go with it. I am writing this blog whilst Alex, as usual when I am ‘playing’ on the computer, watches UFC fighting. This time  however, it is with a twist, the fighters are women. I just saw a glimpse of one, and remarked to Alex, ‘Oh, poor , poor girl, she’s no longer recognisable as a woman, she looks like a man’ to which Alex replies ‘that’s because it is a man, Tamsyn’. Thank goodness, wouldn’t wish those powerful thighs on any woman!!

it's not right, they're ladies...!

Well it’s the holidays here, and they have kicked off with rain (many expletives), some almighty paddies, and a few time out sessions. Yesterday however, we had some guests, a family have moved here from Australia, and we were delighted to meet them at long last. The kids were angels, and so today we took them to the shops in an attempt to reinforce this behaviour, and treated them to 2 things of their choice that they could feast upon. Their choice was bubble gum (soooooo against fyi, but they had carte blanche, so I had to go with it, and they got them because each one has a tattoo in, which they love, as wrong as I genuinely think 'chewing like a cow, spit it out', is, like my old English teacher used to say to me, sorry, but it's just not 'nice'! And so much for my principles. If my most important principles are not giving in to guggle bum, then I have some stepping up in motherhood to do, I know, but thanks for rubbing it in). Esmie was not allowed one, and thus paddies all the way home kicking her little chubby-chubster legs, thumping her fists and crying ‘guggle bum, meeeeeeeee want guggle bum, give me guggle bum, NOOOOWWW!’ But her cries are to no avail. Unfair? Well, yes, most probably, but at 2 and a half, I don’t think she’s big enough yet to get the whole ‘it may still be flavoursome, but you gotta spit that sucker out now, no swallowing here’. So I suffered the paddy, at least she was literally strapped in (in the car) to see it through. And OMG, she saw that paddy through. The second choice was marsbars. And for the first time in their lives I let them eat a whole one each. That shut Esmie up for a bit. Hopefully they will rememeber being good, followed by huge treats, and I am training them up like Pavlov’s dogs would have been had they had been fed guggle bums and marsbars. Watch this space!

Esmie wakes up at around 11.30 pm. I go up to see what’s up, staggering with tiredness. In honesty, I was a wreck, I usually am come 7pm, immobile, my body goes on strike, nothing moves how I am pleading, rocking in a corner, in tears willing it to. Plates get flung on the floor instead of slid elegantly into my WORKING (yey!) dishwasher, cups hoyed in the sink, I was meaning to ‘gently place’, but something jerky happens to me around evening time. I try and console Esmie, swaying and proceed to burst into lullaby, almost passing out with the exersion, the effort was too much, and I didn’t get past the first syllable. Thankfully she finally went back off without my dulcet tones.

Oh, mum, you're not about to tell everyone that I hoyed my own s*** out the bath with gay abandon are you? Nope, honest.

In the bath tonight, Esmie apparently can’t control her urges, and poohs in the bath. Everyone freaks and starts climbing out going ‘pull back! Jump ship! Run! Esmie’s POOOOOOHEEEEDDDDDDD!’ Esmie is obsessed with her baths, and is often asking me at two in the afternoon for a bath. Nonchalantly, she picks up her own pooh, and hoys it with gay abandon out onto the bath mat. Nice. Quite happy to still stay in there, I have a right slippery struggle to get her out. But I win! So I think that’s 3 to me today, and big fat zero to you baby! Is it wrong to be that competitive, that I feel both right and just in competing with my toddler? Well, whatever gets me through, I say! See y’all soon!!