The One In Which Littleboy1 Gets Stitches

Poor Littleboy1.

Seriously, poor Littleboy1.

His foot had to have stitches the other day, bless him.

It all started when I accidentally (well, I say I... really I mean Jasper, but I feel the need to blame myself for taking my eyes off the dog for a split-second. Big mistake there) knocked a mug onto the floor, which then smashed into about a million pieces...

So the other day, I was making dinner after I'd brought Littleboy1 home from school (I like to give him his tea fairly early as he's always complaining he's starving, despite having a two-course meal at school, and I hate it when he moans, I can't get an ounce of peace), and I'd brought my mug out to make myself a cup of tea (the moaning had already started and I needed a pick-me-up).

Unfortunately, I'd picked the wrong day to cook bacon, as this was the day Hubby neglected to walk Jasper while I made the tea, so I had to do it myself after I'd served Littleboy1.

Jasper came running in, barking and holding a paw up to the stove.

"Away, Jasper," I said, frantically batting him away. "Go outside for a minute."

Did he obey? Of course not.

Littleboy1 came running out, hearing all the commotion. "What's happening Mummy?"

"Nothing, honey, I'm just making your tea. Take Jasper outside for a bit, he keeps trying to eat your food."

Littleboy1 came over and gripped onto Jasper's collar, trying to pull him, failing miserably.

"No, don't pull him, just call him out," I said, one hand on the frying pan and the other ready to swat at whoever came near it.

So Littleboy1 ran to the back door and opened it. "Jasper! Jasper! Jasper!"

Jasper looked up but made no effort to follow the calls. Instead he got a little overexcited, and so he promptly knocked my mug onto the floor with a shatter of pottery.

"JASPER!" I shrieked. Well, that was my favourite mug gone.

"What Mummy?" Littleboy1 came rushing in, as he'd gone to find his ball when he'd seen Jasper make no attempt to follow him outside.

"Don't step there!" I warned, which of course made him step there (what is it with children and automatically doing the opposite of your orders?), causing him to stand, full-frontal, onto the mess.

"OUCH!" he kept screaming, hopping round the room.

Oh, God. "JOSEPH!" I was shouting, and wouldn't stop shouting until Hubby came out of his stupid office and came to see why I was screaming that awful, weird scream.

Almost immediately Hubby had strapped him in the car and we were all off to the A & E before even getting the chance to have a look at his sole.

When we arrived at the hospital I was really scared. What if it was infected? Tons of thoughts were racing through my mind and I couldn't take it.

About 10 minutes into our waiting, a nurse came out and took Littleboy1 into her room. Hubby went with him, whereas I stayed outside with Littleboy2, worried out of my mind.

"Everything will be fine," I kept muttering to Littleboy2, rocking his pram, "everything will be ju-u-u-ust fine, right?"

Littleboy2 just stared up at me, confused.

So was I, in a way.

I didn't know what the hell was going on. I kept texting Hubby, but his phone must have been off. Why?? Why?? Why couldn't he contact me??

About 2 hours after we'd arrived, Littleboy1 and Hubby came out, limping (Littleboy1, not Hubby, though he will be when I get hold of him) and holding onto his daddy.

"Baby!" I practically screamed, lifting him into my arms. "What happened? Why were you gone so long? I was so worried!"

Hubby received a slap and then said, "he had to have some stitches."

My eyes then bulged out of my head. "WHAT? And you didn't think to tell me, call me, TEXT ME??" I was so angry.

"We didn't want to worry you, Faye. We knew it would all be okay, just a couple of stitches because the pottery had sliced the foot. No infections, no stray pot lodged somewhere, it was all checked."

I looked at Littleboy1. "And he was brave, yes?"

"Very. He didn't even need to hold my hand like you do."

I rolled my eyes but cuddled Littleboy1 close. My brave little boy.

My brave, brave little boy.

The One In Which I Wash My Hair With Sick

So, Littleboy1 has had his first week (well, 3 days) at primary school now, and he's enjoyed every second.

"Mummy, when is school?" he asks pretty much every hour on the hour.

"After the weekend, honey," I always reply, trying to get on with the housework but failing.

Littleboy1 ponders this for a few moments before replying with "soon?"

With a desperate sigh I nod as I dust the cobwebs that linger around behind the microwave and shuddering when I see a small spider (sometimes with the company of a daddy long-legs or a small bluebottle). What? I'm tidy. Most of the time.

Yesterday, since Littleboy1 seemed really down about not going to school for 2 whole days, Hubby and I decided we'd treat him to a day out at his favourite park and afterwards get him an ice cream from the van that hangs around outside the gates.

With Littleboy2 in his stroller and Littleboy1 hanging onto Hubby's hand, we stopped outside the van.

"What would you like, son?" Hubby asked him, jingling his change in his trouser pocket.

Littleboy1 stared blankly at the list and photos of the available ice creams/lollies.

Randomly, he picked a blackcurrant Ribena push-up ice lolly.

"A Ribena push-up lolly please," Hubby said, taking his money out and fingering the coins.

The man took one out of his freezers and placed it on the counter as Hubby placed the coins into his hand. The man grinned and put it away.

Hubby handed the lolly to Littleboy1 and he eagerly took the seal off, needing a little help pushing it up. He then attacked it with his mouth until it was all gone, and emerged from the lolly with a purple tongue, purple lips and juice all around his mouth.

"I'm guessing you liked that then," I said, opening the gate to the play area and pushing the pram in. Littleboy2 was sleeping soundly, so I just sat on the bench, rocking the pram back and forth.

"Yeah!" Littleboy1 said, jumping up and down.

"Good. Now, go and have a nice little play and we'll get dinner on the way home."

Hubby sat beside me as Littleboy1 raced over to the slide, clambering up like a monkey would a tree. He waved at the top and slid down on his belly quickly, laughing loudly as he went.

It made me smile, seeing him have so much fun. He then played on the climbing frame, the swings, the roundabout, and the slide again.

He then came over, asking me to tie his shoelaces for him.

"Rock Littleboy2," I told Hubby as I stood up and knelt down, a shoelace in each hand.

"Do you want a double bow?" I asked, and he nodded, acting as if he knew what the heck a double bow was.

I tied one shoe successfully, and moved onto the next. Suddenly, before I knew what was happening, I felt liquid melt through my hair and drip down the back of my neck and my forehead.

"What the hell?" I muttered, standing up after tying the other shoelaces.

Hubby burst out laughing, confirming my fears. "What the hell has happened to me?"

Littleboy1 had his hand over his mouth, and Hubby couldn't talk for laughing.

"Mummy... I was sick."

CRAP.

"On my head?" I asked, trying to be calm when really I wanted to run around the park screaming and shouting and crying.

"Yes... sorry Mummy. I am sorry."

I wasn't mad at Littleboy1, of course. I was just mad that God had to punish me for something or other by causing his sickness the minute before I got up.

"It's okay, darling, it's not your fault," I said, too scared to put my finger on my head even though it was starting to itch as the sick sunk into my scalp (don't worry, I haven't got any pictures).

Littleboy1 wiped his mouth and held my hand afterwards. "Let's go home, Mummy. You need clean."

I nodded and gave Hubby the evils as he sniggered, pushing the pram.

When we got home, cleaned Littleboy1 up and got my hair washed, rinsed, washed again, rinsed, washed a third time, rinsed, and dried, I was just too tired to move.

I just sat down on the sofa and watched The X Factor (I was too tired to change the channel, the remote was on the other sofa), continuously smelling my hair, which thankfully now smelled like tangerines.

Littleboy1 was in bed, but came downstairs and sat beside me. "Mummy."

"Yeah?"

"I didn't like today. At all."

Oh, good. Wasn't just me, then.

The One In Which Littleboy1 Starts School

Well, he did it. He did it. All by himself, he did it. My little boy started big school.

He loved nursery. It was only for half a day, and so he'd come home for lunch and play in the afternoon after a morning of playing and learning and having fun in nursery.

This morning, I woke Littleboy1 up at 7am. For nursery, it would be 8, as there wouldn't be much preparation - all I'd need to do was dress him and then I'd just take him, but today I had to do lots more. I woke him up, and after about 10 minutes of arguing, he finally gave in and went downstairs for his breakfast. Although he kept insisting on pancakes, I finally persuaded him to have the coco pops I'd placed in front of him on the table.

"Mummy, I'm scared," he said as I helped him with his tie and helped him fasten his shoes (he didn't quite get the hang of Velcro).

"Why? You've been excited all week."

"I'm scared now Mummy!"

I sighed. Oh, no. This was the part I was dreading. I knew his great feelings were too good to be true - should have expected it.

"Don't be, darling," I said. "You just feel nervous. It's just like nursery, but with a bit more learning and a little longer. Your friends will be there!"

Littleboy1's face lit up. I think he honestly thought he'd be either all alone, or thrown into a classroom full of strangers who'd possibly (I don't really know what goes on in that imaginative mind) be pelting him with rock-hard crayons and sharp pencils.

"My friends?"

"Yes, your friends."

He suddenly leaped in the air and sung (what I think was) the Teletubbies theme tune while finding his backpack and practically yanking the front door off it's hinges. At least I now know that if I ever want him to do something he won't do, I only have to utter the word 'friends'. Bonus!

The day was quite a bore. I didn't have Littleboy1 or Hubby around to help me tend to Littleboy2's every needs. Sure, he's my responsibility, but I just wanted a break. He cries every minute, and his cot is upstairs, while my television fix is downstairs. That, my friends, means I have to run upstairs, on average, 60 times per hour, and so about 360 times before I had to gather my car keys (and my screaming baby) to pick Littleboy1 up from his first day.

When I got to the school, the bell rung. I was just in time - that's good. He won't be coming out of the doors to find nobody but strangers - I'd be there, as well as the huge pram. He'll recognise me, I think to myself.

The doors open (right on time - I had my watch with me) and piles of kids flood out onto the already almost full playground, making the whole place a sea of laughing and chatting kids and parents.

"Mummy!" Littleboy1 shouts as he races towards me at high speed.

I open my arms and embrace him as he flies into my arms, backpack in one hand, some sort of macaroni creation in the other.

"What's this, then?" I asked as I juggled his new reading folder and spelling record.

"Pasta art," he said, adding this creation to my collection of random things in my arms.

"It's lovely," I said, truthfully. It was certainly something - a skew-whiff attempt at a cardboard box, with random drawings scrawled onto it with permanent marker in a variety of colours, with various pasta types stuck onto it with both Pritt-stick and Sellotape. If I'm right, it contains macaroni, short straw-looking pieces of spaghetti and a bit of penne. Beautiful!

Seriously, I do love it. I love it so much it is on my window ledge as I write, and I keep looking at it (mainly for the fact I'm trying to figure out what it is...) - it is certainly wonderful.

And I promise I won't eat it. No matter how hungry I am.

The One In Which We Prepare For Primary School

Littleboy1 starts primary school on Wednesday, and I tell you, he couldn't be more ready.

He has his little, newly-polished school shoes lined up in the hallway, placed next to his new Manchester United backpack, which contains his pencil case, folders and his juice bottle which will be filled with orange juice on Wednesday morning. There is a space in his bag for his matching Manchester United lunch-box, and I have all he needs in either the fridge (ham for his sandwiches), freezer (frozen yoghurts which will have melted by the time lunchtime arrives) or cupboards (biscuits, jam).

I'm really confident about this. Most parents will be nervous, worried, thinking 'how will s/he do away from home for 6 whole hours?', seeing as though nursery is only a 3-hour thing, but I think he'll be fine. He doesn't seem the sort that would suddenly break down, the sort that is frail about these things. Knowing him, he'll actually want to stay come home-time, and not race out of the doors, arms wide, ready to embrace me.

The other day, when Littleboy1 was playing with his Lego pieces and making a random, non-colour-coordinated castle, I went to ask him how he was feeling about being away from home for so long.

"I don't care," he said simply and plaintively, clearly wanting me to clear off and let him build his castle in peace.

"That's good," I replied.

"Yes. Good. Bye Mummy."

Charming.

The One In Which I Catch A Cold

Bit of a boring title, really, but then again, so is this cold.

I’ve been stuck in bed for the past few days, box of tissues by my side and used ones by the other.

Hubby daren’t come in in case he catches something, so I’m all alone in this pit of misery.

Littleboy1 tried coming in earlier, with a ice-cold lemonade (not really what I need, but still, it’s sweet), but Hubby pulled him out as soon as he set foot in the room.

It’s as though I’m diseased.

I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Jasper since I developed this mild bout, but I suppose that’s a good thing, seeing as though I don’t want his hairs up my nose to make this worse.

For breakfast this morning, Hubby brought me breakfast in bed (how sweet…), wearing a doctor’s mask.

“Take that stupid thing off,” I said as I held the tray. A get well soon card was placed next to my toast from Littleboy1 - handmade.

It says:

Mummy get well soon please love Littleboy1 x x x x x x x x x x x x

I placed it on the window ledge so that I could stare at it, reminded of his love for me.

Hubby kissed my forehead (still with the mask on) and left me alone.

This is going to be a nice week…