Back On The Chain Gang

I never thought I would say this, but I had forgotten how much relentless hard graft is involved in raising babies and small children.
When I had three children under two-and-a-half, I lost count of the times some bright-eyed, well-groomed mum with self-sustaining older children would tell me to ‘enjoy’ these early years, since they were over so quickly.
Invariably, I would force a crazed smile and think ‘How can you say that? This feels like a life-sentence of hard labour.’ I even had the clothes, hair and make-up appropriate for the whole chain-gang existence. I could just about cope, but someone telling me that I should be enjoying it all, just made me feel worse. Like many parents, I had to suspend belief in everything that was rational and self-evident, and give myself up to the blind faith that things would somehow turn out alright, alternating with periods of self-flagellation when they didn’t.
Who needs religion when you can have parenthood?
Fast-forward six years, and although I still have the mental scars from those early years, the loosening of the shackles has been so gradual, that I never realised quite how much freedom H and I have gained. That is, until the travelling circus of my brother and his young family came to town.
Of course, the baby was adorable, and the two year old twins were a delight, but there really wasn’t one minute of the visit when we weren’t ‘doing something’ for one of them. Between the wiping, rattling, rocking, soothing, helping them dress, not helping them dress, and negotiating over which plate to use, there was hardly time to have a decent glass of wine or three. Luckily the weather was good, so we managed to keep all six children entertained with trips to the playground, and copious use of a paddling pool in the garden.
Now that they have gone home, the lawn looks like the final days of Glastonbury, and the house is spookily quiet. Games which involved shrieking and chasing ‘monsters’ up and down the stairs have been replaced once again by games which involve lying silently on the sofa and chasing monsters across a screen. Bathtime has reverted from an hour long water-based theme park back to something more closely resembling a sheep dip. And once again, I no longer have to wipe anyone else’s bottom but my own.
I am sitting here with a glass of soft, smooth, black-cherry tasting Stoneleigh Marlborough Pinot Noir (Ocado £8.49) and thinking with utter relief how far we have all moved on. The only down side I can see is that a single Smartie is no longer considered a suitable reward for good behaviour.
Even the kids, who loved playing with their little cousins, have gone strangely quiet on the subject of wanting me to have another baby. Maybe now that they too have realised what incredibly hard work babies and small children can be, they will finally stop bullying me and my shrivelled ovaries.

Out of My Box

I have never been tempted by those organic produce boxes which many people have ‘delivered to the door.’ For starters, they include vegetables that you actually have to peel before you cook them – you can’t simply prod a plastic bag with a knife, and bung it in the microwave, like normal vegetables. It seems that cooking them requires considerable amounts of creativity too. I’m not sure I would know what to do with a courgette (no rude suggestions, please) never mind a bulb of fennel. Do you screw the fennel into a light socket? As for chard – that could either be a salad leaf, or a general description of my cooking.

I was asking some friends today why they pay for these boxes which require them to eat purple–sprouting broccoli for the entire month of February, or Brussels sprouts when it isn’t even Christmas (can you imagine the horror!). One of them, who is a very good cook, said that she liked being challenged in the kitchen. I nearly suggested she come round to my house and I would introduce her to my kids. They challenge me in the kitchen on a regular basis.

What really surprised me was that most of my friends signed up to these organic box schemes because the company which delivers them donates 20% of the cost to the school that their children attend.

Now, I can’t decide who is the more cynical – me, or the company that delivers the boxes.

This marketing masterstroke enables them to exploit the lucrative combination of parental guilt and charitable donations in one fell swoop.

The organic produce box enables you to feed your kiddies with healthy vegetables (you know you should) and you can donate money to their school at the same time - how can you resist? Everybody wins!

Hmmmm, everybody that is, except the frazzled mums who now have to spend twice as much time trying to make an evening meal out of celeriac and alfalfa sprouts, while paying handsomely for the privilege.

I am feeling rather irritable about this. Yet again, I seem to be out of step with everyone else’s warm fuzzy glow. My own method of generating a warm fuzzy glow will be to demolish the best part of this bottle of cherry-and-plum Secano Estate Pinot Noir (M&S £6.99) from Chile. It needs a bit of time to breathe (don’t we all) but now its silky finish is gradually smoothing my raised hackles.

During today’s conversation, one of my friends did concede that she’d had a lot of trouble getting her kids to eat some of the vegetables that had been delivered. ‘We eat an awful lot of soup at the end of each week’ she said, ‘and the rabbit is looking really healthy these days.’

I can’t see myself taking delivery of any organic produce boxes in the near future. I think I’ll just stick to wine boxes.

You Are Offal - But I Like You

The ‘American Moms’ visit went extremely well. They very kindly brought New York Yankees T-shirts for the kids, so I spent a good ten minutes trying to explain to my three about baseball. No, not really like cricket. Yes, a bit like rounders, but with steroids.

There was no sniggering about fannies (from me), and only one cringeworthy moment when one of the kids asked in his best Little Lord Fauntleroy voice what a ‘dawg’ was.

I decided to make good old fashioned Bangers and Mash for lunch, as this seemed to strike the right balance of authentic British grub, but without the terror-inducing properties of offal. I had forgotten how easy it is to frighten Americans with talk of steak and kidney pie. An American friend once had to leave the room when I happily described how my Mum used to feed us roast lamb hearts. I think subsequently she always viewed me as a not-so-distant relative of Hannibal Lecter. Good job I never told her that I like a nice Chianti.

I have become a lot more squeamish about food as I have become older. In the past, my ‘cast iron stomach’ has ingested all manner of stuff from frog’s legs, snails, tripe, brains and various other glands. I have even eaten Rocky Mountain Oysters, but I thought they were just a load of bollocks. I am not so adventurous any more – I just tend to stick to liver, or black pudding, and am partial to the occasional tongue sandwich (but that’s another story).

I am finishing up the last leftover glass of Montana Reserve Pinot Noir, Marlborough (Ocado £9.99). It just sneaks in under the £10 pain barrier, but it is so smooth and silky, and I knew it would go really well with the sausages.

Judging by the way my kids view everything on their plates with the utmost suspicion, I really cannot see a great future for offal, despite the huge part it has played in the culinary history of our nation. But then, there will always be sausages, which contain all the wobbly, stringy and gristly bits that we can’t face, but just chopped up very small, so that we don’t quite realise what it is we are eating.

The Roadrunner

I’ve had one of those days where I have gradually become irritated by the sound of my own nagging. Now the kids are all in bed, and I’m snuggling up to a large glass of soft, ripe Rosemount Pinot Noir (£7.99 Ocado), I’m feeling subdued and rather remorseful. Their view of me today has been:
7am- see crazed, wild-haired harpy descend on kitchen, chivvying everyone to hurry up and eat breakfast ‘faster’, go and brush teeth, get dressed ‘faster’, get schoolbags, go to the toilet, put shoes on ‘faster’, get in the car, put seatbelts on ‘faster’.
8.30 am – arrive at school for a calm, nurturing day, where no-one shouts ‘Shut up, I can’t hear myself think!’ or ‘You did that deliberately, didn’t you?’ Make lovely, arty things with tissue paper, sing jolly songs in little piping voices, write stories about fluffy animals, and generally express creativity in a multitude of ways.
3.30pm – meet up with crazed, wild-haired harpy, who constantly issues military-style commands to get in the car, put seatbelts on ‘faster’, get in the house, take shoes off, get out of school uniform ‘faster’, do homework, eat dinner ‘faster’, get in the bath, brush teeth, put pyjamas on ‘faster’.
Sitting here now with my glass of Pinot Noir, I’m not quite sure what all the rush was about.