I Don't Know How She Does It.

Well that’s just it, I don’t. Do 'it' that is.

So as part of this blog post, I am appealing to the Sisterhood out there – including you Sarah Jessica Parker – to share with me how you bloody well do it.

I realise I’m very much not alone: trying to manage two under fives, a freelance job, the endless chore-age of running a home, cramming in the odd quest to do something for me and attempting to keep on top of waxing, threading and grey-covering (I swear hair maintenance alone could be a full-time career for me).

And I’m hoping that I’m not alone in feeling like I just can’t cope with it all a lot of the time. And then feeling like a failure. And then eating some Hobnobs. And then feeling shit. And then shouting at The Husband as if it’s all his fault (which confuses his poor brain since it is built solely on logic and reason).

This weekend, we decided to tackle the plastic toy invasion and general misplacement of everything (bicycle pump in the fruit bowl, a single winter glove living happily in the bathroom…that sort of thing) and have a good old tidy up. This (I am told) the children do dutifully at nursery, yet when I suggest it at home they look at me like I’ve suddenly started speaking in Swahili.

What ensued for the next two hours was that I went about all whirling-dervish-like, clearing, boxing, gathering and sorting everything in my sight. Behind me, the rest of the family created more destruction than we started with. The main problem being my in-laws have just cleared out their loft and delivered four large boxes of dusty memorabilia to The Husband to sort through. This he decided would be his contribution to the Big Tidy Up. But amidst pleading love letters from broken hearted teenage girls and faded Blur tickets, were a whole load of The Husband’s old toys, which of course soon found themselves all over the playroom floor. Before long, my two year old was trying to swipe the screen on a Commodore 64 and my son had Mr Potato Head astride a delicate electric Hornby train. It was like my plastic invasion had just morphed into a vintage one and now I was just faced with tidying up three children’s toys…one of whom is 37.

Needless to say, yesterday my John Lewis image of plumped up cushions, sparkling surfaces, fluffy rugs and everything in matching middle-class storage, pretty quickly disintegrated. And the bicycle pump is still in the fruit bowl.

They say the home is where the heart is and I’m just not feeling a whole lot of love for my house. I’m sure it tries to wind me up on purpose. There is some weird Law (definitely a derivative of Sod’s) to the laundry basket. I empty it ALL the freakin’ time and whenever I go back it’s full to the brim (with the addition of the pair of dirty boxers and socks always placed carefully on top). It fills itself up, I swear. My tumble drier creases things just to piss me off, my toaster spews crumbs out over the top so they land all over the kitchen floor, my Brita water filter leaks everywhere but customer services insist there’s nothing wrong with the design. It’s like my appliances all have a little private agreement to really fuck with me. When I started writing this post, even my Mac decided it couldn’t be arsed to comply and went to sleep all hot and bothered demanding a new motherboard.

Maybe I need a new motherboard? Maybe I’m a bored mother? The relentlessness, the lack of knowledge of the extraordinary amount that goes on behind the scenes in order to create a happy platform for my little ones. The constant additions to the To Do list before you’ve started crossing anything off. I don’t really know what the answer is but I’d love to know how all you ladies do it? And if you have any top tips? I’m hoping at least I’ll discover I’m not alone and perhaps it is only Sarah bloody Jessica Parker who really does it after all. (And even that’s fiction).

ENGLAND: Nil Points

A very good friend of mine and I have just returned from a weekend in Paris. I should point out this is absolutely NOT usual behaviour. It is precisely BECAUSE of usual behaviour (mainly on the part of our four under fours) that we got drunk one night and spontaneously booked an Easyjet flight and a tiny cupboard in Le Marais, before we could sober up and return to being vaguely sensible.

Keen to make the most of Vin Rouge time and the least of baggage claim boredom, we decided to take hand luggage only. A bonne idée until both bags set off the infrared scanners at security due to the sheer volume of vanity products. It’s a rude awakening to be given a small see-through bag and politely told you can only take what fits into it. Having to publically prioritise your beauty products is quite a challenge I can tell you, especially when you’re off to Paris of all places and will require at least an inch of foundation to get from bleak to chic. I could see the panic in my friend’s face as she had to question on the spot whether Touché Éclat should outrank Beauty Flash Balm.

Having spent a wicked 48 hours in a blur of cigarettes, sequins and ridiculously beautiful people, I have returned to a sickness bug. My daughter pretty much greeted me by vomiting at my (fabulous) heels and has whined ‘Mu…mm…y’ ever since, as if to provide a constant reminder of my role lest I had forgotten somewhere over the English Channel.  

Since there’s no chance of setting foot outside the front door, I have broken all my own rules and told the kids they can do what they want, learning in the ensuing half hour that ‘iPad’ is a key part of my daughter’s vocabulary – at 22 months - and my four year old liberally uses Google as a verb. Oh shit.

I have spent the afternoon making rounds of dry toast, stroking heads, attempting to catch vomit in various receptacles and wanting to punch Mr fucking Tumble. I’ve got a good mind to go and put my sequins back on.

The Play House

This morning I found Iggle Piggle in my knicker drawer. I don’t recall reading that he’s a cross-dresser. Perhaps he was looking for The Tombliboos' trousers.

In the bathroom, my entire collection of candles had been lined up along the edge of the bath, with a single Immac upper lip wax strip balanced carefully on top of each one.

In the garden for most of this summer, approximately 20 plastic clothes pegs (‘Boats’) lay across the decking, each gripping a leaf of varying size (‘Sails’).

This is the work of the little people. And I am not allowed to touch.

I don’t know if it’s just my children, but there seems to be a constant Arrangement of something somewhere, which uses a combination of their toys and my household objects, and which is usually very precisely laid out. There is huge imagination at play here and I am loathed to disrupt or untumble one of these carefully constructed scenarios, just because I really could do with my spatula back. On the one hand I love witnessing the creative expression, the scientific experimentation, the way the inanimate can animate their little, new minds. On the other hand, my OCD tendancies are going into overdrive and I just want to get hold of all the bloody Stuff and put it back into piles and boxes.

It’s when their play area pervades ours that perhaps my tolerance is most tested. Pre-children, I’ve always maintained that the bedroom should be a serene sanctuary – absolutely NO television, stylish décor, scented candles and beautiful bed linen. These days, it’s not unusual to find a plastic pony poking into my back during The Act, or to glance over The Husband’s shoulder to see The Gruffalo peering out at me from under the duvet.

The Husband says that all this chaos makes the house looked lived-in and gives it soul. I am certainly aware that our ‘Beautifully appointed Victorian terrace’ which we bought as DINKs from another couple of DINKs would now be described as a ‘Much loved family home, in need of some attention’. But honestly? I rather like that the chips in the skirting are from where Thomas' wheels hit the edge during a particularly fast race, that the scratches on the leather sofa are from a 'real dinosaur fight' and that the biro swirls by the front door were our daughter’s first drawing.

Perhaps because they serve as little memory nuggets of days already gone by. Days when they are little. Days which we won’t get back. The house bears the scars of their childhood – proudly - and that’s exactly what a family home should do.

And anyway, the plastic takeover that comes to us all does no real harm. Iggle Piggle looked quite content nestled amongst my M&S cotton pants (I’d love to say frilly French lace but The Husband follows this blog and is likely to post a comment exposing me as a bare-faced liar). And you never know, perhaps The Gruffalo even enjoyed his threesome.

I Can't Take Me Anywhere

I have frequently left the house with yoghurt / milk stains on my left shoulder. I have been out with dried puree in my hair. I have done an entire Sainsbury's shop with a small, pink Hello Kitty grip in my fringe. But never before have I had a 20 minute chat with our elderly neighbours - outside the front door - forgetting entirely that I am wearing a T-shirt with the words SUGAR TITS across the front.

I am mortified. Our neighbours are in their sixties, kind, gentle, unassuming, fond of the children and - perhaps until now - always complimentary of our approach to parenting. And I should point out, this is not a T-shirt which could be missed or mis-read. It is navy with its SUGAR TITS logo in large, shocking pink capitals.

You see, since I woke up this morning and someone replaced Summer with Autumn, I thought the kids and I would have a lazy day in the house. So on went the slipper boots and some cosy inside-only clothes. Having spent all afternoon safely ensconced indoors, I'd become immune to my non-public-appearance outfit and, since my three year old can't read, no one pointed out to me that even a trip out to the wheelie bin with a dirty nappy could be dangerous. Living in a terrace, we're talking neighbours of close proximity where it would be churlish not to chat when popping out front, and we often do. I did have an inkling during this evening's chat that Mrs Neighbour seemed keener than usual to get back indoors, but just assumed she wanted to get on with the dinner and so I continued chatting to Mr Neighbour for at least another five.

It was only when The Husband arrived home this evening and directed some dirty comment at my chest that the penny dropped. He of course has found the whole thing utterly hilarious. Particularly as the T-shirt was an Anniversary present from him on our second (cotton) year of Marriage. I remember it well - giggling at the gift I went to try it on, only to discover that tragically my tits (10 months into breastfeeding at the time) hung a good 2-3 inches below the logo.

So, this evening I've decided the T-shirt is cursed and I shall re-home it to some pert twenty-something who will wear it somewhere more fabulous. And in the meantime, in a bid to clawback my neighbours' respect, I shall be dressing in entirely age appropriate attire and mostly avoiding the wheelie bin. I just hope they're not down with Da Kids and following me on Twitter or reading this blog.

Perfect Mothers, Perfect Friends & Not-So-Perfect Children

I am ALMOST 'The Perfect Mother'. It’s as if...my intentions are good and I get everything ever-so-nearly right...but never quite manage to pull it off. For instance, this morning I answered the front door, as my son skirted around my ankles in a smart little Breton top, happily munching an organic apple he clutched in one fist. I beamed at the postman, enjoying a little swell of ‘Good Mother’ pride as my son peered up at him. Only to look down and spot I’d completely forgotten to dress his bottom half and his other hand was wrapped tightly around a plastic medicine syringe.

And the proximity to perfection goes on...my kitchen is spotless apart from the large pile of papers, plastic Iggle Piggles and single socks that sit expectantly in the corner waiting for a home; my flapjacks taste great but always have to be chiselled out of the tray and caught whilst flying across the room; I'm excellent at reading Bear Hunt for the five-hundredth time, until we get to Swirling Whirling Snowstorm, when I always start drifting off and dreaming of exotic holidays before having my concentration sharply re-set by a tetchy toddler.

If ever there is an opportunity to suggest I am NOT the Perfect Mother, my children enjoy taking it. Being under five, they understand there are boundaries...and that boundaries are there to be pushed and tested (as are mothers). And aren’t children clever? They've perfected the art of acting like little darlings when you’re home alone with no one to show off to, yet the minute you get in front of the in-laws or your 'Perfect Friend' (we've all got one), you end up boring yourself with the number of times you desperately say "he's never like this", "she's usually got such good manners".

My Perfect Friend came to stay one day when we went to the Bristol Food & Wine fair. Having behaved beautifully all morning, my son decided to go for an Oscar performance at the entrance to the fair (nice and public, you see), all because of The Buggy Battle. He’s inherited my dramatic gene and therefore any tantrum sounds rather more alarming and sinister than it actually is. Quite used to the hyperventilating wails, my husband and I battled on regardless against the 98^th percentile force, and tried to locate some straps from under his bottom whilst shoe horning him into the seat. At which point a yellow-jacketed security steward hurried up with a face full of concern and asked if we’d like him to escort us to the First Aid tent. I laughed – before realising he was entirely serious – and calmly explained that this was neither health nor life-threatening, but entirely normal (to us at least).

And that's just it. We can only truly judge ourselves by our own benchmarks - those that are closely guarded behind our own front door - and not by the standards we set ourselves based on how well we think everyone else is managing this motherhood lark. There IS no such thing as The Perfect Mother, but it would make parenting a darn site easier if we were all a bit more honest about where we go right, where we go wrong and what sometimes keeps us awake at night (as well as trying to have a giggle at the same time). And that's why I've started this blog.