My Bridesmaid’s daughter is 20 months older than Son, and is also my God Daughter.  Although we live 4 hours drive away from Bridesmaid’s family, we still see them every 6 weeks or so.  God Daughter and Son are inseparable.  This may sound cute, and sometimes it is, however they bring out a streak of mischievous in each other which makes them quite hard to handle when together.  Take our last joint family holiday together on a friend’s farm.  Bridesmaid and I were gossiping in the kitchen, when we saw the 2 of them obviously trying to sneak into the garden.  They were beckoning to each other, and crawling/tiptoeing around, hiding behind bushes.  They got to their goal - the runner bean plant.  While one kept watch, the other snatched as many beans as they could carry in their 5/6 year old hands, and they both ran off giggling.  Bridesmaid and I were quite righteous in our discussion about their antics.  ‘Bless them’, and ‘can’t really tell them off as they are eating vegetables’ and ‘could you imagine if our children wanted to eat chocolate’.  So instead of following them (both husbands were pretending to be farmers somewhere outside and wrestling cows/driving a tractor - honestly they behave crazier every year we go with their pseudo-farmer-antics) we decided to have a glass of wine and seriously catch up.  About an hour later, Husband runs in, shouts to follow him and disappears to the back of one of the barns.  We obviously follow and the sight of the 2 children, happily perched AT THE TOP of a haystack the height of a HOUSE, eating runner beans, while Bridesmaid’s husband tempts them down (without scaring them) and Husband tries to silently clamber up the other side to grab them, will stay with me forever.  They had found a ‘secret’ place to eat their horde, not realising the danger.  We got them safely down, and their followed lots of cuddling, lots of ‘no more up there without mummy/daddy’, shouting of you were in charge of the children - no I was wrestling the cows/drinking wine and discussing important news, and that rather frantic happiness you get when you feel that you have averted a serious disaster.  It was only 3 weeks later that we found out the full extent of their mischief.  Bridesmaid was cleaning her car, and noticed a scratch in the side which resembled Son and God Daughters name.  Not only had they scaled the Everest of all haystacks and stolen runner beans, they had also used said runner beans as pencils and scratched their initials into Bridesmaid’s new mini.  What are they going to be like when they are teenagers together?  My mind boggles...

We had pork for supper last night; it was delicious, although I always think it tastes best when it is from one of our piggies.  We have saddlebacks, and I found them on a website called preloved.  A lady was advertising weaners for sale, about an hour’s drive away.  We communicated by email, and I said we would pop in on our way back up from Bridesmaid’s house one Sunday evening.  I had not really prepared my husband properly; I think I told my husband we were just going for a look, and then maybe think about getting them another day.  This would have been sensible, as the car was full of children, travel-cots, trunkis and pushchairs.  Well, we turn up at the farm, and the couple are selling their Saddleback herd, because they are taking some time out to build a new house.  They had 4 baby pigs left.  I was dressed completely appropriately (sarcasm - I had flip-flops and a flowing dress; not good for a muddy pig-farm).  Chap took us to the pigs.  Husband and I both looked at them, and each other, not really knowing what to do.  I made some comment about their noses looking like good snuffling noses.  I think chap knew he was onto a winner.  Chap asked if we wanted to take them now.  Husband made a comment that we were not really able to because of all the stuff we had in the boot.  Chap had a look at boot, and said, ‘no problem, they will fit nicely in there’.  Husband started to move stuff around in the boot to make some more room, giving me a meaningful look as I went off with the chap to sort out money.  Meaningful look I think was saying, ‘WE ONLY HAVE SPACE, AT A PUSH FOR 2’.  Obviously I completely ignored him, did some bartering and managed to get all 4 for what I thought was a really good price.  In hindsight, I think he was desperate to get rid of them.  Chap told us that we next had to catch them.  He told us to catch them and pick them up by their back legs; it stops them squealing.  My goodness, they squealed.  I found it a really distressing noise.  Once again, I got the nervous giggles, as my husband and I were trying to shut 4 pigs in the back of our people carrier, which also contained everything a family of 5 would need for a weeks holiday.  My giggling soon subsided, as I started panicking about one of the pigs jumping over into the back seat and eating one of the children (husband tried to point out that IF it jumped over, and IF it started eating baby’s leg, then he was trained in emergency stopping and then could beat it off with the umbrella that was in the passenger footwell; at worst, he reasoned, baby would lose a toe).  This was not the solution I was looking for, so, under much muttering, he spent the next 20minutes rearranging the car so I could get in the back (with the umbrella) in order to stave off an attack should the pigs be peckish.  So off we set for home.  Thing is, we needed diesel.  So we stop about 20 miles south of our house, at a local supermarket, to fill up.  My darling husband is a complete skinflint.  He would rather drive an extra 10 miles out of our way to get 2p of fuel, but that is another matter altogether.  Husband says he will never forget the look of the lady in the adjoining car as she glanced over into our clampet-mobile, and saw 4 snouts looking back, 1 baby asleep, 2 kids eating chocolate, and me wielding an umbrella in a semi-threatening manner.  Off we set once again.  A smell starts creeping round the car.  I sniff the baby, not her.  I accuse son of trumping, he assures me not him.  I give husband the look, he retorts that it is nothing to do with him.  I know where the smell is coming from, I was just tying to live in a state of denial.  I cannot even look behind me to confirm my worst suspicions; all I can smell is pig puke and pig poo.  The money I had saved through my bartering was spent the next week on having the car, travel cot and  pushchair valeted.  Pigs are not good travellers.  Morale of the story?  Never put a pig in your family car.

This is a blog in honour of an amazing friend.  If she ever reads this, she will know it is about her.  She is all you could ask for in a friend; kind, generous, loving, understanding etc. etc.  But what I really love her for is this:  She is the first friend who I ever admitted my stalking tendency to.  I do realise this sounds really dodgy, but it is not as bad as it sounds.  Basically, I meet someone who is brilliant, and who I think would make a fab friend.  I decide I want this person in my life.  I then stalk them.  By this I mean, I try and charm them, give them my number, laugh at their jokes and generally make myself amenable until they give in to me and become my friend.   Sometimes this is quite quick, and sometimes it is a long haul (months/years).  Obviously, if you tell people you are stalking them, they tend to run a mile (there is a woman in the town near where I live who did; she remains the friend who got away - we have mutual friends so I vaguely see her but she keeps a distance).  You have to be subtle with your methods.  A working mum, I do not have time to see if a friendship develops like a normal person.  I see someone great, and I go for it.  My amazing friend is a stalker as well.  We actually did it to each other, which was quite odd.  Her and I share lots of other random habits as well.  We both like dirt.  Husband would shower 8 times a day if I let him.  He loves it, and spends ages doing stuff in there.  Now, I do not see the point in showering unless I am slightly grubby.  I also prefer going to bed clean.  This means that I skip a morning shower if I can.  I also only was my hair twice a week.  My husband thinks I am dirty.  I have limited time and I have to make every minute count: 30min of showering a day, equates to 3 and a half hours a week; that is time I could be sleeping.  Choice between a little dirt and extra sleep?  I will go for sleep.  My amazing friend is the same as me; actually, I think she is even worse.  How cool is that?  Someone even grubbier, and more of a stalker, than me?  She is also really good at punctuation which fulfils some of my retentive qualities; I have rung her at random times of night and day asking where the apostrophe should go.  She is also my rant-friend.  If husband has been thoughtless, kids are driving me insane, and I just need someone to be horrendously over the top with (for example, I can't go on living like this, the children hate me, I have no life etc) I can ring her, rant and hang-up, without having to do the good friend thing of asking her if she is even OK.  She does this to me, I do it to her, a mutual ear to pour in our exceptionally dramatic moments of crapness into.  So, if you ever read this, you grubby, lovely Lady, you were one of my most successful stalks!

I went to my first ever Pilates class today.  I kind of thought it was akin to a meditative group; maybe some gentle stretching to music, with ‘strenuous’ breathing exercises (snoring) while laying on my back being told to “relax, relax...”.  I was quite excited about the potential of a little nap.  How wrong could I be?  I turned up very slightly late, and everyone was already in a semi-circle around the instructor (male, I might add.  I was positive this was a woman thing).  If I had been less flustered, I might have noticed that everyone in that room were ‘sporty’.  By that I mean there were no bulging mummy-bellies,  and there was lots of lycra and trainers that were not made by George at ASDA.  There was even some men there, which personally I think they should warn you about before you sign up for a class.  Not that I have a problem with men, I just am always slightly concerned about exercising in front of chaps.  It is all the sweating and wobbly bits.  It is a. bad enough I have them (wobbly bits), and b. awful that my poor husband has to put up with them, without c. having to subject some poor stranger to seeing me flop myself around like a beached whale trying to get myself into strange positions to improve my core.  As far as I could grasp, I needed to tighten my wee muscles (and I do not mean small).  Anyway, back to the class...I have come to the conclusion that I am a medical miracle: I have survived 35 years on Planet Earth and I do not have any muscles in the stomach region.  None.  Nothing. Zero.  The instructor was quite ‘hands on’ as well; he liked to poke to see if you were straining the right bits.  He had to do quite a bit of poking to get to the ‘muscles’ on me, and although he said he had found them I am pretty sure he hadn’t.   I am quite ticklish so was giggling and not taking it very seriously (serious gym bunny hurumped at my laughing).    THEN it started...I struggled with the warm up.  Level 1 (goodness knows how many levels there are) had me stretching and heaving.  There was absolutely no way I could do anything and keep any hold on my inner core.  I did however, really enjoy it after I had got over all my inhibitions (exercise, men, other women less wobbly than me) I found I really focused and definitely felt better afterwards.  However, to help with knowing which muscles to tense I might drink a litre of water before going along next week, and I am definitely taking the precaution of a Tena.

I have three children.  Close in age, but not ridiculously close (that would be all born within 18 months in my book).  I always wanted 4 children, and used to make this known to anyone who would listen.  A brave thing to do when you are only just pregnant with no.1.  Many of my friends who already had 2 children used to look knowingly at me and just say, we’ll see.  I now understand why as, for me, the jump to 2 children was mind-blowingly difficult.  We have not made it to 4, but I live in hope (or when I can persuade stay-at-home husband that life would truly be easier with 4).  When I announced I was pregnant with no.3 (actually, I never had to tell anyone, due to my lack of stomach muscles I was obviously pregnant by 11 weeks and the size of a small caravan by 4 months) my friends with 2 asked me how I was going to cope, how would I hold their hands when we crossed a road?  What about when they all need a cuddle, as I only have 2 knees and 2 arms?  How would I get to spend quality time with them all?  I do share their concerns, sort of.  I was worried about this mythical syndrome called ‘middle-child’ but still have not found it on NHS website, so I am assuming that it may have been eradicated in Northumberland.  The quality time?  Undeniably if we were a smaller family I feel sure Son’s reading age would be higher, and Daughter no.1 may speak a bit clearer, but I think they will equal out with all the other children eventually.  What we have sacrificed on the individual quality we make up for on the group quality; the kids have so much fun together.  How could we truly practice our circus acts (inspired by Cirque du Soliel) if there were any less of us?  We will be able to do a proper pyramid once the baby is able to climb her way to the top over tier one (me and husband) and tier two (Son and Daughter no.1).  Hand holding?  We have perfected a weird sort of thing where I can hold two children’s hands in one of mine.  Involves some crab walking, but the kids know no different so have adapted a crazy walking gait to make up for it.  The cuddling?  Well, this is the best part of having 3.  If we are all together we do a Surname-sandwich.  Lots of squishing and mangling whoever is closest.  If I am on my own with kids?  Well, Daughter no.1 curls up in my right arm, daughter no.2 in my left.  Son?  Well, he lies down right on top of me with his head tucked in under mine.  So for any parents out there who are daunted by idea of 3, or put off by the logistics of cuddling positions, don’t be!

Guess what we did yesterday?  Yesterday was Elvis Day!!!  We popped along to the Graceland Wedding Chapel on Las Vegas Strip to see if it was possible to renew our vows with the King.  We managed to book ourselves in for midday, and then took ourselves off to a Mexican for breakfast.  I was very wary of the idea of a Mexican for breakfast, especially when they came out with tortillas.  But my goodness, what I ate is on the top 5 of my all-time favourite meals.  It has joined Jamie Oliver’s 15 taster menu from Sep 06, the breakfast thing I had in Rotaroura, New Zealand, a Wimpey Ostrich Burger with avocado in South Africa, and my mother-in-law’s curried cutlets with cabbage.  I do not know what it was, so I will christen it my Elvis Mexican Breakfast.  Wow.  

My wedding dress had survived being squashed into my hand luggage and I struggled into it, with help from long-suffering husband.  There was slightly more back-fat than the first time I wore it, but I was quite pleased that it fitted so well, if a little too well in places.  As we were waiting to start, a random couple walked in off the street, and asked if they could watch.  So they did.  They took loads of pictures which is quite strange...anyway, Elvis was fab.  He looked like him and sounded like him.  It was a hoot, and I would recommend doing it, especially the Elvis vows!  We actually went drinking with Elvis as well last night.  He and his band perform in one of the casinos.  They were very good.  We got very drunk.  I made a bit of a prat of myself.  I always do when drunk, and am now wincing at the memory.  This is why I should be limited to 2 glasses of wine!  There was a girl in the bar who was obviously out to get snogged by Elvis.  She was attractive and a bouncy blonde American.  I decided, after quite a few cocktails, that I was responsible for keeping Elvis away from this woman.  I decided I would remind him that he was married with 2 children.  And I told her.  I also finger-poked his bandmates.  Husband dragged me away in resigned disgust at my inability to keep my mouth shut, and my terribly vocal self-righteous behaviour.  Have you ever had that wincing feeling the morning after?  I thought I had grown out of it, but sadly not.  I keep thinking to myself, did I really say that?  And as husband keeps replying, Yes you did.  

So here I am on an aeroplane; according to the inflight map thingy we are somewhere over Canada.  It is our first time away without the children.  I am feeling slightly lost without them.  In the airport I kept seeing all these mummies with children vaguely the same age as mine and I wanted to go up to them and explain that I have three children.  What do you think they would say to that then readers?  Well done, you strange lady.  It is almost as if I can only justify my existence in the world through the kids.  When did this happen?  When did I stop being interesting and worthwhile to chat to in my own right?  Perhaps I am interesting and worthwhile, but it is really that I cannot think of myself in any other meaningful role apart from ‘mother of three’.  Do all mummies feel like this?  I have a secret suspicion that they do.  There is a lady sat next to husband and within about 10 minutes of sitting next to her (the plane had not even taxied) we knew she had 3 children, their ages, and that she has never left them before.  It is nice being alone with husband though.  We actually walked around the airport departure lounge and held hands.  We giggled over a corona in the bar.  I have slept on the aeroplane and watched three, yes, three adult movies.  Not that kind of adult, but movies which do not have animated talking animals, or strange little boys with watches that turn them into aliens.  I have also eaten and drunk everything offered to me.  I feel like a complete glutton.  I blame my parents.  And Newsround.  I feel incredible guilt if food is going to waste.  I cannot turn down, or leave, food if offered, especially if I think it will just go into the bin if I do not eat it.  So far I have had: a salad, a roll, a chicken and leek (with potatoes, broccoli and beans) meal, a chocolate mousse, an ice-cream, a scone (with clotted cream and strawberry jam), 2 large sausage rolls, two cheese and onion sandwiches, a G&T, beaker of wine, 3 OJs, 2 cans of Diet Pepsi and 3 cups of tea.  Why can’t I just say no thank you, I am not hungry.  Instead I continue to shove it down like a little piggie squished in a window seat.  Do you think it may be a ploy by the airline companies?  I read last week in one of the newspapers that they are planning to charge larger-built persons more to travel by air.  By feeding us huge amounts of calories they may be able to get even more money out of us.  Maybe they are planning on weighing us, as well as our bags, at check-in; every point we are over our ideal BMI they would then increase our fare by 10%.  They could even drop fares by 10% for every point under.  Now that would be an incentive, especially for husband...he would have us all on a massive diet and fitness regime if it meant we could save money on airline ticket costs.  

Why is it always my children? Had someone I am cultivating for a deep and long lasting friendship over today for lunch with her two children.  Son demonstrated how to stroke necks (his words, not mine, and is apparently what Homer does to Bart). So not only was my eldest trying to strangle his sister he also hit this lady's baby on the head with a toy hammer. Luckily she did not notice so I gave Son the eyes and told him we would chat later. He also decided that this lady's name was poo poo head. And mine was mr bonk bonk. What is a mum to do? Being a mum is so lonely. I used to sometimes look around these mum-and-tots groups I obsessively went to when Daughter no.1 was small, and realised that all I had in common with most of these women was a womb. I felt lost and sad thinking everyone else seemed to be so much better at it than me.  And they all seemed to know each other. And their children were better behaved than mine.  And they all seemed happy and had remembered to take wet wipes and nappies.  The first one I ever went to was going really well; I was even managing to vaguely successfully breastfeed Son while being out of the house. I saw a toddler over the other side of the room sucking on something. Vaguely looked like a small sanitary pad. Oh my goodness. No it can't be. My breast pad is safely tucked under my. Oh yes it is. That 2 year old whom I don't know and worse still whoose mother seems to be the most beautifully together mum I have ever seen, is sucking on my rather full breast pad. What do I do? Do I alert someone and then die of embarressment? Do I wrestle it off him once Son stopped feeding fearing exposure at any time? Or do I sneak away and never ever come back and if I ever see any of these mothers again pretend to be really interested in something and not see them? That's the one!

Mummy, why do rats eat babies? This is what greeted me at 0553 this morning. I have no idea where this came from. Having children is so amazing; they come out with the moat random but insightful things. Daughter no.1 announced a few days ago that her willy had popped out. To explain that she did not have one I got Son to drop his pants and explained what a willy actually was.  We then discussed what she has.  I asked her if she still thought she had one.  Apparently, yes she does.  

Honestly, honestly, this happened today.  Daughter no.1 is 3 and a few months.  We were immersed in the usual madness of getting all of us in the car (this is such a difficult thing to achieve, well for me at least.  If I have managed to get them all in the car, dressed appropriately for the weather conditions, including shoes, with the required stuff, book bags, lunch boxes, my work things, nappy bags and rubbish for the bins, various animal feed, etc etc, I feel like I am a mega-mummy).   I had tied son and daughter no.2 into the car, and dumped paraphernalia in the boot; had only daughter no.1 to wrestle out of the door.  She looked up at me with her beautiful blue eyes, arms in the air, and said, "mama, carry me please".  As any good mother would, I said, "no way, hose-way".  She put her arms down, gave me a long knowing look, and said, "trust me, you will."  I wish I could write the tone of voice she used.  It was exactly as it should have been.  Before I had children I thought that kids did not develop opinions until they were at least 10; maybe 7 if they were particularly precocious.  I assumed they would just mould to my will and do what I said.  Oh, how wrong and naive I was!  I have tried to discuss this with a few of my friends, but they all seemed to know this fact, of which I had obviously no idea.  All my children have been born opinionated (like, I am assuming, all children are!).  As each is developing there is just more and more personality oozing out.  It constantly amazes me how different the three of them are. Their capacity for learning is immense, and their joy in things like muddy puddles is incredible.  My daughters already are able to manipulate situations to their advantage.  Husband would say like mother like daughter, but I disagree.  Needless to say, daughter no.1 was carried to the car.