The Power of Love

It's a year to the week - to the day,  nearly - that my grandad left hospital after a massive and debilitating stroke. That he left hospital at all was amazing, but that he left with the ability to walk - a few steps, with a stick - was nothing short of a miracle. 

Mum was back at the hospital with Grandad this week for his ongoing physio, and saw a couple at the very beginning of their journey. The man - in his 60s, mum guessed, so a good couple of decades younger than Grandad - had obviously suffered a similarly catastrophic stroke. The pair looked broken, mum said; he couldn’t sit up, and kept slumping, and had clearly lost the use in one side of his body. She just looked like all hope was lost. 

And there’s that word: hope. When Grandad was rushed into A&E after falling to the floor one Sunday morning, and lay on a hospital bed being kept alive by tubes and oxygen tanks (he developed pneumonia, too, just because life can be a bit of a prick sometimes), and was barely conscious but every now and again would look at us in sheer terror, we had no hope. The doctors and nurses told us as much, in the nicest way possible. 

In those dark few days afterwards, in a miserable room in intensive care, the doctors warned us that his chances were slim - if he survived the pneumonia (unlikely) then he’d more than likely suffer another stroke. In any case, his original stroke was so spectacularly devastating that he wouldn’t have much to live for anyway. Honest to god, this was the message we were constantly told. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t swallow. A tube had to be put directly in to his stomach to feed him, and we were told that if he refused this - which he could, despite not knowing which way was up - we’d have to say our goodbyes and let him go. 

And the whole time - from A&E, to intensive care, to the rehab ward - I was looking for hope. I’d accost doctors and nurses in the corridors - “Yeah, but you must have seen WORSE cases, surely?” - and try to explain that YES, he was 85, but that was just a number, that he had more fight and energy and vitality than most men half his age. He played golf, and went dancing twice a week, and walked 10km every day, and played snooker on a Tuesday (all of this to get out of the house, I grant you, but nevertheless, he was FIT), but they just shrugged gently and told me his stroke was massive (no shit) and that if he did ever return home, we’d likely need a mechanical winch to lift him from the bed to a wheelchair, and that there was no way my 80-year-old nan could care for him in that state. That, my friends, was the hope we were given. 

Well I’ll tell you. They didn’t know my grandad. And they didn’t know how much we loved him, or how much he loved us, and what effect that can have on the human spirit. I’m a big fan of love, have been since I met Paul. I know it can change the world. But after Grandad’s stroke, well - and to paraphrase Frankie Goes to Hollywood - I discovered the power of love. If my grandad hadn't loved, and been loved so deeply in return, then every time he opened his eyes he wouldn't have seen his wife, his daughter, his granddaughter - even his three grand bairns - begging him to get better. No, he'd have seen unfamiliar nurses - or worse, no one. 

Because he loved, and was loved, he got better. He was transferred to the stroke unit at Osborne Park Hospital, where - for the next couple of months - he learnt to eat, and speak, and - yep! - walk. And he came home. Against the odds, he came home. Which was pretty horrendous itself, those first couple of months, and nearly finished my poor mum off, after she became a full-time carer to both nan and grandad, and was on call 24-7, and possibly didn’t sleep or rest or eat for longer than is right or necessary, but he was HOME, and he was cared for, and he improves every single day. Still, at 86, he’s improving. Mum takes him to the gym twice a week, and the other day he walked - unaided - through the length of the shopping centre. 

If you’re looking for hope - if you’re scrambling around desperately searching of a skerrick of hope - then may I introduce my Grandad Tommy. Deadset legend, and loved beyond measure. Eighty six in number alone.

Over-enthusiastic tuck jumps

Given that I’m now what you might call an exercise addict (don’t judge me; it gets me out of the house, and costs less than valium), I spent the first half of my life largely avoiding raising my heart rate. Oh, I did the obligatory netball season, which ended with the coach taking my mum to one side and suggesting that perhaps I was asthmatic. I wasn’t. I was just really, really unfit.

When I was a bit older, about 11, at a guess, I went with mum to her aerobics class. My mum was super fit in the 80s, and looked the part too, with a fluorescent leotard over contrasting leggings. In my mind, she’s wearing legwarmers, but I think my childhood memories may have got her muddled up with the Green Goddess. Anyway, suffice to say, she looked like she belonged at a keep-fit class in the 80s. I DID NOT. I was chubby, and unco, and probably wearing a bubble skirt. I twisted my ankle in the first-ever class I went to, and was carried out by the instructor. NOT, it should be noted, by my mum, who actually – and this is the truth – pretended not to know me, and just carried on grapevining.

And that was it, for me and exercise, for close to a decade, until I went to London for six months when I was 19 and got really, really fat, and when I got back to Perth mum drove me directly to the gym (from the airport), bought me a membership and handed me a timetable. And I was still shit.

I tried a step class, and the instructor took me to one side and told me that perhaps ‘exercise to music’ wasn’t for me. (In today’s body attack class there was a girl not dissimilar from the old, unfit me, who could barely put one foot in front of the other, and ended up leaning on a dumbbell and yawning until it was time to cool down, and our BRILLIANT instructor just told everyone – without singling her out – to keep moving and have fun, and I thought YES, that’s more like it. Don’t take someone to one side – or worse, shout over the microphone – to tell them it’s ‘right, forward, left, forward, arms in the air and spin’, because that sort of instruction is lost on the uncoordinated; our brains don’t necessarily connect to our limbs, so we’re left hopping on one leg while everyone else star-jumps, and you can quickly lose heart with that.)

So yes, I gave up step, but – because my mum wouldn’t let me in the house until I lost 10kg – tried a circuit class instead, which was brilliant, because the instructor, Suzie, let me bring in my own mix tapes. And that was it, really. From then on, I kind of liked exercise, and I lost weight, and mum let me back in the house, but it didn’t matter because as soon as I could get out of Perth, I did, and went straight back to London, where I promptly got fat again. But that’s beside the point. That was in 1998, and I’ve exercised pretty much every day since, give or take the occasional baby-induced breather.

Oh, there have been mishaps. Of course there have been mishaps. I was bitten by a Jack Russell as I ran around the lake once, and ended up having an actual shouty fight with its owners, who I threatened to CALL THE POLICE on after I told them to have a HAPPY FUCKING EASTER. (It was Easter, I wasn’t just shouting out random religious celebrations.) On another occasion, I got stuck under a leg weights machine in a busy gym, and had to kind of roll out sideways in front of a dozen musclemen. And I lost my knickers in a combat class quite recently. That happens all the time, right? You feel the elastic go and they slip down your bum cheeks when you do an over-enthusiastic tuck jump and you have to dash off to the loos, slide your knickers out the leg of your shorts and bin them, then carry on upper-cutting like nothing has actually happened, yes?

And who could forget the time I got into a fight with an old man while heavily pregnant in a body attack class? When I’m heavily pregnant in a body attack class – in summer – I feel I have the right to stand next to the big fan. Unless you’re more pregnant than me, THAT FAN IS MINE. Well, I can assure you that the sprightly old gent in the body attack class was NOT more pregnant than me, and I stood my ground, and he actually pushed me in the buttocks during a jump-squat to try and get me to give up my prized position in front of the fan. So I may have aimed my high kick a little more closely at his buttocks than you would normally do to an elderly gentleman in a body attack class. It was the hormones talking, of course.  

Words from the wise(ish)

My delightful sort-of sister-in-law is due to have her baby girl in a few short weeks. This makes me unfeasibly excited, because it’s the closest I’ll ever come to being a proper aunt, sort of. I mean, I’m already a sort-of aunt to Paul’s nephews, but they’re all grown up, and it feels a bit weird making a 20-year-old with whiskers and a girlfriend call you Aunty Lisa. Know what I’m saying?

So yes, I’m going to be an aunt, thanks to Paul’s younger brother and his lovely fiancée, and I can assure you that I’ll do a much better job than either of my two biological aunts, who – Muslim conversions and internet husbands aside – never really took to the role.

Admittedly, I can’t do much, on account of us living on the other side of the world from Daz, Lorraine and their nearly here baby girl. That sux. What I can do, however, is send over shitloads of second-hand baby clothes (and a natty little babygro with dusters on the elbows and knees, which we found on the internet whilst drunk, and ordered IMMEDIATELY, as you do), as well as a little bit of new-mamma advice. Because if there’s one thing I know a little bit about, it’s being a new mamma. And an old mamma. Basically, being a mamma. I know about being a mamma, and I know that I got it all wrong the first time around. That Ben survived is almost certainly down to a little luck, and the Catholic blessings of my dear friend’s family, who were rooting for us from the outset.

So, dearest Loz, here’s my advice to the expectant mamma (you):

1. Don’t buy all the shit. You don’t need all the shit. I made the mistake of going to a baby expo fair thing at Earl’s Court when I was pregnant with Ben. My god, the shit you could buy. The shit I did buy. You don’t need all the shit. You definitely don’t need fur-lined baby earmuffs. In Australia. You need a pram and you need a cot, although Ben slept in his pram for the first three months of his life, and it did him no harm (ummmm…).

2. Having said that, I found the following three things invaluable in the early days of new parenthood: a baby sleeping bag, a breastfeeding pillow, and wine. They will tell you not to drink wine while breastfeeding. There are ways around this. See me after class.

2. You will be told to write a birth plan. The baby will have its own birth plan. Forget your birth plan.

3. Take all the drugs you are offered (in labour). For the love of all things right and holy, take the drugs.

4. If you end up having a caesarean – and so many of us do – it’s no big deal. The only thing that matters is the safe arrival of your precious girl. How she gets here is irrelevant.

5. You may be able to breastfeed. You may not be able to breastfeed. Big knockers are no indication of breastfeeding suitability. Some people simply aren’t cut out for breastfeeding. If you are one of those people, then so be it.

6. If you do want to bottle-feed – by which I mean, if you want Daz to bottle-feed – then introduce a bottle fairly early on. People will tell you this causes nipple confusion (whatever that is). I don’t know about that, but I do know that NONE of my three children would take a bottle – at ALL – and were attached to me by the bosom for far longer than is right or necessary.

7. Dummies are clever little inventions, aren’t they? Neither Ben nor Frankie took to a dummy, but Alice has had one since day dot. The more she sucked on that, the less she sucked on me. Genius!

8. Get dressed every day. Sounds simple, no? It’s not. But: get up, get dressed, go out (with the baby, ideally). Set yourself the tiniest of goals: post a letter, buy some milk, walk the dog. Yes, it will take you hours and hours and hours to achieve these teeny, tiny goals, but do them anyway.

9. Watch out for other mothers. If another mother – kindly – asks if your daughter is ‘sleeping through yet’, ABORT MISSION IMMEDIATELY. Walk away. Reverse the pram and go home. The other mother doesn’t give a shit if your daughter is sleeping through. The other mother just wants to tell you that her daughter is. And she’s probably lying anyway. Don’t get involved.

10. On that subject: don’t listen to other mothers. Don’t listen to anyone. Especially old people. Everyone’s a fucking expert, especially in Sainsbury’s. Have a baby and suddenly EVERYONE thinks they can tell you that your baby’s too cold, too fat, too little, too hungry, too hairy, too ginger. Ignore them all. Trust your instinct. Unless your instinct tells you to sit on the kerb in a bobble-hat shouting at passersby. In which, case, seek medical advice. 

11. On a similar subject, don’t read books. Specifically: baby books. I made the mistake of reading Gina Ford’s Contented Baby Book before Ben’s arrival. This messed me right up. Funnily enough, babies fly by their own rules, and aren’t inclined to follow textbook guidelines. Your baby will do what she wants, when she wants. You can either go with it, or go insane.

12. Remember: you can’t die from tiredness. Unless you’re that Chinese dude who played PlayStation for two weeks straight, but he’s the exception rather than the rule.

13. Finally, enjoy. Those few weeks after your baby’s birth are precious and extraordinary and wonderful, although you might not realise at the time. Spend time just looking at this beautiful, frog-like, possibly ginger creature you created. Soak her in, and enjoy the fact that she can’t wriggle around, climb bookshelves, talk back, and eat your Kit Kat (yet). Those precious early weeks go wayyyy too quickly, so don’t waste it worrying about milestones and other mothers.

The lonely only

It may come as a surprise for you to discover that I’m an only child. (No shit, says everyone, everywhere.) But seriously, I am, with all the traits and foibles of a human being with no siblings. When I was growing up, I was insanely jealous of kids with brothers and sisters. The more the merrier, I thought, which is probably why I went on to have three children, and positively REVEL in the chaos a big family brings. Honestly, I do. I mean yes, sometimes I sit in my wardrobe and weep, and just this morning I took my breakfast and snuck – actually snuck – out the front to enjoy it, even though I was still in my pyjamas, and even though I could hear all three of them shouting for MUUUUUUUMY, but fuck it, it was worth it, for five minutes peace and solitude. But for the most part, yes, I love having a big family. I love that my kids have each other.

When I was little, my biggest fear was that my mum and dad would die and I’d have to go to the orphanage on my own. I didn’t worry that I’d have to go to the orphanage – hey, I’d seen Annie, I knew how these things could pan out – but that I’d have to go on my own.

As a child, I also had seven imaginary friends. Excessive, no? It is perhaps telling that the seven imaginary friends were, in fact, a family of orphaned bears, called Arthur, Belinda, Brigitta, Barbara, Alexander and, god, I can’t remember, Stuart and Dave, or something. Paul reckons that’s an only child thing – not being an orphaned bear, but having imaginary friends, and I think he might have a point. Kids with siblings don’t need imaginary friends, they’ve got their little gang with them all the time. How cool is that?

I loved spending time with big families as a kid. My best friends all had between two and six (six!) siblings (Catholics), and – to this day – I love being in the middle of that chaos, just like I love watching the way my own kids interact now. I am FASCINATED by the dynamics of siblings. One minute they’re snogging the face of each other, the next they’re leaving bite marks on their shoulders. I have to keep asking Paul: is this NORMAL? And he tells me – as the middle child of three – that it’s entirely normal, and goes on to remind me that he once threw a dart at his younger brother’s head, and had to pull it out before his mum spotted it. (Sorry Daz.)

I have it on good authority that people from large families are jealous of only children. I get that. I did have everything I ever wanted. The best Sindy house, four Cabbage Patch Kids (original, with the Xavier Roberts signature on the arse, not hand-stitched out of an old pair of tights), a My Child and countless ra-ra skirts and stretch belts from Miss Shop. I was spoilt, yes, and I wanted for nothing. But I was also lonely, because however much I willed my My Child to speak, she remained obstinately mute, the little bitch.

And another thing. Can you imagine how much PRESSURE only children feel to grow into successful, responsible adults? I mean, I’ve got three kids, and I’m sort of assuming that one will be gay, one will go to jail and one will become an accountant. Or possibly one child will do all three. Anyway, what I’m saying is, I’m hedging my bets. Out of three kids, I just need one to pay for my retirement and one to give me grandchildren. The other one can sit in his pants all day and play Minecraft and eat biscuits, if he (or she) wishes. But when you’re an only child – well, let me tell you, the pressure is ON.

So yeah, I wish I had a brother or sister. Even now, when mum is being extra weird, and making a big deal out of MY OVEN BEING DIRTY AND THE GUTTERS NEEDING PAINTING, I wish I could turn to a sibling and say, ‘Mum, eh, she’s a one, isn’t she?’ And when someone takes Alice’s dummy, and Frankie steps in to ask for it back, I feel a strange stab of jealousy, because that’s what I wanted: a big brother to look out for me … and then bite me square on the arse.     

In which mummy gets her face ironed

My face causes me no end of bother. It’s one of those faces that prompts London cabbies to say: “Cheer up love, it might never happen.” And stops people striking up conversations with me because I look a bit aloof. It’s true! People honestly think I’m a bit of a bitch, when I’m not, ask anyone! (Well, maybe not the people who live opposite the fig trees round the corner. Or the teachers at Ben’s primary school. Or the Wanneroo City councillors.)

But seriously, I’m a nice person, despite what my face says. Do you need a kidney? You can have one. I have two! A womb? Borrow my womb! I’ve drunkenly offered it to countless gay friends, but not a single one has taken me up on my surrogacy offer. It’s vacant; you’re welcome to it. And the other day, Ben’s friend was lost on his way to a birthday party, and his dad rang to ask for directions, but I’m useless at giving directions, what with the whole left and right thing, so I told him to come to my house and I’d drive him there myself. That makes me a nice person, OFFICIALLY.

My face just sends out the wrong message, and the situation’s getting worse as I get older and tireder and wrinklier. That vertical line between my eyes? That’s the culprit, right there. I look PERMANENTLY pissed off. Here’s the thing. I’ve always been quite photogenic. Honestly – I look better in photos than I do in real life. Or rather, I LOOKED better in photos than I did in real life. It was my thing. But just lately, I’ve stopped wanting to have my photo taken. I’ve taken to wearing sunglasses ALL the time. I have considered growing a fringe. This has coincided with me also watching an awful lot of The Only Way is Essex. I cannot get enough of that shit, and there’s not a wrinkle between those bitches. Damn you Chloe Sims; I WANT your smooth plastic head.

You see where this is going, don’t you? I got Botox. And after getting Botox, I have only one question for you: why the HELL didn’t I get Botox a decade ago? That stuff is brilliant. Actually, I didn’t even get Botox. I got some different generic brand. I dunno. I didn’t ask questions. Well, I asked one question: WILL IT MAKE ME PRETTIER, and the answer was yes, so I signed the disclaimer and off we went.

My friend Fiona, when I told her I was getting Botox, asked a pertinent question: “Who are you getting Botox for?” And it stopped me in my tracks, it really did. But the answer is, 100% me. Paul pretends he can’t even see a line between my eyes, and when I told him I was going to get Botox, said: “Oh! Can I get a thatch then?” The answer was yes, of course, if it makes me feel less guilty for spending the week’s grocery money on face poison. I’m not in the habit of doing things like this. Oh, tell a lie, I did have IPL on my face after my mum told me I’d have a better chance of getting a boyfriend without freckles. Oh god, it was awful. It was like being burnt repetitively with a lit cigarette. On your face. Can you IMAGINE? And then every single freckle on your face scabs up, so you look like you have a terrible and terminal face disease for WEEKS. Never again. Awful.

Botox is much nicer. A pretty “nurse” in a pretty dress and high-heels asked me some questions and told me some stuff about not bouncing up and down for a bit, or something (I wasn’t really listening), and then phoned a “doctor”, and then poked me in the head a few times with a needle. As I said to Fiona (her again), it was painful, but in a good way, you know, like getting your legs waxed. She seemed to find this a perverse and unusual thing to say, but you know what I mean, yes? And then it was all over. Five minutes! Possibly even less! The “nurse” (I didn’t ask to see professional qualifications, but I have my suspicions) told me it would take between three and five days to completely work, and that it could be up to two YEARS before the line was completely gone, but already I can see a difference. I just look less pissed off. Granted, it’s not as easy to express surprise and wonderment when my daughter does a poo in the toilet, so I just clap instead. So Botox. Yes. Best $150 you’ll ever spend. Do it.

Gangsta granny and little gits

I don’t know how you play it when a kid pushes your kid in the playground, but me? First and foremost, I check to see if the kid's mum’s watching, and how big she is, and if could I take her in a fight. It’s only once all boxes are ticked/crossed that I’ll give the kid a little nip, and a glare, and possibly a veiled threat (or an unveiled one, depending on the severity of the crime. Just last week I was at a play centre, and a little girl pushed Frankie and then kneed - fucking KNEED - Alice, and, once I’d established the mum situation, I flew to the top of the jungle gym to threaten the kid with all manner of unrepeatable threats). 

My mum, on the other hand, doesn’t give a SHIT about other parents. Never has. We were at a playground this week, and I was tinkering on my phone (soz), and suddenly I heard "oi Oi OI, you little GIT" and saw my mum speeding across the sandpit in a way unbecoming for a 60-year-old nanna. And I went cold, because I had a sudden flashback to the Channel 7 Teddy Bears' Picnic circa 1985, when a man - a dad, presumably, although child protection laws were admittedly rather more lax back in the 80s - took me off the merry-go-round and replaced me with his own kid. Can you imagine if he tried that shit in 2015? Facebook would melt, and Today Tonight would have to cancel all scheduled programming for the forseeable. My mum went apeshit. I mean, yes, most mums would go apeshit in that situation, but my mum went PROPER APESHIT, to the point where the man threatened to call the police. I remember that. I also remember not sleeping that night, waiting for the local constabulary’s knock at the front door. My mum laughed when I reminded her of this, and admitted that she did ‘go for him, yes’, which made me worry a little more about how this modern-day playground situation was going to unfold. 

I’m ashamed to say I hid. I HID behind a concrete elephant, as my mum went right up to a small girl child - no older than six - and called her - yes - a little git, and told her what she’d do if she tried touching Alice again (unrepeatable). Which - again - reminded me of the time Christian Van Der KEMPT (not his real name! Close, but not quite, not since I got an email from someone whose name I DIDN’T change in a blog post, and Paul decided it was time to get a solicitor on speed dial) kept pinching me in Mrs Macri’s year one class, so my dad took him to one side for a little chat one day after school. Again, child protection laws weren’t what they are today, and my dad’s mafia-style intervention did the trick. Christian Van Der KEMPT never pinched this kid again!

Back to 2015, and a health-and-safety-passed playground, and my mum threatening a small girl … under the watchful gaze of HER mum (I mean the kid’s mum, not my mum’s mum. If my mum’s mum - Nanny Ivy - had been there, the kid’s feet wouldn’t be touching the fucking floor, she’d have smacked her so far on to Wanneroo Rd. Nanny Ivy is fierce). Anyway, I just stood very still and tried to blend in with the concrete elephants because I knew that this could not end well. The git mother was in a gang of mummas - a mothers’ group, if you will - so she had her army ready and prepared. My mum was on her own, cos there was no way I was going to admit to knowing her. 

Things took a turn for the worse when the little git ran up to her mum and started crying and pointing at my mum, and I prayed to the good lord that I don’t believe in to open up the earth and swallow me up, but - and here’s the bit that almost could restore your faith in the almighty - the mother didn’t speak English! Not very well, anyway! I mean, well enough to order a coffee in Waldecks, yes, but not well enough to understand the underlying connotations of ‘oi oi oi, you little git’. Good eh?

Also, the fact that her daughter was a little git was obviously old news, because git mum just rolled her eyes and sent the kid over to apologise. Apologise!

Rest assured, this could’ve ended very differently. It could’ve been the Channel 7’s Teddy Bears’ Picnic all over. But today? Today we got lucky. 

MacBooks as goalposts

I was asked recently what a typical day in our family’s like. And, for the first time in a long time - well, since the school receptionist asked for three (three!) proof of address documents to enrol Frankie in kindy, and I was like, "Eh? I’ve seen you every day for the past five years, and you can see my house from the office, are you FOR REAL?" - anyway, for the first time in a long time, I was dumbfounded. Which is weird, because I’m all about routine.

We’re all the same, us Shearons. Throw a cog in the works - put an extra sugar cube in someone’s tea, or, heavens, run the bath before Ben and Holly’s instead of after - and the wheels fall off. We are creatures of habit. We get up at the same time, we dine at the same time (by which I mean that I throw scraps of ham and Jatz crackers in the children’s general direction), we go to bed at the same time. I’m a bit like Captain Von Trapp in that respect, without the whistle (note to self: get a whistle). So, you’d think that answering a question such as “What’s an average day like?” would be pretty straightforward. But, much like the days themselves, it’s not. 

Here’s the things: my kids are nuts. My kids are forever throwing spanners in the works. FOR EXAMPLE. On Friday night, just before bedtime (7pm on the fucking dot, weekend or otherwise), I unpacked Ben’s schoolbag (he should’ve done it himself, yes, but because he’s a nine-year-old boy who forgets to put underpants on most days, he didn’t). Upon unpacking his school bag, and emptying out the uneaten crunch n’ sip (every. fucking. day), I noticed that his MacBook was missing. Oh I’m sorry, what’s that you say? What’s a nine-year-old who forgets to wear underpants doing with a MacBook anyway? It’s a VERY GOOD QUESTION. Ask the school - I’ve sent them enough letters (postmarked with my current address, natch) asking the very same one. But that’s besides the point. Well actually, it’s very much the point, but now’s not the time for a school-based MacBook rant. Now’s the time to tell you what happened when I noticed that Ben’s $1,500 MacBook was missing. Missing!

I didn’t shout. I prefer to save shouting for sand in shoes, tipped over the family-room floor type situations. This kind of went beyond shouting. Yes, it’s a THING. We sat Ben down, and asked him to recount his movements, from the last time he shut down Minecraft, at 3.05 on Friday afternoon to the point, four hours later, when he was facing the very real possibility of not seeing 10. 

“So, ummmmm, I came out of class and, ahhhhhh, like, ummmmmmm, well, I went to play football. And I thought, like, ummmmmm, I should take my MacBook out because I was using my bag as an, um, goalpost so ahhhh, like, ummmmm … I’ve left it on the wall in the pre-primary area.” This, he tells us, as the grey clouds of a massive, relentless thunderstorm rolled across the sky. But still, I didn’t shout. I swore, yes, and I may have drawn my hand across my throat in a “YOU ARE DEAD” gesture, but I didn’t shout. Instead, I sent Paul out with his iPhone and a ladder while I got the three children - calmly - to bed. When Paul came back with nothing to report - apart from the fact that the torch on the iPhone is indeed excellent - I went out in the car, drove illegally up to the gates and high-beamed the school up. I could see nothing, apart from a Chinese man doing step-ups on the limestone blocks. Unusual, no? 

The rainy, rainy weekend was spent sans MacBook. Obviously. On Monday morning I was supposed to be getting ready for my first proper day back at The Sunday Times - a day of interviews and meetings and grown-up stuff - and instead I was trying to get everyone dressed and ready to search the school at first light. No, this was not part of the routine. This was very much NOT a part of the grand plan. Which is possibly why I ended up crying in the office. Oh I know. It just all got on top of me. I’d been around the classrooms, searched the scene of the crime, interrogated the cleaning ladies, acted like a crazy lady in lost property, flinging jackets and goggles and hats and snorkels (eh?) around with gay abandon - all while trying to stop Alice shouting PUSH (don’t ask) and Frankie shouting PLAYGROUND - and then, when all avenues were exhausted, and the siren went, and Ben was still without his MacBook, I started to cry. A proper blubbery, big-girl, snotty-nosed sob. And, when I’d been given a tissue and a shoulder pat, I sniffled my way home, with Frankie still shouting PLAYGROUND and Alice insisting on PUSHING the pushchair, and the very real possibility of being late for my first meeting. All this before 9am! 

And then mum turned up - to look after the kids - and made the astute observation, as only she can, that perhaps I should have insisted that Ben bring his MacBook straight home from school each day. And then, because she was obviously on a roll with her astute observations, said: “Ooo mummy’s in a bad mood,” which always makes one feel so much jollier, in my experience, doesn’t it you? 

Hey! There’s a happy ending. The office lady rang about an hour later to say they’d FOUND the MacBook, in the after-school-care room, and it was in one piece, and had been hand delivered to Ben in his classroom, so he didn’t have to sit at his desk twiddling his shoelaces while the rest of the kids played Minecraft … I mean, broadened their educational horizons via the medium of online gaming. 

So there you go. A typical Friday night. A regular Monday morning. Aren’t you glad you asked?

Race wars and replica football kits

You knew, didn't you, that there had to be a Shearon holiday sequel? Come on, I left it on a race-war cliffhanger. Aren't you just dying to know what happened next? After Alice stroked a Korean family's inflatable whale? Well, I’ll tell you. We came back down to the beach after lunch, and the buckets and spades were exactly as I’d left them (hidden underneath the beach towel). There was also an inflatable baby car floatie thing, which had been there all day, untouched. It was RIGHT NEXT to our loungers. Now, let me explain. People came and went at this hotel, as is the nature of hotel guests. They come, they buy floaties and buckets and spades, and they leave them on the beach for the next family. That is the right and proper way. We acquired one pair of goggles, a Minion bouncy ball, three buckets and a starfish during our time in Bali. We also nearly acquired an inflatable baby car floatie thing. Nearly.

My mum - who is the authority on stolen goods - said that the inflatable baby car floatie thing had DEFINITELY been left by a previous guest, and we should DEFINITELY use it. So I popped Alice in, and took her for a paddle. Then I popped Frankie in, but before we’d even made it out of the shallows I heard an UNGODLY screaming from the side of the pool. I mean, there’s screaming, and then there’s THAT FUCKING WESTERN CHILD HAS STOLEN MY INFLATABLE BABY CAR FLOATIE THING AND I WANT IT BAAAAAAAAACK. The two Korean children were standing there, clawing at their dad, pointing at Frankie and SCREAMING. Even their mum turned around, and I swear to god, she’d been deliberately avoiding her children all day. So yeah. I’d stolen their floatie, and the dad was involved, and they wanted it back. I gave it back with a thousand apologies. I may have bowed. 

But it doesn’t end there. The next day the two Korean children were having a breadstick swordfight at breakfast, which they then used to feed the koi. You can’t feed breadstick to koi (I think). So I dobbed on them. I told the lovely waitress, and she told them off and HA, that’ll teach you to engage in a floatie war with ME, motherfuckers. 

Race wars aside, our last few days in Bali were perfect. We were upgraded, because the toilet in our room overflowed every time you flushed it. Nice! As an interesting aside, we were possibly the first people in history to upgrade to a room with less floor space, fewer cupboards and a smaller bath. The view was nice, but. 

And then Ben talked Grandad into buying him a dodgy football kit from a dodgy dude on a dodgy market stall, and woke up the next morning with a vibrant, angry rash all over his bottom, upper things and lower belly. Yes, that’s right, he had a rash in the exact shape of his highly flammable, entirely nylon, possibly arsenic-laced (Paul googled) football shorts. Then his hands started to itch, which spread to his feet, culminating in him ‘accidentally’ falling in the pond in the lobby, because his feet were on fire. Dickhead. So yeah, you can add replica football kits to his long, long list of 21st-century allergies, just after guinea pigs and fresh air.   

And then, as is the nature of holidays, it ended. I wish they wouldn’t do that, holidays. And to add insult to injury, we had to engage in international air travel with our children. To their credit - all of them, unbelievably - they were wonderful. The air hostesses, not so much. I forgot to tell you about the air hostess on the flight over from Perth. I mean, is air hostessing really the profession to enter into if you hate your fellow humans, especially the small ones? Possibly not. The one on the flight over was so Cruella De Ville like - with a bored, monotone Aussie accent - that it was almost laughable. She HATED her fellow humans. She actually said, as she wheeled the drinks trolley down, “Wanna drink,” just like that, no intonation, no question mark. Just: “Wanna drink.” I did, but I was too scared to say yes. And then, on the way back to Perth, the equally lacking-in-soul air hostess attempted to pour water in my plastic cup, and spilt it all over me. ALL over me. Her response: “You moved the cup.” And I - because I am British, by nature - apologised. Apologised! As the water dripped down my inner thigh, I said sorry. I’ve really got to work on this. 

But yes! The kids were great, up until we landed in Perth, and my dad bopped Alice on the head with his duty free, and she started screaming, and then Frankie and Ben went on the run, and we couldn’t find the pushchair, and basically we just became THAT family, until an airport lady sidled up to me and said: "Have you filled in your forms?” and I said: “Yes. Have you got a secret exit?” And she nodded, and said: “Follow me.” This was a RESULT. We skirted around the endless, snaking queue for customs, and snuck - snuck! - through a side exit. My kids came up with the goods, again, and thus rounded off a thoroughly brilliant holiday (although my mum might disagree. She’d spent two full nights smearing Sudocrem on to Ben’s naked, searing arse, which rather takes the shine off holidays in the sun).

Inflatable whales and selfie sticks

We are, as I write, nearing the end of a family holiday in Bali. I know, I know, I was all I stand for mercy hashtags and boycott Indonesia campaigns - and I still am, of course, I’m not an ANIMAL - but I couldn’t not come. Hear me out, here. This holiday has been booked for ages. Paul and the kids and the grandparents have been counting down the days for months. I couldn’t turn around three (THREE!) days before our flight departed and be all, like, mummy’s got principles, gang, so we’re going camping in Karrinyup instead. Could you? I am what is commonly referred to as a hypocrite. I know this. So are most people. My Jewish friend avoids all things Arab until Emirates offers cheap deals to Singapore. It’s what we do, us hypocrites. 

And another thing. Having given it a great deal of thought, I don’t think we SHOULD be boycotting Bali. The Balinese people - kind-hearted, merciful Hindus, for the most part - should not be tarred with the same brush as their despot of a President. Fuck’s sake, they’ve got a hard enough time of it as it is, with their President putting all his efforts into executing reformed Australians instead of providing his peace-loving people with clean fucking water. Give them a break. Tourism is their livelihood. The Balinese people - the ones I’ve spoken to anyway - stand for mercy, too, and it doesn’t seem right or fair to punish them just ‘cos their President’s a cunt. 

So there you go. We’re having a big Balinese adventure, and it is wonderful, although the first day was a write off. We knew it would be. Put three generations of the same short-tempered family on a 7am flight, add in a destination with 95% humidity, and the objective simply becomes making it through to bedtime without casualties. 

WE VERY NEARLY DIDN’T. At around 4pm - 12 hours after waking - Ben crumbled. Frankie and Alice and Paul and I had napped, because we’re normal humans, but Ben had refused point blank to shut his eyes, reminiscent of the time we flew to England, and he managed an 18-hour flight without BLINKING. Come 4pm, he was psychotic. We went for an early tea, and watched as he exorcised his inner demons in the form of red colouring pencil on paper. We watched, jaws on the floor, as he scrawled until the paper had holes in, then screwed it up and STABBED it, then turned to us - wild eyed and demonic - and said GET ME A SPRITE. We did. 

As predicted, the next day was better. It helps when you’re staying at the Conrad (thanks mum and dad!), and the buffet breakfast contains cronuts AND pancakes AND waffles. For reasons that I’m yet to understand, we’re pretty much the only Aussies here. The majority of hotel guests are Koreans, as well as one Bulgarian family with an intellectually impaired teenage daughter who keeps raising her eyebrows suggestively at Paul, and squeezing him under the armpits (yes!) in Kids’ Club. So yes, we were something of a novelty until a German family turned up with six (SIX!) beautiful, blonde-haired boys aged between 18 months and nine years, all wearing identical clothes, ALL the time. Even their floaties match. They stole our fucking thunder alright. 

Korean-Australian relations were going along swimmingly until today, when Alice tried to pat a small Korean boy’s inflatable whale (not a euphemism), and he snatched it away. And the Shearons and the Amphletts declared war, because you DO NOT snatch an inflatable whale from our baby girl. Rule number one. When the small Korean boy stole our bucket and spade, I said: “Please give it back,” and he said no. No! And in the interests of diplomatic relations I left it that, ‘cos his dad was watching, and he was bigger than me. THEN, he snatched Alice’s bucket OUT OF HER HANDS and I was all, like, WOAH THERE BROTHER. And he said something in Korean that I can only interpret as: “I’m going to fuck you right up.” We’ve come up to the room for nap time now, and although we usually leave our buckets and spades on the beach for all to use, today I’ve hidden them under our beach towels, because I’ve become THAT person, and woe betide the small Korean boy who tries to steal them. 

Hey, here’s a thing. I thought selfie sticks were an urban myth, like the man bun and the health care card. But they’re not, they’re a proper thing! EVERYONE in our hotel has a selfie stick. I feel sorry for the person who has to sit through that fucking slide show. 

So yes, we’re on holiday, and it’s ruddy wonderful. I haven’t had a holiday since Frankie was 14 months old and I was six months pregnant with Alice, which meant I couldn’t drink, so it doesn’t even count as a holiday. I didn’t know how much I needed a holiday until I had a holiday. For the first time in two years I’ve had time to make sandcastles, and sing songs, and make up plays, and perform abridged versions of The Sound of Music on the steps of the pool, much to the amusement of the people in room 1009. And I’ve played beach football, and run most mornings, and eaten cronuts for breakfast (they balance each other out, right?) and read books and written blogs and enjoyed just sitting and looking at my children’s squidgy, lovely heads. Yesterday Frankie fell asleep on my chest, on a sun lounger, and I was trapped beneath him for two hours, inhaling his sweaty curls. It was all kinds of perfect, because there was nowhere I needed to be, and nothing I needed to do. As my dad says (often): we’re living the dream. 

Love is all you need

It’s not often you leave a children’s play centre in tears … oh wait, no, that’s utter nonsense. I quite regularly leave children’s playcentres in tears, but for very different reasons than why I left Little Love Club with smudged mascara (another fib. I haven’t worn eye makeup since 2004) and a sniffly snuffly nose. 

Little Love Club, you see, is a playcentre quite unlike any other - certainly in Perth, which is where my experience of playcentres lies. And that’s due, in no small part, to its creator, Lauren. And yeah, she’s the creator. She’s the owner and the founder and the boss lady, but creator seems to suit Little Love Club better, maybe because it’s a creative little play space in Wembley - or Churchlands, depending on which mood Google Maps is in on the day. 

I’ve had my eye on Little Love Club for a while - which sounds a bit sinister, but only means that I stalk Instagram looking for cool places to take the kids - and this place caught my eye for a few reasons. No big kids. Creative classes. Cool design. And fitness classes while the kids play. This was the big one. I spend my life trying to sneak exercise into my everyday routine. This is harder than it sounds. OH you people without kids, popping into body attack classes whenever the timetable dictates, heading out for a run JUST BECAUSE YOU FEEL LIKE IT. Me, I sneak into half-hour KettleWorx classes when I’m supposed to getting milk from Woollies. I run around the mean streets of Craigie while Ben’s warming up for his Sunday morning football match. I’m not as bad as that mad woman I saw at the museum last weekend, doing tricep dips on the dinosaur exhibit, but I’m fairly creative at finding ways to sweat. And yes, my gym has a creche, but Frankie won’t go in it, so that’s put paid to that. But Little Love Club, well, let me tell you. Your kids are in the same room as the HIIT classes, and they can sit at the little tables and draw and colour and paint and stick while you do your crazy-arse burpee tuck jumps. Ingenious, no? 

Which is why, of course, I turned up wearing my gym kit, but the classes weren’t on, so I just looked like a bit of a dill, truth be told. Frankie and Alice were booked into a creative class, which take place in a separate room, but Frankie took one look at the fairy teacher and freaked. He’s weird like that. Alice wanted to stay, of course, so I ended up with one kid screaming because he wanted to escape the fairy and another screaming because she wanted to sing Wind the Bobbin Up with the fairy. It was a conundrum. Hey, parents of more than one child: what DO you do in those situations? I don’t mean what do you do when faced with a fairy, I mean what do you do when one kid wants to go in one direction and the other in a different direction? Choose the one who slept past 6am? Anyway, I chose Frankie, because he screamed the loudest, and we went off to explore the rest of Little Love Club, with a coffee (included in the entrance fee, YES). 

The downstairs of Little Love Club is zoned into three areas - one for painting and sticking and colouring, another for sitting, and a separate little room with fuzzy felt walls (DOUBLE YES) and chalk boards and cushions. It’s softly lit, chilled out and perfect for little people in the midst of a major tantrum.

Head up the astro-turfed stairs and you’ll find what I can only describe as a mother’s group wonderland. More astro-turf, cushions, dress ups and blackboard walls. It’s kind of what I imagine the inside of Frankie’s head to look like. Pretty things and fun things and cute little corners to fire up a small person’s imagination - fire stations and desert islands and work benches and fairy grottoes and home corners. It’s been designed with such LOVE and creativity and heart and soul that I knew there must be a story behind it. There is. 

I already knew that proceeds from Little Love Club go to the Women and Infants' Research Foundation at King Edward Hospital. I just didn’t know that there’s a wonderful and very moving reason why. Lauren’s little boy, you see, has an incredibly rare lung condition. He was diagnosed when Lauren was halfway through her pregnancy, and underwent a ridiculous number of operations in utero, and after he was born. Can you imagine having your life ruled by percentages? Survival rates and success rates and mortality rates and complication rates? The odds were stacked against Oscar, who - three cheers! - just turned one, and is doing WELL.  

Lauren attributes his survival - and her sanity - to the wonderful staff at the research centre. So, as soon as she could, she set up Little Love Club. This is what overwhelms me. This lady - with a little boy only months old, and only recently out of hospital, and still not completely out of danger - decided that she wanted to devote her time - and her energy, and her money - to creating something for other mothers, in order to raise funds for a foundation that means everything to her and her family. Does that not restore your faith in humanity? Make you put the dishes and the washing and the tantrums and the homework and the uneaten dinner into perspective?

It should. It should make you want to visit Little Love Club even if it was a shit-hole. The fact that it’s not - the fact that it’s the sweetest, warmest, most inspiring little play space in Perth should make you go tomorrow. Book in for creative classes, book in for fitness classes, pop in for a coffee and a chat, just go, and say hello to Lauren, and thank her for being the loveliest human possible.  

Little Love Club's at Unit 4/271 Selby St, Churchlands, and is open Monday to Friday from 7.30-1.30. You should go. 

The notorious birthday guide

Well, birthday parties certainly aren’t what they used to be, are they? I don’t want to come over all “in my day”, but man, in my day, we were happy with some fairy bread and a round of pass the parcel. Throw in a glass of red cordial and I was asking to be adopted by the birthday child’s parents.

Today’s birthday parties are something else altogether. I have it on good authority that a party’s considered neither a celebration nor a must-attend event if it costs less than a grand. I’m serious! I’ve heard tales of $5,000 parties – complete with bars, and caterers, and dancing girls – for a fifth birthday. That’s more than my car’s worth! 

There was a story in the news recently about a parent who INVOICED another parent after their kid failed to turn up to her kid’s birthday party without an explanation. This mum asked the other parent to pay for the cost of this child’s attendance at the party, or something, I can’t quite remember the details because my brain was about to explode with the insanity of the situation.

And then, just yesterday, I saw this crazy-ass gift “wish list” that some crazy-ass parents sent on behalf of their one-year-old daughter. And not a wish list of “whatever you can find on special in Big W on the way to the party”, either.

So anyway, my point is this: PARENTS! Stop with the whole crazy-ass birthday party thing. Use my essential guide to birthday parties if you need help:

1. Set the benchmark low. If you spend five grand on a first-birthday party, you’re going to have to spend 10 on the second birthday, and so on and so forth. Start at the bottom, and take heart in the knowledge that your kid won’t remember anything until they hit five, anyway. This is particularly pertinent with regards to the cake. Start with a Coles ice-cream cake and then just work up through the Women’s Weekly birthday cake book.

2. Forget lolly bags. Just forget them. Why are you thanking these children for coming to your home, eating your food, being sick on the carpet and leaving without a thank you? Why do they need more E numbers to take home with them? It’s insanity, and needs to be stopped.

3. Don’t get carried away. Children are simple creatures. They’re happy with a game of musical statues and a bowl of marshmallows. On this you have my word.

4. Don’t try and impress other parents. They’re happy to have someone else entertaining their child for two hours. That should be enough (it won’t be, but it should be).

5. Don’t accept siblings unless you receive prior notification, in writing. It drives me insane when uninvited brothers and sisters queue up for a slice of birthday cake. Go home! You’re not welcome here!

6. Never forget the RECIPROCAL BIRTHDAY INVITATION AGREEMENT. If your child is invited to another child’s birthday party, you must invite them back, even if they’re the class snail-stabber. I’m sorry, but that’s just how it works. (Mothers! I keep a list of those who don’t invite my kids back. Just so you know.) I mean yes, okay, there are exceptions to this rule, but for the most part, just invite my kid, okay?

7. Re-gifting. It’s fine. We have a re-gifting shelf in our house. I would say one thing: make a note of who gave you the gifts on the re-gifting shelf. I mean, you wouldn’t want to give that Minecraft book back to the person who gave it to you in the first place, would you? (I’m talking from bitter, bitter experience here.)

8. RSVP. You think that’s obvious, don’t you. Well let me tell you: MOST PARENTS DON’T RSVP. It pisses me right off.  

9. This one’s from my husband: If you’re encouraging parents to stay, provide booze. Not expensive booze, just something to soften the edges of awkward conversation. Goon is fine.

10. Forget fruit. Forget vegetables. Even fruit and vegetables chopped into cute and colourful shapes will not be eaten. On this day, and this day alone, embrace the E numbers. Give the children what they want, and they will thank you.

The Notorious DAD

A little while ago - about a year, to be precise - when my brother-in-law and his lovely girlfriend were expecting their first baby, my husband wrote this guide for new dads. You may have read it before, if you were one of the 12 people who followed my blog in April 2015, or you may be reading it for the first time, in which case, this is fucking good, but remember, I'm the writer in this relationship, so if you could keep your compliments to an absolute minimum that'd be ace, thanks. 

After 42 years on earth I can list all the life advice I've ever been given (and remembered) in two short paragraphs. That's harsh, man; life is tricky and we NEED help. My children will be given advice - about everything - and taught real life skills. As I write this I'm teaching Frankie to be a ninja. 

In my working life as a printer, having seen thumbs removed like chicken heads and single fingers become two fingers with the help of a Stanley knife, the best advice (given by a scouse midget cowboy - go with it) was: 'Never put your fingers where you wouldn't put your winkle.' GOOD ADVICE. I still have all my fingers (and my winkle).

In July this year, my younger, less-attractive brother will become a father. After raising 2 children past the point of babyhood and another through his primary school years (my stepson) I want to pass on some advice, warnings and philosophy to help young Darren through those golden months of new baby. Consider me his tour guide on the open-top bus through hell.

FIRST RULE OF BABY CLUB. DO NOT TALK ABOUT BABY CLUB. You care. I kind of care. Other people not so much. Do not go out and talk about babies, it's really fucking boring. That's what family are for. And Facebook.

ENJOY IT. Children are not an annoyance; yes they are 'ANNOYING' at times, but the good times are there. Have you ever given a baby a lemon to suck on? That shit is gold. Using a snot sucker is magic. Seriously, a small human baby man or girl child sleeping on your chest is as close to perfect as you can get in life.

DO NOT DRINK FOR THE FIRST SIX MONTHS. Now this goes against all my rules - I love booze - but imagine the last hangover you had, now imagine with that hangover having to get up at 5am, change a poo-filled nappy, rock a small screamy human back to sleep and repeat that scenario for the next 12 hours with the same hangover, not fun. Last drink at midnight, a small nightcap if you will, easing you into a restful sleep ... AND BAMMMM!!!! 45 MINUTES LATER AND THE CRYING PIERCES YOUR CRANIUM LIKE A FUCKING POWERDRILL. Don't do it.

GOING TO WORK IS THE EASY SHIFT. As a young man I was always confused by the older workers hanging round, staying late, coming in early. WHAT WAS WRONG WITH THEM? I know now, of course, that they had children, and working is easier than being with your children. Seriously, sorry dudes, but that line about being at work all day and being unable to take over when you get home is BULLSHIT. Work is a fucking breeze in comparison. Consider work your leisure time. When you get home YOU HAVE TO TAKE OVER. Make it fun, remember the lemons, get a bike seat, paint, colour in (I fucking love colouring in).

DO AS MANY NORMAL THINGS AS POSSIBLE WITH THE BABY. Take the baby to lunch, dinner, the beach, the pub, it's good socialisation, and trust me, you can't sit in the house for 6 months. Get a baby papoose and a good pram and you can lead pretty much your normal life.

YOU CANNOT DIE FROM LACK OF SLEEP. This is important to know. I had to reassure Lisa many, many times. Yes, your teeth will itch, your eyes will sting, you'll want to rip your own arms off and you'll go out with odd shoes on but you will not die. Remember that.*

YOU CANNOT 'BABYSIT' YOUR OWN CHILD. It's called being a parent.

GET LOTS OF DVD BOXSETS. YOU ARE NEVER LEAVING THE HOUSE AT NIGHT. There's only so much Come Dine With Me you can watch, so buy BOXSETS, lots of them.

Enjoy. 

* Addendum: technically yes, you can die from lack of sleep. A Chinese dude played PlayStation for 12 days' straight and died. Maybe don't combine fatherhood with PlayStations and being Chinese. 

Dog hair and diarrhoea

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Well, school holidays are a laugh a minute, aren’t they? Especially when it’s raining. And even more so when ALL THREE KIDS ARE SICK. Yep, we’ve gone for the trifecta these school holidays, and the cracks are beginning to show.

It all started when I offered to dog sit last week. Now, some might say that the mother of a child with a dog allergy perhaps shouldn’t offer to dog sit. But I … well … I forgot. I forgot! And then I remembered, but figured he’d have probably grown out of it, and anyway it was a short-haired dog, so what’s the worse that could happen? Eh? Oh that’s right, he could end up in hospital. Yep. Ben spent Friday night in A&E because he couldn’t breathe. Mother of the year, right here.

To the dog’s credit, she was LOVELY, and we ended up keeping her and sending Ben to my parent’s for a couple of nights, which was a pretty fair swap if you ask me.

Before this, on the rainiest day of them all, I took all three (Ben gasping and wheezing, like that kid from Malcolm in the Middle) to a bouncy castle place that’s just opened. I realised we’d made a terrible, terrible mistake when the first person I saw was a man with a tattooed head. Now, my mother didn’t teach me much, but “never trust a man with a tattooed head” was definitely one of her golden rules. So yeah, there was a man with a tattooed head. And a cash-only policy, with the ATM being one of those ridiculous machines that charges $23 per transaction and spits the money out with venom and ridicule. You know the ones. And I knew, instinctively, that this wasn’t the place for us. It was split into three age zones, which is great in theory, but in practice meant that massive great teenagers were bounding through the littlies section and knocking them over and forcing me to become my dad, giving them THE GLARE and telling them to watch themselves, or else, and drawing my finger across my throat. So we left, sharpish.

So you’re getting the picture, yeah? Ben: gasping for breath and coughing over-enthusiastically. (And god, I’m sorry, but over-enthusiastic coughing to me is like fingernails down the blackboard to others. I TOTALLY GET the whole struggling-to-breathe thing, but must he make such a song and dance about it? Must he?) The dog: lovely, but allergy inducing. The rain: relentless. Me: halfway to losing it. And then Frankie gets croup. YES, doctor-who-told-me-it-wasn’t-the-season-for-croup, CROUP. And I’m all, like, just give me the fucking steroids, doc, and he’s, like, no, croup season is a good month away, and I’m, well, I’m all: “Okay, thank you, sorry for bothering you,” because I’m British and I have no balls. So, as a result of my absence of balls, we’ve had three solid nights of Frankie barking like a seal. In our bed. Lying horizontally and kicking like an epileptic starfish/seal.

Okay, so you’re getting this? Dog and rain and allergic reactions and school holidays and croup? Because it gets better! It really does! Because then Alice gets the shits! The shits! At first I think she’s just done a really explosive poo, so I change her, and think we’re safe to leave her nappy off for a few minutes while I sort out the shrapnel from the poo explosion. Cue every mother in the land snorting with laughter, because as every good mum knows, we’re NEVER SAFE. So yeah, Alice came and sat on my lap. And shat on me. And while I was cleaning that mess up she went and shat on the sofa. I spent the morning on my hands and knees sniffing the poo trail, and disinfecting as I went. It was great fun! And now somehow her diarrhoea has turned into a spectacular cold, with green snot just to liven things up and drip into her mouth when we’re trying to take a family photo.

But HEY, things are on the up. Ben’s back to normal (his version of normal, anyway) and in “brilliant big brother mode”, which is ace, while it lasts. The sun’s shining, and Alice appears to have stopped shitting herself. The best part? It’s Friday, and Paul’s home, and wine time is but a mouse-click away. Happy weekend, y’all!