Leanne and Ella (who is almost three. Now that's scary as she was mere weeks old when this blog first started) came round to my place for lunch yesterday. Despite my general incompetence with children, it was actually really good. Ella didn't want to go!! What a result.
She's at a brilliant stage where she's really inquisitive, listens in on your conversations then asks what all the words she doesn't understand mean. Brilliant fun - for me (as the non-parent) anyway. I enjoyed trying to throw in as many big words as possible: "Mummy, what's supposition? negotiate? lacklustre? existentialism?"
Ella was also asking me why I had or didn't have certain things. "Lisa, why do you have a that car up there?" (I have a model red Dodge Viper that I got for my 17th birthday because it was my dream car. I had been secretly hoping for the keys to a Dodge Viper, alas ...) "it's an aspirational item Ella." "Mummy, what's aspirational?" "Mummy, does Lisa play with that car?" "Sometimes Ella, when I'm really lonely I bring it down and drive it around the floor." "Mummy, Lisa talks rubbish."
"Lisa, what's in this cupboard?" "Oh, that's where I keep all my ex-husbands." "Mummy, what's an ex-husband?" "Lisa!"
The best bit though, was something that I didn't instigate at all. Ella decided to start asking Leanne about the imminent arrival of her baby brother or sister. "But how will my baby get out mummy?" (Brilliant.) Leanne is trying not to make-up nonsense stories for Ella so this was going to be fun. "Well, there's a hole that the baby can come out." (Nice work Leanne.) "But where is the hole?" (hahahahaha.) "Well, it's underneath mummy's tummy." (good recovery.) "Can I see the hole please mummy?" (Argh! Unexpected return.) "No." (Sometimes no other answer will do.)
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Saturday, September 06, 2008
I beg to differ
Well ... it had to happen sooner or later and I'm surprised (and glad) it's taken as long as eight months. Work, over the last three weeks, has been turgid, frustrating, exasperating - and I feel like I've been fighting with everyone.
Issue 3 (henceforth to be known as 'the difficult third issue') was running smoothly. Then something that was supposed to happen on the 1st September (when the magazine was originally supposed to be out) was postponed until 5th October, which meant I couldn't mention it in the mag and had to find a new feature for two of the editions and another news story for the other two editions - this was the day before it was due to go to print. I managed it and breathed a sigh of relief.
Then, when all the copies of the magazine had been printed, dried and almost stitched, I received a phone call. "Lisa, what would be the cost/time implications of binning the magazine? We need to add a new double-page feature." I knew at that moment all bets were off and we'd be lucky to get a magazine out before the middle of October.
I was right. Twice this week, the head of the company, has read the article and given the constructive feedback that it is "pish". Meanwhile, I'm fielding calls from around the world from people demanding to know when the magazine will be out and why it is delayed. The first question, I can't answer and the second one I'm not allowed to answer.
The delayed magazine has implications for a massive world-wide project being done by another department, so they call me about 30 times a day asking for an update. I kept telling them I didn't have one, but when I did they'd be the first to know. But, when the second 'pish' comment came through yesterday I was told I wasn't allowed to tell them we still hadn't found a resolution. Brilliant.
Then, the cherry on the top of my cake, completely out of left-field one of my colleagues asked me if 'Dave' was 'the one'. I laughed and told her I didn't subscribe to the concept of 'the one'. She said: "Do you want him to father your children?" I said: "God no, I don't want anyone to do that." And she said: "Oh you will."
I was completely shocked. I knew she wasn't meaning to be horrible or anything so I didn't stab her with my fork. Instead, I just laughed and said: "Well maybe I will, and maybe I won't, but I'm not going to go around making decisions based on how I might or might not feel in future. Maybe I won't be looking after grandchildren, maybe I'll be scuba diving somewhere exotic, maybe I'll be dictating best-selling novels - maybe I'll be dictating them to my grandchildren. Who knows?"
Could you imagine how crap your life would be if you made all your decisions based on how you think you might feel when you're retired? I'd be miserable because I'd be pumping all my money into a pension, which would mean I'd look like shit, never go on holiday, never go out for dinner or drinks, and never get my red sports-car. I might even have married someone I didn't fancy just because they were sensible and dependable and put all their money in a pension too. I might have had children. I might spend my days fretting about the fact that I might get to retiring and wonder what my life's all been about - because it certainly wasn't about me.
Lisa, your writing is pish and your life is pitiful. Ha, ha, ha - I beg to differ.
Issue 3 (henceforth to be known as 'the difficult third issue') was running smoothly. Then something that was supposed to happen on the 1st September (when the magazine was originally supposed to be out) was postponed until 5th October, which meant I couldn't mention it in the mag and had to find a new feature for two of the editions and another news story for the other two editions - this was the day before it was due to go to print. I managed it and breathed a sigh of relief.
Then, when all the copies of the magazine had been printed, dried and almost stitched, I received a phone call. "Lisa, what would be the cost/time implications of binning the magazine? We need to add a new double-page feature." I knew at that moment all bets were off and we'd be lucky to get a magazine out before the middle of October.
I was right. Twice this week, the head of the company, has read the article and given the constructive feedback that it is "pish". Meanwhile, I'm fielding calls from around the world from people demanding to know when the magazine will be out and why it is delayed. The first question, I can't answer and the second one I'm not allowed to answer.
The delayed magazine has implications for a massive world-wide project being done by another department, so they call me about 30 times a day asking for an update. I kept telling them I didn't have one, but when I did they'd be the first to know. But, when the second 'pish' comment came through yesterday I was told I wasn't allowed to tell them we still hadn't found a resolution. Brilliant.
Then, the cherry on the top of my cake, completely out of left-field one of my colleagues asked me if 'Dave' was 'the one'. I laughed and told her I didn't subscribe to the concept of 'the one'. She said: "Do you want him to father your children?" I said: "God no, I don't want anyone to do that." And she said: "Oh you will."
I was completely shocked. I knew she wasn't meaning to be horrible or anything so I didn't stab her with my fork. Instead, I just laughed and said: "Well maybe I will, and maybe I won't, but I'm not going to go around making decisions based on how I might or might not feel in future. Maybe I won't be looking after grandchildren, maybe I'll be scuba diving somewhere exotic, maybe I'll be dictating best-selling novels - maybe I'll be dictating them to my grandchildren. Who knows?"
Could you imagine how crap your life would be if you made all your decisions based on how you think you might feel when you're retired? I'd be miserable because I'd be pumping all my money into a pension, which would mean I'd look like shit, never go on holiday, never go out for dinner or drinks, and never get my red sports-car. I might even have married someone I didn't fancy just because they were sensible and dependable and put all their money in a pension too. I might have had children. I might spend my days fretting about the fact that I might get to retiring and wonder what my life's all been about - because it certainly wasn't about me.
Lisa, your writing is pish and your life is pitiful. Ha, ha, ha - I beg to differ.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Teeth, hips and sips of tea
So it is true that the only thing harder to find these days than decent help is an NHS dentist.
My old dentist decided to go private so I found myself tasked with finding a replacement. I called NHS Direct and was given the number of a service which would list all the dentists in my area accepting NHS patients. There are, as it turns out, only three dentists in the 'Edinburgh area' who are willing to take on NHS patients; one in Morningside, one in Craigmillar and one in Portobello. As I don't consider Portobello to be in the 'Edinburgh area' and a visit to a Craigmillar dentist would probably result in my teeth being knocked out on the way, I opted for the dentist in Morningside. I made an appointment and took a bus out there in my lunch-hour. My dentist told me he'd been living in Marbella for the last eight years and had made a fortune, and that's why he was now offering NHS care; doing his bit for society and all that. It didn't stop him from trying to encourage me to opt for a few private treatments though!
At the risk of sounding a bit like 'Jen' of 'Jen & Gary' infamy, another task I found difficult and stressful was shopping with a baby and an 8-year old. It's not that I've ever looked on parenting as a walk in the park, it's just that seeing your university flat-mate doing it really puts things into perspective.
Leanne had told me some time ago that she could do with some new clothes, especially as she is returning to work following maternity leave. She admitted that six months of parenting had left her slightly overwhelmed by the prospect of clothes-shopping and I, in true Trinny&Susannah style, volunteered my fashionista services.
We finally got round to Leanne's shopping trip last Saturday. It was supposed to be just us, but then Craig was paintballing for his nephew's 21st birthday and couldn't look after Ella. Then Skye, Craig's 8-year old daughter, wanted to come with us too.
I met Leanne and the kids at the Gallery cafe. We started our shopping experience in Next. Right away, it was difficult navigating the shop floor with the buggy. Getting the buggy into the changing rooms was even more problematic. Skye was really well behaved, but - like any child - still needs to be listened to and interacted with. Ella is a superstar, but got a bit upset when she woke up. As a result, Leanne tried on items of clothing as quickly as she could, I held Ella and soothed her while offering feedback on Leanne's outfits, and we both tried our best to chat to Skye.
One shop down and Ella needed to be fed, watered and changed. We went to Debenhams cafe. Leanne and Ella took the elevator. Skye wanted to use the escalator, so I went with her. An hour later and we hit another shop. To save the effort of taking the buggy round, I did a quick reconnaissance of Per Una but found nothing doing.
Skye had been an angel, so Leanne agreed to take her to Jenners toy department. Once inside, I realised the time and hassle it would be for us to take Ella downstairs, so I offered to wait in the perfumery department with the buggy. Leanne was visibly relieved.
As I was walking around the store, I struggled to weave in and out of the displays and became convinced that I was going to knock everything over if I didn't get out NOW! I struggled to open the shop doors, struggled to get the buggy through, and, finally, struggled down the two front steps and into the sunshine.
Lastly, we ventured onto Dorothy Perkins, Principles and Top Shop - which is the least buggy-friendly shop in the world. (Strange considering it is the M&S of teenage mums.) The elevators were so old that I had to fight to get the buggy into the lift. By this point we were all tired, thirsty and hungry. I, in my non-mother state, suggested we go to Vin Caffe. This was a bad idea. There was no plain food that Skye liked. The tables were cramped and the toilets were all the way upstairs - sans baby-changing facilities - making it difficult for Leanne to change Ella.
By this time, Leanne had to be getting back to start Ella's bedtime routine. We said goodbye and Leanne almost wept with gratitude. After only a few hours as an extra pair of hands, I could see why. I now completely understand why some women give birth and then never ever want to leave the house again.
Saturday night, I headed out to Hendrick's to meet Mog and Kwan-Nga. Mog had invited us out to a football awards dinner that one of her colleagues was involved in. We went upstairs in the Golfe Tavern, to a room that smelt ominously of sweaty men, farts and chicken wings. In an effort to create some sort of air circulation, we danced solidly for the next three hours. Afterwards I began to fear my style of dancing might make me a prime candidate for a hip replacement in the not too distant future.
As we walked home, my hips, thighs and knees were all still singing. I think my problem is that I dance from the hips down, with all my movement concentrated in the thigh department (which, I know, sounds like some pretty weird dancing).
On Sunday morning I woke up, still aching and barely able to move, and thought "this is what Harrison Ford must feel like these days". I then realised I hadn't put my incontinence pants on and had to pull the emergency chord for help.
Andrew came to visit and we enjoyed a leisurely stroll along the Water of Leith, followed by a Peroni and a lemon sorbet in Pizza Express. I was thoroughly exhausted by the time Andrew left. Determined not to be thwarted in my bid for jogging-suit & DVD combo heaven this Sunday, I applied the jogging-suit, turned off both phones and flicked the buzzer to privacy.
I settled back on the sofa with a cup of tea. The window was open. I could hear the birds quietly chirping and nothing else. The sun was just starting to go down and the air was still. I took a sip of tea, let my head fall back against the sofa and almost had an orgasm from the sheer bliss of it all. I tried to imprint that moment into my memory.
I succeeded; in the short term at least, because I recaptured it at work on Monday morning and spent the rest of the day in afterglow.
My old dentist decided to go private so I found myself tasked with finding a replacement. I called NHS Direct and was given the number of a service which would list all the dentists in my area accepting NHS patients. There are, as it turns out, only three dentists in the 'Edinburgh area' who are willing to take on NHS patients; one in Morningside, one in Craigmillar and one in Portobello. As I don't consider Portobello to be in the 'Edinburgh area' and a visit to a Craigmillar dentist would probably result in my teeth being knocked out on the way, I opted for the dentist in Morningside. I made an appointment and took a bus out there in my lunch-hour. My dentist told me he'd been living in Marbella for the last eight years and had made a fortune, and that's why he was now offering NHS care; doing his bit for society and all that. It didn't stop him from trying to encourage me to opt for a few private treatments though!
At the risk of sounding a bit like 'Jen' of 'Jen & Gary' infamy, another task I found difficult and stressful was shopping with a baby and an 8-year old. It's not that I've ever looked on parenting as a walk in the park, it's just that seeing your university flat-mate doing it really puts things into perspective.
Leanne had told me some time ago that she could do with some new clothes, especially as she is returning to work following maternity leave. She admitted that six months of parenting had left her slightly overwhelmed by the prospect of clothes-shopping and I, in true Trinny&Susannah style, volunteered my fashionista services.
We finally got round to Leanne's shopping trip last Saturday. It was supposed to be just us, but then Craig was paintballing for his nephew's 21st birthday and couldn't look after Ella. Then Skye, Craig's 8-year old daughter, wanted to come with us too.
I met Leanne and the kids at the Gallery cafe. We started our shopping experience in Next. Right away, it was difficult navigating the shop floor with the buggy. Getting the buggy into the changing rooms was even more problematic. Skye was really well behaved, but - like any child - still needs to be listened to and interacted with. Ella is a superstar, but got a bit upset when she woke up. As a result, Leanne tried on items of clothing as quickly as she could, I held Ella and soothed her while offering feedback on Leanne's outfits, and we both tried our best to chat to Skye.
One shop down and Ella needed to be fed, watered and changed. We went to Debenhams cafe. Leanne and Ella took the elevator. Skye wanted to use the escalator, so I went with her. An hour later and we hit another shop. To save the effort of taking the buggy round, I did a quick reconnaissance of Per Una but found nothing doing.
Skye had been an angel, so Leanne agreed to take her to Jenners toy department. Once inside, I realised the time and hassle it would be for us to take Ella downstairs, so I offered to wait in the perfumery department with the buggy. Leanne was visibly relieved.
As I was walking around the store, I struggled to weave in and out of the displays and became convinced that I was going to knock everything over if I didn't get out NOW! I struggled to open the shop doors, struggled to get the buggy through, and, finally, struggled down the two front steps and into the sunshine.
Lastly, we ventured onto Dorothy Perkins, Principles and Top Shop - which is the least buggy-friendly shop in the world. (Strange considering it is the M&S of teenage mums.) The elevators were so old that I had to fight to get the buggy into the lift. By this point we were all tired, thirsty and hungry. I, in my non-mother state, suggested we go to Vin Caffe. This was a bad idea. There was no plain food that Skye liked. The tables were cramped and the toilets were all the way upstairs - sans baby-changing facilities - making it difficult for Leanne to change Ella.
By this time, Leanne had to be getting back to start Ella's bedtime routine. We said goodbye and Leanne almost wept with gratitude. After only a few hours as an extra pair of hands, I could see why. I now completely understand why some women give birth and then never ever want to leave the house again.
Saturday night, I headed out to Hendrick's to meet Mog and Kwan-Nga. Mog had invited us out to a football awards dinner that one of her colleagues was involved in. We went upstairs in the Golfe Tavern, to a room that smelt ominously of sweaty men, farts and chicken wings. In an effort to create some sort of air circulation, we danced solidly for the next three hours. Afterwards I began to fear my style of dancing might make me a prime candidate for a hip replacement in the not too distant future.
As we walked home, my hips, thighs and knees were all still singing. I think my problem is that I dance from the hips down, with all my movement concentrated in the thigh department (which, I know, sounds like some pretty weird dancing).
On Sunday morning I woke up, still aching and barely able to move, and thought "this is what Harrison Ford must feel like these days". I then realised I hadn't put my incontinence pants on and had to pull the emergency chord for help.
Andrew came to visit and we enjoyed a leisurely stroll along the Water of Leith, followed by a Peroni and a lemon sorbet in Pizza Express. I was thoroughly exhausted by the time Andrew left. Determined not to be thwarted in my bid for jogging-suit & DVD combo heaven this Sunday, I applied the jogging-suit, turned off both phones and flicked the buzzer to privacy.
I settled back on the sofa with a cup of tea. The window was open. I could hear the birds quietly chirping and nothing else. The sun was just starting to go down and the air was still. I took a sip of tea, let my head fall back against the sofa and almost had an orgasm from the sheer bliss of it all. I tried to imprint that moment into my memory.
I succeeded; in the short term at least, because I recaptured it at work on Monday morning and spent the rest of the day in afterglow.
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