Author: motherinthehouse

I am Helen, although more commonly known as “Mum" or "Doc". I have a couple of other roles along side of this. - I’m a a wife, to another junior doctor (yawn) - who specialises in willies and wee. - A daughter to a Yorkshire man and a Scottish lady, an undeniably great combo resulting an ability to be super frugal drunk. - A sister to two older brothers therefore the victim of years of 'character building' experiences. - A northerner who travelled down to the midlands for uni and never quite made it back. Yet. - A friend, to some, for over 25 years, and still can’t shake them off; at this stage they know too much. - An aunty to two boisterous nephews residing stateside, and a local niece. - A daughter- and sister-in-law; having lacked sisters growing up I'm now lucky enough to have acquired 4. - A neighbour to The Deputy, The General and their wives, amongst other retirees. - A slimmer and a swimmer, albeit neither particularly successfully just now. - A gardener, chef, cleaner, washing machine operator, carrier bag collector, and now after much persuasion (borderline bullying) and a 30 quid investment, a keen blogger!

Good Neighbours Become Good Friends…

The Deputy is our lovely neighbour; nosey, slightly over-bearing with far too much time on his retired hands but lovely. Called The Deputy (not to his face) due to his senior position in the local neighbourhood watch scheme and as such, he is concerned about all things neighbourly.

To put him in a little context, we live on a 1970’s cul-de-sac of 9 houses. Of the 9 houses 5 of these have only ever had one owner and are therefore occupied by OAPs. “The Originals” as The Deputy calls himself and the others who have lived there for 43 years, like to instil a sense of community. Or rather they like to know exactly what is going on at all times with everyone on the close.

Phil and I moved on to the close at the age of 29 with The Girl, then aged 18months. One of the neighbours (who it turns out is nicknamed “The General and his wife” by one of our newbie neighbours) came to introduce themselves and were visibly surprised when laying eyes on us.

“Oh we were expecting someone more mature.”

” Erm, you mean older?” I reply

“No. More mature.”

I won’t lie, I felt pretty mature, what with being married, a mother, a doctor, now a home owner and living on a cul-de-sac. But sure, they were expecting more maturity.

So the other day The Deputy sees me pulling up to the house having successfully negotiated the preschool run and he nips out to ‘say hello’. Only it isn’t hello that he has come to say, he has come to investigate why I am driving Phil’s car. So I offer a brief and totally uninteresting answer explaining about it needing a service and it can’t do any more miles until the end of the month to avoid invalidating the warrantee. This is a phenomenon that the Deputy is unfamiliar with (being that his car is only used for a weekly shopping trip and an annual holiday) and so he hangs on my every word.

“Haven’t seen much of Phil recently…”

Hmm, now my cynical self is wondering if he is prying for knowledge into the state of our marriage, but giving him the benefit of the doubt I explain that Phil is just working long hours.

“Where is Phil based these days?”

So I explain that he is now at a hospital which is approximately a 30mile and 90mins round trip (a vast improvement from last years 52 mile and 2.5hour commute) and the job is busy. And, because I know what is coming next, I go on to explain exactly how busy, that he leaves the house at 7am and on a good day gets home around 7pm, but when on call (which is every Tuesday) he does 24hrs and rarely comes home at all, deciding not to risk driving so tired and instead sleeps in a grotty on-call room in a single bed with a plastic mattress (I do spare The Deputy some of the finer details). Oh, and one weekend a month he is on call too so rarely makes it home then either, for 3 nights in a row. With which I conclude my sob story and await The Deputy’s response.

“I couldn’t help but notice your front lawn is looking rather long….”

There it is. This is the bomb I knew he was trying to drop from the start. He wants our lawn mowed as he thinks it’s making the close look untidy. He has told me before that he doesn’t believe lawn mowing is a job for a lady, and he nearly died when he saw me mowing the back lawn with The Boy on my hip and The Girl helping me push (it wasn’t ideal but it was the situation I found myself in).

Now you may be picturing a lawn so unruly that you could wade through it like you’re on a bear hunt and would need a freshly sharpened scythe to hack through its dense undergrowth (in which case, perhaps reasonable to mention it). But actually it’s just a tad too long, it was mowed 3 weeks ago and sure, it could do with a little trim but it’s winter and I very much doubt that anyone else considers it an issue. So I’m a little tiny bit mad, and consequently I’m not likely to respond to this additional job being added to my to-do list in a positive or polite manner, so I don’t.

I don’t respond at all.

I just stand there.

I stand there long enough for it to register with The Deputy that this maybe wasn’t the best thing to say. I stand there long enough that The Deputy then says…

“Mind if I mow it for you?”

Which is how I come to be sat in my lounge with the blinds closed, as much as I think I can get away with in the middle of the day, in an attempt to hide from my elderly, hunched over neighbour in a boiler suit mowing my front lawn.

Awkward.

Domestic Bliss

It’s Sunday morning. Phil is on call and hasn’t been seen since Friday at 7am (although the evidence suggests that he did make it home to reheat his dinner on Friday night at some point) and it is November. And, being the domestic goddess that I am, I know that we should make the Christmas cake.

During the week I bought some ingredients I could remember we needed but it’s going to be a bit hit or miss. The problem is that I have said to The Girl that we will make our Christmas cake, therefore it needs to happen. And it needs to happen now. Right now.

So we get out the Delia Smith complete cookbook. This is the only recipe I have ever made from this book and I have done it 3 times before. It seems to have worked in previous years so I persevere with the same one.

This year however, The Boy introduces a new dynamic, he is “dairy free” – not because it’s trendy, but because if he eats dairy (including through my breastmilk) then he poops blood, which even as a trained medic I find somewhat alarming. So, I’ve introduced a “baking block” – a generic non-milk based butter alternative – something I am 100% sure Delia would not approve of…Much like my lack of fresh nutmeg would no doubt not go down well, nor would the lack of orange rind (which I have rather cunningly substituted with slightly ‘past it’ satsuma skin who knew it’s not that easy to grate the skin of a satsuma? It just sort of peels itself). It also turns out my candied peel’s use by date was last year and my eggs are not large.

I could, and perhaps should, nip to the shop but it’s 10am, I was up 3 times in the night, none of us are dressed and I can’t be bothered to take the gang to the supermarket (this would also mean my trip to the butcher’s yesterday to buy the most expensive chicken in the world “it is grain fed and free range” was entirely avoidable as I could have bought one at the supermarket for half the price). So I don’t, I crack on with the cake baking, with all of us in our PJs. Well, I’m in my bra and dressing gown as The Boy did some sort of epic projectile vomit down my PJs before we got out of bed this morning, and I’m yet to locate some spew free clothing.

But it all goes rather well, The Girl sneezes, narrowly missing the mixing bowl and The Boy requires 2 nappy changes mid-bake. At one point The Girl describes my slightly curdled butter, sugar, and egg mix as “looking like a nappy- but smelling nicer” which I accept as a charming compliment.

She does however temporarily bamboozle me when she informs me that the treacle “looks like Mike”. The only Mike we know is Caucasian with mousy brown hair and a fairly solid rugby player type, so I’m unable to see how she is making this association. But with further discussion “it’s Mike that daddy spreads on toast”. Marmite. She means Marmite.

Anyway after an hour and a half of prep (with a very much preheated oven, as at Delia’s request we turned it on at the start of this venture) the cake goes in, and half a day later comes out resembling a fruitcake.

A fruitcake which is now going to be heavily laced with booze for the next 6 weeks to disguise its short comings, a fruitcake which is definitely not chocolate flavoured (despite what The Girl is insisting) and a fruitcake which is not to be eaten for the next 6 weeks. A concept that The Girl is having significant trouble understanding.

Next year I’m just going to brave the supermarket, buy a reasonably priced free range chicken and a ready made Christmas cake. In hindsight, the better option.

Fat Club: Weigh In Day

I’ve been to the bathroom, I’m thirsty, I’ve fed the baby, I’m wearing the same thing as last week, my pockets are empty (so is my wallet having paid for the pleasure) the baby is off my hip and I get on the scales.

5 lbs. I’m 5lbs lighter. I experience the sort of satisfaction previously achieved by reaching the required 50% in an anatomy test. That’s right I followed instructions, I got a sneak peak of the question and it’s true, the answers were all in the book.

I stay “to group” and in turn people’s weight change was announced. Those that “under achieved” had chance to discuss what went wrong. The culprits were many and varied; A Chinese take-away, an all inclusive holiday, a drunkenly consumed McDonald’s, an accidentally consumed large chocolate bar, and the covering all bases reply of “I just keep putting the wrong things in my mouth” at which point The Boy blows a massive raspberry and laughs hysterically. Obviously, I then lose it and sit shaking in silent laughter with tears rolling down my face. Fortunately a likeminded slimmer also finds this amusing and like the naughty kids on the back row we chuckle through the next few mins until suddenly it’s my turn. And then “Helen, 5lbs! Congratulations, tell us, what did you do?”

Well, having been off work for 6 months and previously being a “career woman” I treated it like a new assignment at work. Like any good Junior Doctor, I had sat through an induction, been given instructions by a “consultant” (albeit a slimming “consultant”…) and had dutifully followed them. I was provided with a protocol, I didn’t have to think for myself, I was given multiple choice scenarios and selected the one closest to what I thought would give me the desired outcome. And, I had meal planned. I had meal planned like a boss. I had meal planned like someone who used to work 60 hour weeks and was currently unemployed. I had meal planned like someone who should really go back to work – although I won’t admit this to myself and certainly won’t mention this to my better half.
But what actually came out of my deeply blushing face while the quiet round of applause continued was a mumble under my breath of “I just followed the plan the really…” and rapidly the focus of attention moved on to the next slimmer….
So I survived, and did so feeling pretty smug on the inside and being 5lb lighter on the outside. So with a spring in my step I strode home to get planning next weeks meals, but not before rewarding myself with a sweet treat…

Speeding and Spider-Man

Phil and I are good law abiding citizens. In fact our criminal dealings extend to once having to report my parents number plates being pinched from their car (parked outside our house),and occasionally patching up individuals involved in a fracas – obviously in our line of work, not freelancing out of the garden shed or anything. In fact we are such law abiding citizens when our retired neighbour John knocked on our door within 24 hrs of us moving in to our house, asking if we wanted to join the neighbourhood watch scheme, we jumped at the chance to hand over an email address and send him on his way.

Until today. Today we got a letter stating criminal proceedings were being commenced against the driver of my car. My car was photographed speeding in a 30mph area.

Clearly being the type of person I am, my palms are sweaty and I need an urgent loo break, but I continue to read and realise with great relief that it’s not me! No, it’s not me. It’s Phil, Super -cautious-occasionally-critical-of -my-driving-and-frequently-reminds-me-that-he-has -4-years-more-driving-experience-than-me, Phil.

Immediately I get on the GMC website to see if Phil will be struck off (meaning I will have to give up my maternity leave and resume normal life) and upon realising that this is not the case, I breathe a sigh of relief and proceed in my role of “supportive wife”, sharing the news with Phil, without even a hint of smugness. It’s starts along the lines “Phil! Your in trouble with the police…”

The Girl is watching me like a hawk but says nothing while I chat to Phil. However, later on in the bath, the conversation goes like this;

“Mummy, is Spider-Man a goodie?”

“Yes he is”

“So does he help people?”

“Yes that’s right”

“How mummy?”

“Well, if someone is in trouble he will try and help them”

“So will Spider-Man help Daddy to get out of trouble with the police?”

“Erm…”

Where is Phil to help me explain this one? Oh yes, driving at the speed of a golf cart on his 30 mile commute.

“Yes. Yes, Spider-Man will sort it all out”…. if only Spider-Man could write us a cheque….

Trick or Treat – Please!

Phil bought a pumpkin for “us” to carve (because it’s not like I have already carved one this year and have a to-do list as long as my arm or anything).

The Girl demanded a witch then lost interest so I have dutifully carved said witch and put it in our porch – to tempt trick or treaters to visit (in the hope they will clear out the sweet treat supply in our house and save me from myself).

Needless to say, living on a cul-de-sac of retirees it’s not really attracting a big crowd.

N is for Nose….

In my attempt to be a model Mother on the nursery run this morning I attempt to engage The Girl in some educational chat.
“What letters can you see?”

“N mummy…” she has correctly identified the letter and it’s not one in her name so I’m actually rather impressed at this point.

“….N is for nose”

“Yes, that’s right- great stuff!”

“N is for knees mummy”

“Erm, no, not knees actually”

“Yes mummy, nnnnnnnn- knees”

“Yes it sounds like a ‘N’ but it’s not”

“Why not mummy?”

……And I’m done.

The first question from my 3.5 year old and I’m way out of my depth. Tomorrow we will not attempt such a foray in to the world of education. Tomorrow we will go back to pulling funny faces at each other in the rear view mirror and leave the serious stuff to the experts. I was beaten, beaten by a 3 yr olds question and a silent K.

Let’s hope I remember to complete the school application, or my kids are in a whole world of trouble….

Fat club

So 7 months post baby, I’m breast feeding, and I’m gaining weight. One of my main motivations for breastfeeding was the additional calories I would get to consume for free (oh and of course all the bonding, antibodies blah blah blah… ) so feeling pretty cheated by Mother Nature and my sweet tooth, I decided to take myself to fat club before things get out of hand.

It turns out I have 18lbs to lose. So I get on board. I stay “to group” as this will definitely ensure I instantly shed a few pounds. I do instantly shed 18lb as The Boy is whisked away and passed around the room. He happily offers a ‘batwing’ work out by jumping around on the attendees knees, grinning at the round smiling faces and grabbing hair, glasses and double chins galore.

The first discussion is on how best to eat chips without gaining weight and I’m a convert. This is my type of diet and essentially provides an hours free child care where my hands are free to do such things as drink tea, pick food debris from my clothes and yes, of course, I take full advantage and achieve that moment of bliss much desired by parents of little ones the world over. I peed. Alone.

So I leave the meeting, psychologically prepped for a big week of slimming, I’ve got a book full of recipes, an app and a small portion of anxiety regarding mounting the scales next week.

However, I return home to half a pack of cherry bakewells and an open bottle of wine. Phil’s on call (again), the kids are finally in bed and I don’t have work in the morning….Diet day one; fail.

Good Morning…

It’s 5am and after listening to the 7month olds “singing” for 20 mins I give in and enter his room, knowing my exit attempts will be more challenging than an automatic lock in on the crystal maze. The offer of a dummy is met with grinning and laughing in my face so I succumb and give him an early first breakfast of boob milk, in the dark, being entirely silent in the hope of inducing sleep again. It works for one of us, despite the thumping of my chest with his tiny fists I doze in fits and starts until finally I’m released by The Boy doing an excellent impression of a sleeping baby. I attempt the transfer of said tiny person to the cot and sneak back to bed. Immediately I hear the baby chat starting again, but then, just briefly, there is silence.

So of course, the alarm goes off. It’s 6am, so it’s Phil’s “first alarm”, the alarm that says “you don’t actually have to get up yet, just letting you know that in 20 mins you do. So I’m just going to trade some of your restful deep sleep for lighter broken sleep accompanied by sighing and tutting from your wife because she is pretty hacked off that you insist on setting the alarm unnecessarily early and really wishes you would just set one alarm and get the hell out of bed”

But before I can begin to vocalise my already well known (but ignored) feelings, I hear through the walls, the dulcet Brummie tones of our angelic 3 year old – “I need a wee!!!! Why is my clock not yellow?!! Mummy!!!! Daddy!!!…. I need a wee NOW!!!”

So, with the alarm already having gone off and bearing in mind I’ve only just got back into bed I think it would be reasonable to assume that Phil will spring out of bed to attend to our little darling, but instead he waits for me to huff and sigh and roll over (in a manner suggesting I’m about to get up – but actually have no intention of leaving the bed as this one is definitely all his) before he finally takes the hint, gives in, and heads out the door.

I hear the negotiations taking place to convince The Girl to get back in to bed – trying to get those extra 5mins out of her. It’s futile, we all know who’s winning this one. Of course this process also ensures that The Boy is wide awake and ready to play. So within moments my attempted slumber is well and truly destroyed as The Boy is delivered to the bed and makes an immediate attempted to crawl off the side (again), The Girl marches in (complete with blanket, metallic and fluffy unicorn, clucky ducky and a pasta necklace) and just to really guarantee we are all wide awake Phil’s sodding alarm goes off again.

Phil, realising his presence in my company is entirely unwelcome, busies himself getting ready for work, delivering me a guilt cuppa and heading out of the door. Once at a safe distance he reminds me he has clinic this afternoon which reliably doesn’t finish until 7pm and there is, for the 4th time in as many days, zero chance he will be home to see the kids or assist with bath time.

So I am abandoned, with the 3yr old screeching for my phone (to play the CBeebies game on) and the 7m old practising crawling by humping the metallic and fluffy unicorn with such vigour he proceeds to vomit on the freshly changed bed linen.

Good morning everyone it’s 7am, and in the most grateful way possible, I’m counting down to bedtime, or to my return to work, or to gin.

Mainly the gin.

Definitely the gin.

A metallic and fluffy unicorn; A welcome addition to any bed I’m sure you will agree…