As I write this I look like I should be attending a glittering red-carpet premiere or glossy Hollywood party rather than looking after a house and a toddler. At least that's true from the neck up, as I'm wearing my usual jeans and T-shirt combo. This morning I had my wedding hair trial.
I am one of those people who never likes their hair when the stylist has just cut and blow-dried it. In fact, I have never had my hair cut before and not immediately gone home and washed it and restyled it myself. This is no reflection on any of my hairdressers (there have been a few), and I always compliment them and tell them I love it, it's just that I never really feel like me when they've finished. I don't know if anyone will relate to this, or if it's just particular to me, but it's just the way I am. The current trend for use of straighteners has made the problem worse, as my hair is quite thick and even when I straighten it myself it still has a bit of bounce. But when straightened professionally at the salon after a cut, in its perfect glossy state it just looks to me as if it's had every ounce of life ironed out of it.
Therefore I approached this morning with a certain amount of trepidation, since I am relying on Sam the Hairdresser to make me look like a goddess on the big day, and there will be no washing and re-doing myself this time. But there was no need to feel stressed! I now know that my years spent striving for straight hair out of my nightmare tresses (not curly enough to be properly curly, but wavy enough to be a right mess when left untamed) have been misdirected. All this time I should have been having some kind of perm!
I decided I wanted loose waves putting in, in an effort to look glamorous but still recognisable as me. I hardly ever wear my hair up, and so there's no way I was going to start on my wedding day when everyone that knows me will be analysing me from all angles. Sam got her straightening irons out (how is it that straightening irons are now THE thing to use for curls?) and within the hour it was finished. She pinned up a couple of strands 'for height' and put in a couple of these hair jewel things and I swear a miracle had taken place. I look like I belong on a film set and now I've stopped feeling relieved, I am sooooo excited. All I need to do now is hold firm, keep away from the chocolate and cakes for only another week and I should be home free!
Thursday, 24 September 2009
Friday, 18 September 2009
Two Weeks To Go
I cannot believe how quickly it has arrived. I now have exactly fourteen days to fine-tune and perfect every aspect of my wedding plans before it is too late. I thought I was doing really well, had everything under control and was totally calm, however my subconscious obviously feels differently as I had a horror dream last night in which everything that could go wrong did go wrong.
In my dream I was in the bridal suite at the hotel getting my entourage of small children ready for the bridal party and was inexplicably unable to locate the small one's dress. Lovely fiance's mother was saying soothing words along the lines of allowing the small one to follow me down the aisle in vest and bloomers while I tore the room apart looking for them. This was followed by the venue manager throwing open the doors of the ballroom (where we are to be married) to reveal a church organ playing the bridal march. As my sleeping brain comprehended that we are not being married in church, the music suddenly shut off and was replaced by scrabbling sounds as the iPod (which should and will be playing our chosen song) failed followed by the sound of my mother getting to her feet and bursting into song.
I woke in terror and have spent the morning desperately going back over the wedding plans and writing reams of instructions for the venue manager in order to avoid such an occurrence. As I said yesterday on the phone to best friend, who is attending with her husband and four children under 7 (how does she do it?), I have to relax and accept that everything cannot possibly go to plan when the guest list includes 13 kids, three of them under 2. I also questioned her on the concept that it isn't possible to get drunk on your wedding day. Someone told me this before my first wedding back in 1996 and sure enough, I put away a large amount of gin and tonic plus wine and was still totally lucid and sober on that day. However she brought me back down to earth by saying 'if you drink a lot of wine, you will get pissed', and pointing out that on her own wedding day she vaguely remembers taking her stockings off in front of someone, but she can't remember who, she just knows it wasn't her husband.
I will be pacing myself with sparkling water.
In my dream I was in the bridal suite at the hotel getting my entourage of small children ready for the bridal party and was inexplicably unable to locate the small one's dress. Lovely fiance's mother was saying soothing words along the lines of allowing the small one to follow me down the aisle in vest and bloomers while I tore the room apart looking for them. This was followed by the venue manager throwing open the doors of the ballroom (where we are to be married) to reveal a church organ playing the bridal march. As my sleeping brain comprehended that we are not being married in church, the music suddenly shut off and was replaced by scrabbling sounds as the iPod (which should and will be playing our chosen song) failed followed by the sound of my mother getting to her feet and bursting into song.
I woke in terror and have spent the morning desperately going back over the wedding plans and writing reams of instructions for the venue manager in order to avoid such an occurrence. As I said yesterday on the phone to best friend, who is attending with her husband and four children under 7 (how does she do it?), I have to relax and accept that everything cannot possibly go to plan when the guest list includes 13 kids, three of them under 2. I also questioned her on the concept that it isn't possible to get drunk on your wedding day. Someone told me this before my first wedding back in 1996 and sure enough, I put away a large amount of gin and tonic plus wine and was still totally lucid and sober on that day. However she brought me back down to earth by saying 'if you drink a lot of wine, you will get pissed', and pointing out that on her own wedding day she vaguely remembers taking her stockings off in front of someone, but she can't remember who, she just knows it wasn't her husband.
I will be pacing myself with sparkling water.
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
Swinging The Lead
Eleven-year-old son's successful integration into the new secondary school hit a hiccup yesterday when I received a text from his father (it was the kids' weekend with their Dad and he takes them to school on the Monday morning) informing me that son had 'cricked his neck and can hardly move'. I dutifully rang the school to inform them and then waited for an update from ex-husband's household as to son's condition. Eventually I heard from son's stepmum (so confusing all these relatives!) that she'd called the doctor out as he was in so much pain. At this point I bundled the toddler into the car and drove over there to see for myself. At the back of my mind was son's amazing oscar-winning ability to act sick at will.
On arriving there, the doctor had just left and stepmum informed me that son had pulled a muscle in his neck and it would take a couple of weeks to fully subside. Apparently he would need a few days off school and plenty of rest. Despite bowing to the doctor's greater medical knowledge I couldn't help noticing that son, though lying flat on the sofa, was still in full possession of the TV remote and immersed in 'My Name Is Earle'. As I watched he chuckled at the TV. Alarm bells began ringing.
After helping the poor invalid from the sofa and supporting him to my car, I drove the three of us back home and settled son in the lounge with a hot water bottle. The small one was enchanted to have him home with us for the day and pottered about the room. As the day wore on it became gradually clear to me that, in fact, there was very little wrong with him. He was miraculously still able to operate the laptop for example and claimed he can use the PS3 because it demands he sit up straight.
When I used to work, the children had to be dying before I would let them take a day off, however the knowledge that I am at home all day with the small one seems to have affected their immune systems because they claim to be sick far more often these days than they ever used to. Son has been dispatched back to school today on the basis that if he can sit at a desk with a laptop, he can sit at a desk in a classroom.
On arriving there, the doctor had just left and stepmum informed me that son had pulled a muscle in his neck and it would take a couple of weeks to fully subside. Apparently he would need a few days off school and plenty of rest. Despite bowing to the doctor's greater medical knowledge I couldn't help noticing that son, though lying flat on the sofa, was still in full possession of the TV remote and immersed in 'My Name Is Earle'. As I watched he chuckled at the TV. Alarm bells began ringing.
After helping the poor invalid from the sofa and supporting him to my car, I drove the three of us back home and settled son in the lounge with a hot water bottle. The small one was enchanted to have him home with us for the day and pottered about the room. As the day wore on it became gradually clear to me that, in fact, there was very little wrong with him. He was miraculously still able to operate the laptop for example and claimed he can use the PS3 because it demands he sit up straight.
When I used to work, the children had to be dying before I would let them take a day off, however the knowledge that I am at home all day with the small one seems to have affected their immune systems because they claim to be sick far more often these days than they ever used to. Son has been dispatched back to school today on the basis that if he can sit at a desk with a laptop, he can sit at a desk in a classroom.
Thursday, 10 September 2009
The First Week at Secondary School is a Success!
With the first week of his secondary education just about over, eleven-year-old son seems to be settling in well. The mile long walk to school resulted in his arriving home ten minutes or so after I myself got in from picking up nine-year-old daughter on the first two days. As I opened the door he fell in gasping for air and moaning that he was 'exhausted...need a drink...' The last two days however, he has been sitting on the wall waiting when we arrived back in a cheery mood and announced that he thinks the walk 'is doing me good'.
The lessons themselves have drawn a mixed bunch of reviews. He liked Science, as the clearly savvy teacher had picked as a first topic Forensic Detection, extremely interesting for the kids seeing as half of them are probably watching CSI regularly. He wasn't keen on Religious Studies, mentioning that the teacher had gone around the class one by one and it turned out that no one in the room believes in God. And I read his first effort in his English book 'About Me', which describes his home life. He mentions my divorce in the first sentence and goes on to say that he has two extra parents, one for his mum and one for his dad, and lots of extra siblings, four from Dad and two from Mum. Two of these six siblings are nine-year-old daughter, who has apparently been counted twice as she shares the same parents as him! All very confusing.
The only negative I've heard so far is that he 'doesn't get the maths' and when I questioned him further he said 'you have a sum and then they add in a letter n and I don't understand it!' Lovely fiance pointed out that it is called algebra, and I experienced a horror flashback to my own maths class, where my brain (clearly inherited by eleven-year-old son) struggled to grasp the concept. I comforted son with the statement that he won't be the first kid that has trouble with that, and neither will he be the last!
The lessons themselves have drawn a mixed bunch of reviews. He liked Science, as the clearly savvy teacher had picked as a first topic Forensic Detection, extremely interesting for the kids seeing as half of them are probably watching CSI regularly. He wasn't keen on Religious Studies, mentioning that the teacher had gone around the class one by one and it turned out that no one in the room believes in God. And I read his first effort in his English book 'About Me', which describes his home life. He mentions my divorce in the first sentence and goes on to say that he has two extra parents, one for his mum and one for his dad, and lots of extra siblings, four from Dad and two from Mum. Two of these six siblings are nine-year-old daughter, who has apparently been counted twice as she shares the same parents as him! All very confusing.
The only negative I've heard so far is that he 'doesn't get the maths' and when I questioned him further he said 'you have a sum and then they add in a letter n and I don't understand it!' Lovely fiance pointed out that it is called algebra, and I experienced a horror flashback to my own maths class, where my brain (clearly inherited by eleven-year-old son) struggled to grasp the concept. I comforted son with the statement that he won't be the first kid that has trouble with that, and neither will he be the last!
Monday, 7 September 2009
Less Than Four Weeks To Go... Aaargh!
After nine months of that lovely warm feeling directly resulting from the knowledge that lovely fiance loves me and my insane older kids enough to want to get married, it is now suddenly replaced by nerves and terror at the realisation that there are less than four weeks to go until the wedding. I still haven't found a pair of shoes I like, I haven't lost the last few pounds that would mean I can wear the delicate lace underwear rather than the magic knickers/ultimo bodysuit combo, and tomorrow I am booked in to go handbag shopping with my mother who can instantly bring me to the edge of my sanity with nothing more than a well-placed comment.
As a (dare-I-say-it) welcome diversion from all this, I have eleven-year-old son's first homework project to deal with. After his first three days at secondary school, he seems relieved that the onslaught of homework that he and his friends had hyped themselves up to expect has yet to materialise. I read his homework diary yesterday in order to sign and confirm that he'd completed all tasks set, and saw that of the two outstanding tasks one of them is for next week's English class and is to 'bring in a book or magazine'. No wonder the education system is on its knees.
The other outstanding task has now been added to my own 'to do' list. I found him on this very laptop on Friday in a savage mood because his Spanish homework (mildly impressed that he has Spanish on the curriculum) requires him to 'decorate Spanish exercise book with Spanish themed stuff', and in attempting to print vaguely Spanish pictures from the internet he realised (apparently for the first time) that our two year old printer does not print in colour. His insistence that 'everyone has a colour printer' was met by my own insistence that no they do not, and the argument reached a crescendo with his use of the below-the-belt 'Dad has got one'. At this point I am ashamed to say I degenerated into snarling fishwife mode and with my customary immaturity during these moments suggested that he do the homework at Dads' then.
As is usual after any loss of temper with elder son or daughter (less so with the small one as I seem to have more patience with children who can't yet talk) I beat myself up for the rest of the evening and tried to make up for my childish outburst and rubbish parenting skills by absurdly overcompensating with the homework assistance. This is why today I am going into town to the travel agent to pick up a couple of brochures for Spain, plus a roll of that sticky-backed plastic book cover stuff which my own mother never bought for me and which meant my French book at school was covered in kitchen clingfilm and looked absolutely rubbish next to the rest of the class's efforts. I will however restrain myself from actually cutting out and sticking the pictures on son's behalf, and will therefore still be able to kid myself that when I tick off this particular task in the homework diary it was completed by him!
As a (dare-I-say-it) welcome diversion from all this, I have eleven-year-old son's first homework project to deal with. After his first three days at secondary school, he seems relieved that the onslaught of homework that he and his friends had hyped themselves up to expect has yet to materialise. I read his homework diary yesterday in order to sign and confirm that he'd completed all tasks set, and saw that of the two outstanding tasks one of them is for next week's English class and is to 'bring in a book or magazine'. No wonder the education system is on its knees.
The other outstanding task has now been added to my own 'to do' list. I found him on this very laptop on Friday in a savage mood because his Spanish homework (mildly impressed that he has Spanish on the curriculum) requires him to 'decorate Spanish exercise book with Spanish themed stuff', and in attempting to print vaguely Spanish pictures from the internet he realised (apparently for the first time) that our two year old printer does not print in colour. His insistence that 'everyone has a colour printer' was met by my own insistence that no they do not, and the argument reached a crescendo with his use of the below-the-belt 'Dad has got one'. At this point I am ashamed to say I degenerated into snarling fishwife mode and with my customary immaturity during these moments suggested that he do the homework at Dads' then.
As is usual after any loss of temper with elder son or daughter (less so with the small one as I seem to have more patience with children who can't yet talk) I beat myself up for the rest of the evening and tried to make up for my childish outburst and rubbish parenting skills by absurdly overcompensating with the homework assistance. This is why today I am going into town to the travel agent to pick up a couple of brochures for Spain, plus a roll of that sticky-backed plastic book cover stuff which my own mother never bought for me and which meant my French book at school was covered in kitchen clingfilm and looked absolutely rubbish next to the rest of the class's efforts. I will however restrain myself from actually cutting out and sticking the pictures on son's behalf, and will therefore still be able to kid myself that when I tick off this particular task in the homework diary it was completed by him!
Friday, 4 September 2009
The Look Of The Blog is A Work In Progress!
I am currently attempting to make my blog look more like the delicious ones I keep coming across while reading through the carnival results, with reference to Insomniac Mummy's fab list of sites. However a little knowledge really is a dangerous thing so please bear with me while the blog looks like a mish-mash of styles and colours and it hurts your eyes to read it! Give me a month or so and I might have mastered it!!
Thursday, 3 September 2009
Father Of The Bride Problem Is Solved..
Today I can relax. As much as is possible while minding a fifteen month old who has discovered how cupboards open. But still compared to yesterday I am practically serene. Eleven year old son turned up yesterday at 3.30pm on the dot having managed the first day at secondary school despite his obvious nerves. I'd never seen him so touchy as he was in the morning, even when I moved both the older kids to their new school two years ago following my divorce, before the small one was even thought of and when lovely fiance was still lovely boyfriend. They both coped so well with all the upheaval while I beat myself up daily at what I was putting them through. But it seems the prospect of the huge secondary school after his village primary was a far more scary prospect to him. Or perhaps it is just that he is that much older and able to worry more like an adult. (Not sure I like that really, although it must be inevitable).
The other big stress of yesterday was the venue meeting for our wedding next month. But having spent an hour with the hotel manager ironing out all the details of our day, I came away totally confident that even if it doesn't run smoothly we will still have a fab time. He didn't bat an eyelid at the number of children in our party and made it sound like he organises these things every day. I guess he probably does. Best of all he made a suggestion which has made me feel better about the one secret upset I've had about my wedding day.
My lovely father died two years ago very suddenly of liver cancer, and while I am generally used to it now, I still feel a massive gap where he should be at certain times. A constant one of these times is whenever I look at my smallest daughter and know how much he would have adored her, and she him. But with the wedding coming ever closer I find I miss him for the role he would have taken, and the reason I am secretive about it is because I can't help but remember him on my first wedding day - how he made me feel calmer, how proud he was - and my first wedding day is really not a subject I could ever visit with lovely fiance without being incredibly insensitive and crass.
Instead I have made my feelings known in a less mature fashion, basically by being a pain about bits of the proceedings that would have involved Dad. I have insisted that eleven year old son give me away, for example, despite the fact that he really isn't keen on the idea and would rather sit in the background. I have chosen him because he is the one person who couldn't be construed as a father figure but who is also a close male relative. The bigger issue though, is being driven to the ceremony. At my first wedding my father waited alone with me in my parents' front room for the white rolls royce we'd hired. He poured me a sweet sherry and told me that was what my Mum's father had done for her on her own wedding day. He was so nervous about walking me down the aisle. Those few minutes we waited were some of the sweetest of my life. I have been adamant that I don't want anyone else to drive me to the venue to marry lovely fiance. Lovely fiance is mystified by this, and insists that the idea of me driving myself in the peugeot 207 in full wedding outfit when I could be driven by his own father in his ribbon-bedecked porsche is ludicrous. For lovely fiance it is all about the car. He doesn't see that I don't want his dad taking my dad's place in even the tiniest of ways.
The fabulous venue manager has solved this problem unknowingly and effortlessly by offering me the honeymoon suite from the day before the wedding right through until the day after. I can take all my garb to the hotel, drive myself and elder daughter there wearing jeans and t-shirt, and get dressed on the premises without having a moment where my father should be and isn't. For this I am so grateful. And the only thing I have to put out of my mind is how much Dad would have approved of the free bar and remember that where he is, all the drinks are free.
Happier post tomorrow, I feel.
The other big stress of yesterday was the venue meeting for our wedding next month. But having spent an hour with the hotel manager ironing out all the details of our day, I came away totally confident that even if it doesn't run smoothly we will still have a fab time. He didn't bat an eyelid at the number of children in our party and made it sound like he organises these things every day. I guess he probably does. Best of all he made a suggestion which has made me feel better about the one secret upset I've had about my wedding day.
My lovely father died two years ago very suddenly of liver cancer, and while I am generally used to it now, I still feel a massive gap where he should be at certain times. A constant one of these times is whenever I look at my smallest daughter and know how much he would have adored her, and she him. But with the wedding coming ever closer I find I miss him for the role he would have taken, and the reason I am secretive about it is because I can't help but remember him on my first wedding day - how he made me feel calmer, how proud he was - and my first wedding day is really not a subject I could ever visit with lovely fiance without being incredibly insensitive and crass.
Instead I have made my feelings known in a less mature fashion, basically by being a pain about bits of the proceedings that would have involved Dad. I have insisted that eleven year old son give me away, for example, despite the fact that he really isn't keen on the idea and would rather sit in the background. I have chosen him because he is the one person who couldn't be construed as a father figure but who is also a close male relative. The bigger issue though, is being driven to the ceremony. At my first wedding my father waited alone with me in my parents' front room for the white rolls royce we'd hired. He poured me a sweet sherry and told me that was what my Mum's father had done for her on her own wedding day. He was so nervous about walking me down the aisle. Those few minutes we waited were some of the sweetest of my life. I have been adamant that I don't want anyone else to drive me to the venue to marry lovely fiance. Lovely fiance is mystified by this, and insists that the idea of me driving myself in the peugeot 207 in full wedding outfit when I could be driven by his own father in his ribbon-bedecked porsche is ludicrous. For lovely fiance it is all about the car. He doesn't see that I don't want his dad taking my dad's place in even the tiniest of ways.
The fabulous venue manager has solved this problem unknowingly and effortlessly by offering me the honeymoon suite from the day before the wedding right through until the day after. I can take all my garb to the hotel, drive myself and elder daughter there wearing jeans and t-shirt, and get dressed on the premises without having a moment where my father should be and isn't. For this I am so grateful. And the only thing I have to put out of my mind is how much Dad would have approved of the free bar and remember that where he is, all the drinks are free.
Happier post tomorrow, I feel.
Tuesday, 1 September 2009
A Stressful Week Ahead
After a lovely quiet bank holiday weekend, I now have a stressful week to face. First and foremost the older two kids go back to school tomorrow, but the whole thing is intensified by the fact that this will be eleven year old son's first day at secondary school. There is an air about him of being on death row. I am contending with this, combined with the other big event tomorrow (WHY did I book it in on the same day??) which is our last meeting with the venue manager, at which we tie up all loose ends and finalise all details of our wedding before the big day in (stab of nervousness) less than five weeks' time.
None of the kids' new school uniform has yet been named, lovely fiance and I are unable to agree on a main course and vital questions keep coming to me at random moments, such as the need to find out how many highchairs the hotel possesses for our army of child guests. The randomness of these thoughts makes me nervous, as I just know I am bound to forget an important detail. And I know I must be fully organised as lovely fiance cannot be relied upon to take control of the venue meeting, except possibly as regards the menu on the day (the suggested meal is Beef Wellington, but lovely fiance detests mushrooms and it seems they are a vital ingredient of this dish. When our best man suggested he 'just scrape off the filling', lovely fiance pointed out that 'it is my wedding day and I will not be doing any scraping'. We cannot agree whether a wedding menu should be chosen because it includes dishes you like yourselves as the couple to be married, or whether you should pick crowd-pleasers).
However, I think I was coping admirably with all these things, maintaining a calm mummy exterior, until that one final thing pushed me over the edge into snarling fishwife mode. What is this thing? Quite simple. In the thick of all the organising and planning I find I have forgotten to buy more baby wipes at the weekly shop last Friday. When do I discover this fact? When the small one is lying on the changing mat with nappy half-off. I am at that point where I have gone too far to just reseal the nappy tapes until I can go and find some alternative cleaning materials. I have no choice but to tackle the nappy at that moment. I use the last remaining wipe in the pack, thinking as I do that I might be able to perform the whole job using just one instead of my normal handful and wondering about the associated money I could save by doing this at every nappy change! Of course this proves to be completely wishful thinking. The small one had picked the worst moment to produce a particularly resilient nappy. Holding her down with one hand I scrabble through the basket of baby paraphernalia we keep in the bathroom with the other, in search of cotton wool, stray wipes, anything, but to no avail. I try hollering for lovely fiance, first in a mild voice, then with gathering momentum as the small one decides it might be a fun plan to see how far down her body she can get her hands. Without an answer I raise my voice to a level which might even have sent the next door neighbour scuttling for baby wipes, should he possess a pack. But to no avail.
To cut a long story short, when hoarse from yelling for any member of my family to assist without success (I spend half my life with one or other of my older kids invading my personal space but when a moment arrives when I need their help, both seem to inexplicably disappear), I eventually wrap the small one's lower body in a towel, which depending on the aftermath I will either wash or bin, and decamp to the kitchen where I am able to mock up baby changing kit using kitchen towels and water. The small one remains remarkably well-behaved throughout this, obviously tuned in to the fact that Mummy is at breaking point and one wrong move could send her over the edge.
Crisis over I add a visit to the supermarket to my 'To Do' list and face up to the rest of my stresses, which are all still there. I cannot help wondering how on earth previous generations coped before the invention of the baby wipe, but resolve not to question my mother about this as I feel the answer when delivered in her inimitable style may well challenge my already shaky belief in my own parental ability. I will content myself instead with buying in a sufficient stockpile of wipes to service a whole gang of babies for the next six years.
None of the kids' new school uniform has yet been named, lovely fiance and I are unable to agree on a main course and vital questions keep coming to me at random moments, such as the need to find out how many highchairs the hotel possesses for our army of child guests. The randomness of these thoughts makes me nervous, as I just know I am bound to forget an important detail. And I know I must be fully organised as lovely fiance cannot be relied upon to take control of the venue meeting, except possibly as regards the menu on the day (the suggested meal is Beef Wellington, but lovely fiance detests mushrooms and it seems they are a vital ingredient of this dish. When our best man suggested he 'just scrape off the filling', lovely fiance pointed out that 'it is my wedding day and I will not be doing any scraping'. We cannot agree whether a wedding menu should be chosen because it includes dishes you like yourselves as the couple to be married, or whether you should pick crowd-pleasers).
However, I think I was coping admirably with all these things, maintaining a calm mummy exterior, until that one final thing pushed me over the edge into snarling fishwife mode. What is this thing? Quite simple. In the thick of all the organising and planning I find I have forgotten to buy more baby wipes at the weekly shop last Friday. When do I discover this fact? When the small one is lying on the changing mat with nappy half-off. I am at that point where I have gone too far to just reseal the nappy tapes until I can go and find some alternative cleaning materials. I have no choice but to tackle the nappy at that moment. I use the last remaining wipe in the pack, thinking as I do that I might be able to perform the whole job using just one instead of my normal handful and wondering about the associated money I could save by doing this at every nappy change! Of course this proves to be completely wishful thinking. The small one had picked the worst moment to produce a particularly resilient nappy. Holding her down with one hand I scrabble through the basket of baby paraphernalia we keep in the bathroom with the other, in search of cotton wool, stray wipes, anything, but to no avail. I try hollering for lovely fiance, first in a mild voice, then with gathering momentum as the small one decides it might be a fun plan to see how far down her body she can get her hands. Without an answer I raise my voice to a level which might even have sent the next door neighbour scuttling for baby wipes, should he possess a pack. But to no avail.
To cut a long story short, when hoarse from yelling for any member of my family to assist without success (I spend half my life with one or other of my older kids invading my personal space but when a moment arrives when I need their help, both seem to inexplicably disappear), I eventually wrap the small one's lower body in a towel, which depending on the aftermath I will either wash or bin, and decamp to the kitchen where I am able to mock up baby changing kit using kitchen towels and water. The small one remains remarkably well-behaved throughout this, obviously tuned in to the fact that Mummy is at breaking point and one wrong move could send her over the edge.
Crisis over I add a visit to the supermarket to my 'To Do' list and face up to the rest of my stresses, which are all still there. I cannot help wondering how on earth previous generations coped before the invention of the baby wipe, but resolve not to question my mother about this as I feel the answer when delivered in her inimitable style may well challenge my already shaky belief in my own parental ability. I will content myself instead with buying in a sufficient stockpile of wipes to service a whole gang of babies for the next six years.
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