Lousy Mum

Yes, it’s been a while, oh dusty, unloved and neglected blog. It’s not for want of things to say – but time to sit at my computer and say them. A particular beef I’ve had recently is about customer service – good, and mostly, bad. Among the worst offenders is WH Smith. After spending most of my life buying notebooks, pens, books and cards from this High Street store, I’m doing my best not to set foot in one ever again. During the last year, service at our local branch has been at best indifferent, and at worst, downright rude. When I tried to exchange a children’s book that was unsuitable for my 5-year-old because it referred to Cinderella as a “dirty slut”, the manager informed me: “Well, we don’t write the books, Madam.” And when the book I chose was not of equal value to the one previously purchased, it took a lot of huffing and puffing before they agreed to put the difference on a gift card.

At a hippy ethnic shop where I spotted a heavy carved-wooden framed mirror on the top floor that I thought would be perfect for our hallway, the boss told me: “Bring it down here and I’ll give you the price.” Yes, I really can do that with three small children running amok and each of the floors being reached by a rickety narrow staircase.

Yet, at McColls, a small convenience shop in a nearby suburb, the young girl behind the counter was full of smiles, offering to put my newspapers in a bag. And at our local Cineworld cinema, the staff were really friendly and went out of their way to help us spend a voucher on tickets, which we’d been unable to do online or over the phone.

With the economic downturn causing shops to close at an alarming pace, surely there is no room for anything but good customer service? Why waste energy being rude to people? It’s time we voted with our feet and abandoned those enterprises that find it so difficult to be polite.

Kids say the funniest things. While I was working away overseas recently, my daughter told another mother: “My Mummy’s in another world.” Hmmm. That could be taken a number of ways….. Meanwhile, her little pal, who is very keen on church at the moment in the run up to Christmas, turned to her Dad: “Don’t you believe in Pippa anymore?”

Moments like these lift the dullest of days.

After a week working away it’s been lovely returning home to my family. In just a few days little things changed. Toddler is forming even longer sentences. My eldest seems even more grown up. But middle child is still wetting herself. I guess some things never change. But just as I jet in and resume my role as working mum, OH has flown half way round the world for a handful of meetings. While people criticise technology as an unnecessary distraction, for making us believe we can do more than one thing at a time and for replacing that all important “face time”, it has also been a great way of keeping us all together. Arriving in my hotel after a 5.5 hour flight there was nothing nicer than firing up the laptop, clicking on Skype and seeing the faces of my three gorgeous girls. No doubt tonight we will be speaking to OH in the same way. As the person doing the travelling, you can be in the dingiest hotel room, feeling as far away from humanity as is possible, but with a couple of clicks on the computer, you can not only talk to, but see your loved ones. Having said all this, I will be glad when OH finishes his travelling for this year. December 8 is the date from which we can start planning Christmas with our gang. And it’s a date that can’t come soon enough for me.

If ever a woman was easily pleased – it was me. When the repairman finally left the house yesterday, declaring our washing machine back in action, I could’ve kissed him. Having the clothes of two barely continent children, plus all the stuff that five people generate, festering away unwashed caused great stress to yours truly. Not knowing when a replacement to the smoking circuit board would arrive or when it could be fitted, meant I had to form another – less smelly – plan. At first I had to make the kids wear clothes I would normally shove straight into the basket. And then, when those had to be condemned, I was forced to fall on the mercy of friends – who live all over town. At one point I was clocking up quite a journey, trundling around various houses, collecting baskets of fresh laundry. It certainly makes you consider how good a mate is when you have to ask them if they’d allow your dirty washing to take a tumble in their machine. Thankfully, this episode has a clean ending. The washing machine is now going like the clappers, spewing fragrant clothing on the hour. The house smells of Lenor fabric conditioner. The windows are steaming up as umpteen pairs of pants dry on radiators. And as I thank God for sorting out this domestic dilemma, I can even face the inevitable ironing pile that awaits me.

Having been pretty harsh about Downton Abbey – I can now reveal, I actually quite enjoyed it in the end. After a bit of a slow start, which was not helped by my lack of familiarity with the main characters, the charm of the show won me over. It was great having a sneaky peak into an upstairs/downstairs world, however inaccurate it might have been. The costumes, period setting, the house, the manners, the restrictions, the etiquette took you into a different era; one to ponder on and escape to on a Sunday night. I enjoyed wondering if Lady Mary would finally bag her true love; whether the Earl of Grantham would ravish the maid and loved the comedy of Violet’s interventions on all matters. Having had Spooks and Downton at one point, I now wonder what we will watch on the night before the working week begins? In the meantime, I plan to bag a box-set of the first series and keep my fingers crossed that both Downton and Spooks return to our screens very soon.

Having a (very) short break from our eldest child has helped me appreciate the three of them more. It is so easy to get caught up in the day to day; the drudgery, the endless washing, sorting and organising, that you can forget how very lucky those of us with children really are. They say: “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” and it really is true. When you see anyone on a daily basis, you get used to them and they become like the furniture. You take them for granted instead of being thankful for having them in your life. And, it’s this realisation, this “stating of the obvious” that’s making my imminent week-long work trip so difficult to come to terms with. While I know this is a wonderful opportunity, one that I’d regret not taking, I am so torn inside about missing the kids; a week of their lives and of course, my lovely OH. Maybe it will do the girls’ good? Maybe I’ll appreciate what I’ve got even more? Maybe we all need some time apart?

The daughter of a distant friend of ours has left for university – and by all accounts the mother is bereft. As this has never happened to me, I couldn’t understand such anguish, especially as she will be back during half term, Christmas and summer holidays. But yesterday my eldest, aged seven, went away for the evening to stay with her great aunt, and I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed her. Making tea for two girls, rather than three was just plain odd. There was room in the bath without so many occupants. Story time for two flew too quickly. There were fewer clothes on the floor, less rowing, and only two little girls turned up at our door today to check if “it was morning yet”. My big girl is coming home in two hours – and I can’t wait. I’ve been like a bear with a sore head over it. This emotion is all very strange to a woman who at one time, never wanted to have kids. But what the experience has taught me is, it’s okay for my husband and me to go overseas with work, but not our children. Logically and realistically this doesn’t make sense. But I have had a tiny taste of the future and I’m not sure I like it. So now I can’t imagine what said friend is going through – and what it will be like when her daughter finally leaves home. And I really don’t want to imagine what it will be like when it’s my turn.

After all those years of trawling round party conferences, working 14-hour days, filing endless copy to umpteen deadlines – I now wonder why I bothered. Since leaving the scene, I’ve noticed how little anyone cares about what goes on at these annual backslapping affairs. Unless there is a scandal, like an MP says something he shouldn’t (like the late Tony Banks calling William Hague a foetus), or someone is found with his trousers down; or the party leader looks the worse for wear when he gives his main address (Charles Kennedy), the great unwashed aren’t interested. And, if you are unlucky enough to hold a conference when there is an even better story going on – like the acquittal of Amanda Knox – it doesn’t matter what you say, no-one is going to read it. Despite the camaraderie I enjoyed with my colleagues, the late nights in the bar, invitations to drinks dos and the buzz when that rare event – a good story – occurred, I can honestly say, I shed no tears when that episode of my life was over. Instead of running around like a headless chicken, doing countless vox pops, having to deal with technical hitches, following an endless line through security, or having a Lib Dem in a duster-yellow sweater take an embarrassed peak into my bag in case it contained anything dangerous, I am sitting in my study, filing copy to many different outlets, pondering what to have for lunch. Do I miss it? Do I hell.

It’s true, my poor blog has been neglected for some time. Thankfully, the reason behind this is a good one – I’ve had more work in. But, if anybody’s interested, I still like to chuck my four penneth into Twitter. Like about Downton Abbey – does anyone get what it’s about? This is the first series I’ve ever watched, so I knew I’d have some catching up to do… but is it usually this dull? There is definitely more action going on in our house, which is considerably smaller and less well populated. Chez Lousy Mum we have the ongoing case of the missing library book. Our eldest has no idea where the Christmas Fairy has disappeared to – and is it any surprise looking at her bedroom? Daddy has gone on another trip to India – but does anyone really know what he does out there? Toddler wonders what the potty is for – because every time she sits on it, nothing happens. And we are still wondering if there is any food middle child doesn’t like, except spaghetti and raspberry yoghurts. As I say, it’s an action-packed, thrill a minute mystery to us all. Something Downton Abbey definitely ain’t.

I’m busily packing for our holidays – or I would be if our useless plumber hadn’t arrived to fix all the mistakes he’s made – and I’m amazed at how pretty and colourful all my girls’ clothes are …. compared to mine! While they will be dressed in bright pinks, oranges and blues, Mummy Dearest will be wearing khaki, black and grey.

I have to admit to finding packing quite stressful. There is always something to forget. A hat for me, reading material for me, fake tan, toothbrushes, enough nappies, etc. DH thinks it all magically appears on holiday and wonders why I am a frazzled wreck by the time we arrive.

But, I am looking forward to two weeks in the sun – a family of five – without too many interruptions from phone calls, emails and work queries. It’s lovely to be in our own little bubble of happiness. And holidays are always the snapshots in time when we remember one of the girls’ achievements, a funny moment, a loving cuddle or that they are growing up fast and we must try to enjoy every second of their childhood.