Parenthood – Page 2 – Mother in the House

Old School…

I’m revising. The last time I did this properly I was a student. My stationery was supplied by my parents (Perhaps acquired from their respective places of work- the plus side to teacher parents!), my time was my own. I had access to so many libraries – of which I used maybe one. Once. And my biggest issue was fitting it in around meeting friends for a cheap glass of wine.

This time it’s all a bit different. It’s postgraduate General Practice exams. I have had to purchase stationery. Everyone who has ever sat an exam (successfully or not) knows it’s all about the stationery. I invested this time, I’m revising and earning (theoretically although my wage is solely to pay the childcare bill which if I didn’t work I wouldn’t need…so why I am working is a question I dare not dwell on).

So my stationery shopping trip resulted in:

-A selection of highlighters.

-3 brand new biros with the little clippy bits at the top so I can have 4 different colour biros encased in one slightly more girthy shaft just like my school teachers of the 1990s.

-A rainbow assortment of fine tip felt tips, some it turns out are too neon to be written with but too fine to be a highlighter, so actually an entirely useless item.

-A rather fancy faux leather post-it note selection holder, half of which are too tiny to write anything of any value on and the others so large, I may as well just fill a page in a notebook.

It’s a truly magnificent set up I have invested in.

To complete the kit, the creme de la creme is a hard back, A4, Looney Tunes notepad which I won in 1998 by sending a postcard in to the address in the back of my “Fast Forward” magazine and subsequently deemed too precious for everyday use, so I have moved it from house to house over the last 22yrs and it is now, officially, in use.

I also had to spend £100 on a subscription to a revision web site advertising nearly 3000 questions, like thousands of questions is a great thing… which yes it is, but equally it’s totally horrifying to think I’m going to spend weeks of my life trawling through these thousands of questions in a vain attempt to hope I get lucky on exam day and manage to scrape a pass.

So on top of the £500 exam fee and this whole experience is quite the investment. In an effort to not have to pay for it all again in 6 months time, I need to pass. To do that I need to revise. A concept entirely wasted on my children.

So last weekend in an attempt to knuckle down and do some work, I made arrangements to drop the kids off with the in-laws and head to a local library (it goes without saying that Phil was at work!). I took with me my backpack, computer and stationery, because revising isn’t revising unless you are making pretty pictures.

So, I settle down at the only available desk in the silent work area (if silence is an option I’m totally going to take it) and set myself up. I look around and see that I am sitting beside an acne ridden (moderate severity if my revision serves me well) teenager who is revising for his biology GCSE. Next to him are two girls studying for their maths GCSE and an AS level geography student behind me. There is officially no one over the age of 20 revising. I am sat in a library, on a sunny Saturday, as a 31 yr old married mother of two, surrounded by teenagers studying for school exams…..How have I ended up here?! I think I have made some bad life choices.

None the less, I crack on with a couple of questions before the afore mentioned spotty adolescent next to me turns to ask me if he can borrow a phone charger. Unfortunately glancing at my neatly arranged work station he appears somewhat distracted. No, not by my magnificent array of stationery, but by the fact that on my computer screen is a larger than life up close photo of a vagina – covered in genital warts.

Needless to say I explained I didn’t have a charger and then after an awkward pause proceeded to attempt to explain to the hormonal, awkward and perhaps now mentally scarred school boy, why, in a public library, I am looking at a close up photo of a vagina. Nothing like a spot of freelance health promotion…

Despite this slight mishap I did manage to get a couple of hundred questions done. So provided that I’m not struck off the GMC register for showing inappropriate material to a minor, I will continue with my revision in an attempt to edge closer to the much desired mirage of exam freedom…..Although perhaps saving my sexual health revision for the privacy of my own home.

It’s Complicated…Or Is It?!

So, what with everything going on in the world and International Womens Day happening, I found myself thinking about my values and opinions regarding feminism. Now, I’m not a raging bra burning feminist or anything but I’m a strong believer in women’s rights. Like I am in men’s rights. And in fact most other rights. So I guess you could say I’m all for equality.

Now fear not, this isn’t going to turn in to some political blog – I’m astoundingly ill educated in politics (unless it involves the NHS, in which case you just can’t shut me up some days!) so I would only embarrass myself if I attempted it. But I thought it would be interesting to get The Girl’s view on the world. So I thought of a whole series of questions I was going to subtly slip into conversation to explore her take on the crazy world we are living in. First question….

Me: Are boys and girls the same?

The Girl: Yep…. But boys have willies.

And she wanders off to tuck up her large plastic roaring dinosaur in its pink fluffy blanket for a nap.

Right then. That’s that sorted.

The Working Week: Part 2

Thursday : A smooth start to the day. I’m now a pro at making breakfast in the lounge with the make shift kitchen I fashioned, and my mother has dutifully maintained and stocked. The bags were packed the night before, lunch is in the fridge, the car has fuel, we are out the door. I’m snotty, in a big way, I’m coughing at all the wrong times during the practice meeting and I’m 100% more ill than some of the patients I see today.

I opt for a take away instead of another microwaveable meal. My dad – part of the 4th emergency service – declines. He spends the evening in the bathroom, not in the recreational sense. He takes to his bed and we don’t see him until I am summoned to his bedside to answer his medical questions regarding throwing up his tablets. I make up a sensible answer, shout it at him (as he has taken his hearing aids out) and steer clear- a cold is enough for me just now.

Friday: Phil is on Call. Again. But I don’t even notice. I have no work, I survived and more importantly so did the kids. So now with a genuine sense of joy I get to go in to full mum mode. Nappies, snot, tantrums, swimming lessons, food slinging, and being mauled are all welcome.

The grandparents don’t depart until the evening as my dad wanted to ensure that his tummy upset has fully passed before they set off on their 2 hour drive. Unexpected faecal incontinence is not desired by a man who insures his wife on his car but won’t let her drive it for fear of her “disrespecting” it.

Whist still feeling thoroughly crappy and full of cold I’m doing good. I finally have a kitchen sink, the men are all leaving today and after nearly 3 years of living in the most dysfunctional 1980’s kitchen, I now have most of a modern-currently-still-dysfunctional-but-at-least-no-longer-with-a-1970s-serving-hatch kitchen.

I head to bed with slight feeling of contentment, possibly achievement (and some blocked sinuses). But we have been here before, I know when I’m feeling like this, it’s too good to be true. This is when a child is going to shatter my world.

Enter, The Boy.

Vomiting.

All over everything. Cot sheets, teddies, sleeping bag, jammies, him. All need washing. I eventually faff around, get him cosy and snuggle him up all clean and dry.

For about a minute. And then round two commences. This one getting all of the above and me. Despite being a medical professional I have never been great with vomit so whilst I’m retching away I decontaminate myself and him, as quietly as possible, and pray that The Girl doesn’t wake up.

Once again we get ourselves sorted, we are clean and dry, and shattered. The Boy is trying to drop off to sleep again. Realising I only had one sleeping bag left I decided not to put him in it just yet. Which was just as well.

He hurls again, splattering the bed we are sitting on, him, me, anything else near by… The vomit is also bright red thanks to jelly he demolished at tea time, it’s starting to resemble some sort of a horrific crime scene in his lovely pastel coloured nursery. Where was he storing all this? There is definitely more volume being projected from him than could possibly be stored in his tiny body.

Fortunately at this point I hear the front door shut. Either we are being burgled (in which case I’m pretty sure they are going to turn right around when they see this) or by some sort of divine intervention Phil has actually come home, and his timing is perfect. I text him.

“HELP”

There is a momentary delay in his reply so I continue.

“NOW” ….. “PLS”

I have never been so pleased to see him. Together we deal with the devastation and pop the first of several washes on before he heads to bed. He is still on call and will be for the weekend.

Saturday: The wash didn’t flipping work. The machine is full of water so I can’t get the door open.

I google like a maniac and conclude that my waste pipe is blocked. I proceed to drain the washer via a tiny tube at the front like the Internet told me to, which involves filling a frying pan and then tipping it in to the drain and repeating about 400 times. The frying pan is not the ideal tool I recognise that, but due to the upheaval of the new kitchen I can’t access a more appropriate receptical.

Eventually, I’m able to move the washer forward to find a kinked and now (thanks to me trying to straighten it out) cracked waste pipe. I’m up to my knees in vomit covered garments and no functioning washing machine.

Someone get me a mangle and a bar of soap – I’m gonna do this old school style…..Actually, no. No, I’m not. There are still chunks of sick and it smells horrid.

So I attempt to, whilst trying to entertain and feed the kids their breakfast, attach a new waste pipe. To my untrained eye, it appears to work. So prior to stepping outside to burn my bra and perform a victory dance, I pop a wash on.

…..It wasn’t quite the raging success I was hoping for. Turns out there is a reason that we have washing machine repair people. The waste pipe connecter I fashioned failed, so the washing machine leaked all over the floor. On the plus side once I wade through the foamy ocean spreading even further as I watch, at least I can open the washing machine door…Which enables me to discover the the new pillow case from The Boy’s bed has turned the whole entire wash a lovely teal colour. Yep. Of course it did.

So, in true GP style as per my eportfolio requirement, here follows a reflection summary:

What happened?

A Sh*t storm hit.

What happened next?

It carried on.

What did you learn?

How to drain a washing machine, and, incidentally, what bullnose architrave is.

What will you do differently in the future?

Buy a lottery ticket.

The Working Week: Part 1

My first week back at work happened. It’s complete and it was a joy. Now I’m back in the throws of being a GP trainee it’s only right I should reflect on what happened.

Monday: Following on from a rough night I wake up with a sore throat and raising anxiety levels. The day is tantrum central thanks to The Girl, well thanks to me really, I mean why would I insist that she wear knickers?! Phil is on call, he like the rest of us had a cold. We waved him off from our lounge-cum-kitchen at 7am. The table at the back of the lounge is set up with toaster and the kettle and a box of food, all positioned as centrally as possible as apparently The Boy has grown his arms for the occasion and can now reach all but the very middle of the table.

The kitchen men arrived at 7.45am and are greeted by me in my snot stained leisure wear and directed to the 1980s kitchen to rip everything out. I’ve packed the biscuits away and don’t have much sugar in the jar so I appear to be providing a little a health promotion to my rather rotund kitchen team. This is not well received so I ferret around and manage to dig out a box of chocolates from Christmas and allow them to indulge themselves. Their type 2 diabetes isn’t my problem but the cost of this job is and the bill is in their control…

The self proclaimed ‘4th emergency service’ AKA my parents arrive in the afternoon. Noise, mess, dust, disease, no kitchen sink and a house full of men requiring infinite tea rounds welcomes them. I could tell they were delighted.

My evening is spent digging around to find various proofs of address and photo IDs, as the little darlings at the Deanery have lost all the documents I sent them months ago. They only thought to tell me the day before I return to work despite my 5 enquiries prior to this.

I also appear to have lost my stethoscope. Fortunately being married to a urologist means there is a spare unused one to thieve. I’m prepped. I’ve eaten take away and I’ve laid out everything I possibly can. All I need now is a good nights sleep….

Tuesday: Phil is on call again. He did come home at some point after I had gone to bed last night so it can’t have been too bad. I have had 4 hours sleep in preparation for my first day at work, thanks to a, presumably, teething boy and an ’emotional’ girl.

We do however, against all odds manage a successful departure from house involving single handedly getting both children dressed and out the door in time to arrive at work which is quite the achievement. There were times in the past when my achievements were getting a central line in or placing a chest drain successfully, now it’s leaving the house….Cheers kids.

The Boy cries as he is abandoned with strangers (albeit with full DBS checks) at nursery, I keep it together and at the risk of looking uncaring I promptly turn my back and walk out, with a smile on my face and a nauseous, guilty, heartbroken feeling on the inside. The Girl wants to know why we are leaving her baby brother in tears. I ignore the question and bundle her in to the preschool room.

Wednesday: I woke up alone. Inconveniently some chap had a testicular issue over night so as a result Phil left in the small hours and once the task was complete he opted to catch 40winks in the on call room.
I tell Phil later that I wish I had an on call room to go have an hours kip.

“It’s a plastic mattress in a cold room, of borderline cleanliness – you don’t”

I explain it’s preferable to a memory foam mattress covered in snot and being shared with 2 huge, bony starfish with a soundtrack of screaming. He doesn’t reply and we continue in our marital bliss.

Anyway, hearing that we are a man down The Boy kicks off the day with a vomit at 6am secondary to the mother of all coughing fits. It’s everywhere, so an early bath is required. The Girl is waving around a vomit stained stuffed panda shrieking about the fact that HER panda was in the cot and fell victim to the spew fountain (to be fair she has a point but The Boy loves it and when he was throwing a wobbler in the small hours I gave it to him). Granny was called into action, this was not a one man job.

I decided once we were all sorted that I would offer him a bottle – huge mistake. He is at this point starving and guzzles the bottle (he’s a newbie to the bottle as time pressures mean I’m claiming the baps back – in the morning at least) so subsequently he vomits all over him, me and the sofa. Last minute costume changes are required. We eventually get out the door, leaving Granny to deal with the vomit and the washing. Grandad hasn’t put his hearing aids in yet, so he is entirely oblivious to what waits downstairs for him.

I drop the kids off (The Boy continues to try and break my heart with his distraught cries) and get to work.

I complete yet more paperwork and get told for the 4th time in two days how lonely being a GP can be.

Compared to home this week, ‘lonely’ is actually a bit of welcome break. At one point today I heard genuine silence. Just for a moment – while I tried desperately to find the right icon to magic a prescription, but it was there, pure silence.

Pretty sure the patient didn’t appreciate the silent (possibly long enough to be a little awkward) delay to their day, but I certainly did.

Family, Flights and Flipping out…

We love my family. So much so, that we decided to spend the last couple of weeks of my maternity leave visiting my brother and his family in Texas. This was a decision we rushed into without too much thought. Because if we thought about taking a stroppy nearly 4 yr old and a hyperactive 11 month old on a plane…we wouldn’t.

The Girl had been informed that if you misbehave on a flight you get chucked off the plane by the pilot. She had taken this literally, believing she would be evicted mid-air never to experience the joy of aviation again. As parents, we took the executive decision to not correct this slight misunderstanding and as result she was golden. She had a split second where she looked like she just might flip into a world famous tantrum and I whispered into her ear the words:

“The pilot is watching you”

She immediately, silently, stood up from the aisle floor where she was prepping for the mother of all meltdowns, got into her seat and put her seatbelt on.

The Boy was happy as he had a few hundred faces to look at and shout “hello” to.

Which he did.

Repeatedly.

Fortunately when anyone acknowledged him he would give them his biggest, cutest, nose wrinkling, toothy smile and people would forgive him for the preceding racket.

The return night flight of 9 hours involved some sleep (for everyone but me, as The Boy was asleep in my arms, being that the bassinet would barely fit a newborn in – never mind a 20lb mobile, chunk of boy) but this meant I watched a whole film. The whole thing!

Admittedly I also spent 2.5 hours busting for a wee but unable to go as I couldn’t risk waking him up, but I found my continence 11 months after birthing a 9lb baby quite an achievement.

In fact what I thought was going to be a huge nightmare was actually almost a pleasure. There were several genuine high points to our journey.

The Boy at the gate was in my arms while our passports were inspected. He had just had a large drink. He was leaning over, out of my arms to shout hello in the face of the remarkably glamorous lady waiting to direct us towards the tunnel (which was right in front of us). He managed to get himself really quite close to her and she then leant in to speak to him. At which point he did the loudest burp I have ever heard him produce. It was like that of a grown man after a couple of pints. It came from deep down within him and had projection that Pavarotti would have envied. People in the surrounding area (which was a lot as we were waiting in line) turned to look, some too polite to laugh, others giggling quietly and others doing the silent shoulder shake laugh with tears in their eyes. This poor lady’s perfectly made up face recoiled in disgust as The Boy belly laughed hysterically.

I was temporarily mortified and speechless as I watched this beautifully presented woman pause and try to regain composure before reacting in the professional manner expected of her. And she did it:

“Well isn’t that just the cutest thing y’all ever saw?”

No. No it was not. It was smelly, it was right in your face and when all you were trying to do was demonstrate your child friendly approach to young flyers, it was rude. But you, you lovely Texas airport ground staff lady, are exceptionally good at your job. That was a great recovery. In fact you should probably be in healthcare the way you brushed over that bodily function demonstration. Because despite Phil and I being medical professionals we cried with laughter all the way on to the plane.

The second highlight was courtesy of another passenger. He had been sat next to us for the entire 9 hour flight and as we went our separate ways at the end of our brief but friendly acquaintance he said:

“Y’all have a beautiful family there. What well behaved kids, I would love this to be me in a few years.”

Hello parenting success!

This was a big win, we couldn’t have been more proud of our little people. We managed to take two children on a long haul flight and not only did we not get evicted from the plane, we didn’t irritate the people next to us and in fact appear to have made a fellow passenger broody! We didn’t even have to drug the kids- just instilled the fear of death by ejector seat and it was a breeze!

There was a moment, just a little moment when, for the first time ever we thought ‘We’ve got this, we are doing ok’. We were feeling ever so slightly smug.

And apparently The Girl got wind of this and wanted to make sure that this feeling of knowing-what-on-earth-we-are-doing-in-this-bonkers-world-of-parenthood, was a fleeting one.

I write this at 2am having been back in the country 16hrs while The Girl is throwing a tantrum about the fact that when she shouted Daddy, I went to her room. The much awaited meltdown has occurred with constant screaming punctuated only by requests of ‘GO AWAY MUMMY’, ‘DON’T LOOK AT ME’ and other such gems being shouted in a manner reminiscent of The Exorcist. The Boy has then been screaming because he heard it was a good idea and now I can’t put him down until The Girl pauses for more than a second or else the whole cycle will start again.

Meanwhile Phil is trying to get enough sleep, in between negotiating with our 3yr old monster and googling ‘what the flip to do with a flipping out 3 yr old’, so that he will be functioning tomorrow for his 24 hour on-call.

Well, at least The Girl has achieved some consistency. We are back to having absolutely no idea what we are doing…

Doctors, Defecation and Death…

It’s 6.45pm. We haven’t heard from Phil.

The Girl : Is Daddy going to be home in time?

This is the question I get asked about 25 000 times a day and what it means is “Is my favourite person in the whole world going to read my bedtime stories, or will I have to make do with you reading them while The Boy gnaws on your nipple because Daddy isn’t home on time?”

Me: Not sure, let’s give him a call.

So we do. It’s goes to voicemail and we leave a message: “Helloooooooo Daddy! Are you going to be home on time?”

Clearly Phil is still in clinic- the one that’s meant to finish at 5pm and is taking place an hour away from home. So no. He won’t be home on time.

10mins later he calls back.

Phil: I’ve just had a man arrest in clinic.

As crude as it sounds I’m just praying this didn’t happen while Phil was examining him (urologically) – it would be a pretty undignified way to go and I’m not sure how Phil would cope if he thought he had killed a man by putting a finger up his bum.

I take Phil off speaker phone and we chat. It turns out the chap didn’t make it to his appointment, he collapsed in the waiting room and was brought to a clinic room where he had a cardiac arrest. The nurses shouted for help and Phil responded, he did what he is trained to do and tried to resuscitate him. As Phil is telling me this I know he needs to talk about it. It’s not very common as a urology registrar that you have to actually resuscitate someone. Talk about it yes, make decisions about it yes, but not actually do it. So he is a little out of practice and he needs to debrief. He needs me to tell him that he did everything he should have done. He needs me to tell him that he wasn’t the stereotypical surgeon floundering around in a resus situation. He needs me to tell him that it’s ok that he had a moment of uncertainty when he wasn’t sure if he could feel a carotid pulse (which it is- it doesn’t just switch on and off- it can be there, then it’s thready and weak and then it’s gone). He needs me to tell him that that the lady who went to her husbands routine hospital appointment and is now going home a widow, is going to be ok, and that he couldn’t have changed that.

Phil needs me to be his wife and his friend and also his colleague . He needs me to understand what he has just been through, he needs to not have to explain it in “laymans terms” he needs me to just get it. Which I do. I really do. Which is good because most of all he needs me to tell him to get over it and deal with the next patient. Which I do….sort of.

The problem is that whilst Phil needs a wife, a friend and a colleague, our children need their Mummy. I’m attempting to get them in the bath but The Boy has done an enormous poo so I’m trying to take his nappy off – he is covered in poo from his nipples to his knees and he won’t lie still for love nor money. He is smearing crap all over the bath mat, the side of the bath, my hands, the toy he is holding, absolutely everywhere. This is causing The Girl to freak out. She doesn’t want to get in a bath with The Boy covered in crap. Which is fair enough. But she is shrieking it right in my face while grabbing my shoulder, whilst I’m trying to talk on the phone, it’s past 7pm and my patience is running thin. So I snap, and I shout.

“For goodness sake I’m not going to bath you in poo. Now take your clothes off and get in!”

The Girl is now crying. The Boy is still covered in faeces and The Husband has gone pretty quiet.

“Phil, I will call you back”

Moments later the kids are both in the bath. I’ve apologised to The Girl and eventually been forgiven. It’s all slightly calmer.

The Girl however is not happy that she thinks I will have missed a bit and there will be small bits of poo under the bubbles. Again this is a fair point, if I believed in homeopathy there is probably enough poo in that bath to perform a faecal transplant.

But then she scales it up again.

The Girl: Mummy there is poo in the bath!

Me: There isn’t poo, I’ve been through this, I’ve wiped his bum…and everywhere else!!

The Girl: Mummy there is!!!

Hysteria is setting in. And I’m close to flipping out – again. But then, once again she is quite right. Clearly the boy hadn’t quite finished, as peaking out through the bubbles is a sneaky little partially formed log.

“EVERYBODY OUT!!!”

…..So I’ve failed today. I couldn’t be the wife, the colleague, the friend that I needed to be. Because, I was trying to be the Mummy I should be, and unless you class bathing children in excrement, I didn’t exactly succeed on that front either.

Welcome home Phil, the bathroom is full of poo, part of your dinner is in a pan (the rest is still in the freezer), the kitchen looks like a bomb site, your tutor has informed you that you need to work over your holiday, your best mans speech for the wedding at the weekend isn’t finished, your wife is hiding in the office trying to revise for an exam (which due to her maternity pay running out, you get the honour of paying for), your several hours late home from work ….oh and a chap unexpectedly died on you today.

So yep. Just another day as junior doctors, living that ‘Moet Medic Lifestyle’ the media go on about.

But after a day like today, especially, after a day like today, we are just grateful that we get a tomorrow, to do it all over again.

The Future’s Bright?!

The Girl: I’d like to be a mummy when I’m old like you.

Me: When you grow up, not when you’re old. I’m not old. But yes that’s a good idea, it’s fun being a mummy.

The Girl: Will you help me when I’m a mummy?

Me: Of course. If I can, I will. Even when you’re grown up you will still be my baby…

…Wistfully day dreaming that my baby girl will always need her mummy…

The Girl: Thank you…..I will need you to pay the Doctor who gets it out of my tummy. I think they only take card.

Apparently she is predicting the downfall of the NHS and her future dependency on The Bank of Mum and Dad. Did I did give birth to a “super forecaster”? I have a horrible feeling she just might be spot on.

Suppose I had better go back to work then… in the NHS….to support The Bank of Mum and Dad….

Life Through a Lens…

Had a friend pop in the other week. I don’t see her often as she is in the army and is based about 300 miles away. But she called in with a bottle of wine, a bunch of flowers and an hours notice.

This is my friend whom I live vicariously through. She is child free, intermittently single, career driven and travels the world. She has abs (like actual toned core muscles), freshly washed hair and will appear with a moments notice because it doesn’t take weeks for her to plan leaving the house. She often sends me photos of her latest beau, and will text me slightly drunk from the toilets on a date requesting my advice – which without fail, she will ignore. This is probably the right thing to do, bearing in mind I met Phil when I was 19 and dating consisted of ‘anatomy revision’ sessions and a trip to McDonald’s, so I don’t have much to offer in this area.

Anyway she arrives just after tea and plays with the kids for a bit before I embark on putting them to bed. My friend observed this with interest. The kids of course, because they know I have better things to do, demonstrate their finest delay tactics. The Girl requests that I read 4000 books and freaks out about being unable to find “The Egg One” and not one of the 200 that are available (including 3 other egg themed books) to hand will do. I am required to supervise 3 toilet trips, and I mean really supervise, like even though she can do it all herself she literally wants me to hold her hand. Add to the bedtime jamboree The Boy who decides he won’t be put down in a cot and The Girl having a full scale melt down over an unidentifiable disaster, and my friend finds herself witnessing the most effective contraceptive yet.

Bedraggled and beaten, at some point I make it downstairs only for the boy to announce with a blood curdling scream, that he is cutting a new tooth. I head upstairs, he has developed superhuman strength with which to make himself totally rigid to facilitate the loudest screaming imaginable. The Girl of course responds to this in a somewhat competitive manner.

My friend meanwhile decides to cut her loses and make an escape. But not before telling me that she has taken a photo of my kitchen post-dinner and sent it to her boyfriend, who is also in the army, with the accompanying caption:

“We could do this, having kids would be fine, it’s just like being in a war zone”

Can’t argue with that.

Toddler Love

Pre school run this morning. First time in two weeks.

The Girl: Mummy, I feel a bit sad.

Me: That’s a shame, why?

We have just established how very excited she is to see everyone at preschool and she has rehearsed saying “Happy new year” for an entire 10 minutes…

Me: Will you miss me?

The Girl: We have had a lot of time together over the holidays.
Me: Yes so it will be sad to be apart again?

The Girl: Mummy…it was a lot of time.

I know, I know, it was indeed a lot of time…

Willies and Tinklers

Whilst getting ready for bed The Girl walks in on Phil in the shower this evening.

The Girl: Daddy, I can see something dangling…

Me: Yes, that’s Daddy’s willy

The Girl: No. Not that. Look behind.

She tries to move closer to get a better look while Phil and I look slightly alarmed as she is clearly speaking of his scrotum…

The Girl: That there, that funny bit.

Phil and I both respond simultaneously: “Balls!” “Testicles!”

This had not been discussed in advance. Unlike ‘willy’ and ‘tinkler’ (our chosen nouns for male and female bits) which had been discussed at length, friends questioned and tentative google searches performed.

Suggestions ranged from the slightly horrific ‘penny slot’ to the more common ‘sixpence’, the too frequently used in everyday language; ‘bits’, and suggested by one of our more well-spoken friends; “personals” (which whilst a perfectly reasonable suggestion, I found it disproportionately hilarious) to describe the female anatomy.

For us ‘willy’ was a simple no brainer and therefore further discussion regarding the surrounding area was not had. If it had been we would have had a simple and united front with which to respond to the ball sack question.

However, Phil being a urologist clearly thought “I have got this. This is my area” (not only anatomically speaking) “I can answer any question she’s got. Bring it on!”

And then took it upon himself to elaborate further, explaining that girls wear their balls on the inside…
At which point I put an end to the discussion and usher The Girl out. There is a time to be a urologist and a time to be a Daddy. That was not the time to combine the two and explain the embryological development of genitalia to a 3yr old.

We have already explained to preschool that Phil “deals with willies and wee” to hopefully contextualise any questionable remarks our rather astute 3 yr old may make. But “girls wearing balls on the inside” was one step too far.
Now to fit a lock on the bathroom door….