Saturday, 30 March 2013

Things That Happen When You Have Twins...

.. they reach 17 years old. They do different things. One of them is out, one of them is in. You've left your phone lying around and the one that is in decides to be HILARIOUSLY funny to the one that is out.





#justsaying #fairwarning #twins

*rings counsellors*

And yes they do still call me Moomar *rolls eyes*

Wednesday, 27 March 2013

The Gallery ... Walks

I'm joining in with The Gallery this week and the theme is Walks so I would like to share one particular walk with you. A walk that WILL go down in family folklore. Even now, two years later, just the mention of That Walk is enough to reduce us all to shuddering, giggling wrecks.

And it had all started so well ......

The Plot.
Holidaying in Whitby, a family of six take the summer steam train to Goathland where, they have heard tell, there is Mallyan Spout, the tallest waterfall on the North York Moors and an apparently impressive sight. SOMEONE, though of course no-one will admit to it now, suggests that they pop along and have a look ....


Walks_in_Goathland

At no point did anyone mention that to get to Mallyan Spout, you have to traverse humps, bumps, stumps and rocks. Lots and lots of slippery rocks.

Goathland_Mallyan_Spout


There was a certain amount of squealing and an inappropriate amount of swearing, but I did apologise afterwards. A long time afterwards. Though Mallyan Spout was indeed impressive...

Mallyan spout waterfall North Yorkshire Moors

...and quite beautiful. 

But we had to find our way back to the village of Goathland via an entirely different route because there was no way on this planet or any others that anyone was going to get me back on any slippery rocks. I have *dignified look* an excessive fear of falling ever since falling down a mountain when I was 15. Yes, really. Ok, it was a ski-slope, was covered in snow and I stopped before I hit the trees at the bottom but, you know, still wasn't nice.

Just getting to the bottom of the waterfall had taken every single atom of sweat, concentration and taut nerve I possessed. Unfortunately, as it proved.

So we took another route back to the village following yet another helpful footpath sign.

walks_in_goathland

Which was all well and good. To start with. I didn't ask myself about how we were going to get out of the deep valley where the Mallyan Spout was. Maybe I should have. Turns out I don't like steep hills either, even ones so steep they cut steps into them.

Walks_in_Goathland
From not even the very top looking
 down to the bottom *jibbers*
Cajoled, coaxed, and at some points dragged, up the sheer cliff by The Boy, then aged five. (What? I'm not proud), we eventually arrived back in Goathland.

NOT in time for our train though There was consternation and a hurried consulting of timetables. There was a decision made. It wasn't popular. Grosmont, where we needed to catch the train to Whitby (remember Whitby, we were on holiday in Whitby) was roughly four miles away. Obviously we decided to walk it.

Obviously.


Goathland to Grosmont walk

There were puddles. Really rather large puddles.

Goathland_to_Grosmont_walk

And there were abandoned trains

Goathland_to_Grosmont_walk

And cows

Goathland_to_Grosmont_walk
Still looking at the cows

And gates to practice the Countryside Code on.

And, eventually, we arrived at Grosmont JUST in time to see the last steam train back to Whitby puff out of the station. From a hill.

Grosmont_North_Yorkshire
You see that plume of smoke? That's our train that is.

So we did what all good families do at such a time. We went to the pub and waited for the boring old diesel instead.




This is my entry to The Gallery

TheGallery

Please go check out everyone else's entries.

Tuesday, 26 March 2013

Tween-age Rampage

When I was young there was no such a thing as a Tween.

The only difference between being a child and a teenager Back Then was acne and attitude..... And people only noticed either so they could make a mental note to stay well away until you'd got the whole growing up thing sorted out.

And then they invented the Tween, a whole NEW stage in growing up between being a child and a teenager. That the Tween-age was clearly developed as a marketing ploy by advertising companies desperate to create a new demographic is neither here nor there. They might have invented the Tween, but now we're stuck with them. So, yeah, thanks for that.

My current Tween has clearly been taking notes from her two elder sisters for several years and at 11 years old has the full repertoire of Tween traits mastered. Stomping up the stairs in a strop she's, admittedly, done since she was about six-years-old but now she's big enough to make the doors rattle when she slams them which gives her great satisfaction. Or it must do because she does it at least three times a day and twice that at weekends.

She has a baleful glare she wields like a weapon if she is displeased, annoyed or just at a loss what to do next, and a pair of tear-filled puppy-dog eyes for Daddy emergencies.

Ask her to do something and she will find 27 reasons why she shouldn't but the biggest, best and most oft repeated one is: "IT'S NOT FAIR." Ask her not to do something and she will find another 212 reasons to why she went and did it anyway and then, again, claim: "IT'S NOT FAIR."

She is as inconsistent as the child she so recently was with all the manipulative cunning of a fully grown politician and frankly, IT'S NOT FAIR!

Though I am pathetically grateful for one thing. Her scorn for the world around her is such that she stubbornly fails to be driven sheep-like by the marketing men that invented her in the first place. She thinks the only direction One Direction should take is down and preferably out and sneers, literally and often, at Justin Bieber and really, thank all gods that she does. As I've already had to sit through a WHOLE Jedward concert with the TeenTwins, my relief that I haven't had to endure the horror that is La Bieber is indeed  manifold.

And so we'll put up with the stompings, the sulkings and, yes even the stroppings for now, because she might be bad, but she isn't THAT bad. *Relieved look*




*Goes off to re-hang the bedroom door*

Sunday, 17 March 2013

Five Things Everyone Should Know About Owning a Teenage Girl.

It's known as "adolescence" but I prefer to call it "A Phase" and accompany it with much eye rolling. It's those years between 13 and 19 when you suddenly become host to an alien visitation known as The Teenager.

I've not, yet, dealt with the male of the species but I look at The Boy, an adorable, enthusiastic, smiling six year old and fear the days to come. Though I have it on good authority* that if you do have a Teenager of the male variety, basically all you need to know is:

Tuesday, 5 March 2013

It's A Hard Habit to Break ... Or Is It?


It has recently been brought to my attention that the past 17 years of mothering I have lavished on to the TeenTwins has been for naught.

The pair of them may pass for capable, intelligent and attractive young people in public but I know better. Deep within them is weirdness and it is not weirdness of my making. Oh no.

They have developed "habits," not the habits that I SLAVED to eradicate in their more formative years and yes, I do mean thumb-sucking *tuts at a Teen* and *rolls eyes at another Teen* bear-sniffing.... Don't ask.

No, THESE habits, hang-ups, foibles and affectations are all their own work and recent work at that but they fully expect me to accept them because they're 17 years old and: "That's just the way I am, Mum."

Age being neither indicator of sense or maturity, I'm not falling for that one. There is no reason why one of the Teens can't blow her own nose. Not one. She used to blow it, and it's a nose sometimes it needs blowing. But my 17 year old can't blow her nose, or at least not in public, which can make for some very snuffly conversations.

The other 17 year old has the habit of rushing into the house in desperate need of the loo having apparently developed the inability to GO in any one else's. It's a really good job she has long legs, because she spends half of her life with them plaited.

One Teen can't take a shower without the other sat on the toilet seat having a chat. One Teen ALWAYS has to sleep with the light on, even though she never did when she was young. One Teen won't eat pasta though she always used to, the other won't eat chicken if it has a bone in it even though, she too, always used to. Neither of them will clean a toilet, but that's probably another story.

Anyway, I shan't be having it. All that time I lavished gently coaxing a thumb out of a mouth or a bear from a nose (I said: Don't ask), I SHOULD I realise now also have been whispering encouraging things along the lines of "Mmmm, pasta" and "Oo, yummy chicken" while energetically blowing my nose and flushing the toilet at the same time ....

...But it's not too late

*Rolls sleeves up*





NB: And no, it's not the bear-sniffer who refuses to blow her nose. Just in case you were wondering.

Monday, 4 March 2013

Mother's Day, Doing It My Way.

It's Mother's Day on Sunday. I know this because every supermarket and high street window has been screaming out that fact since two days after Christmas.

Mothering Sunday, apparently, entitles mothers to one whole day where everybody has to do what they say and be nice to them. And not just because they want something in return, oh no.

The presents of Mother's Days past.
TeenTwin2's handmade keyring.
Mother's Day has over recent years also become a way of boosting the economy if the constant barrage of suggestions of what to get the Mother in your life are anything to go by.

The reasoning seems to be if something, anything, is painted pink, has flowers stuck in it or on it and has the word Mum slapped all over it as garishly as possible someone WILL buy it, regardless of what it actually is because well, it's Mother's Day and it says Mum on it. So it could be a dustpan and brush. Or an iron. Or a pair of hilariously glamourous novelty rubber gloves, but it says Mum on it so we'll buy it anyway. Right?

Er, wrong.

I may be a mother but, and hear this, I don't like cleaning or ironing or hoovering or washing up, even if it IS in a pair of feathered rubber gloves. There is NOTHING in the pantheon and plethora of household goods and electricals that I desire, want or would welcome as a present at any time at all, never mind Mother's Day which is supposed to be MY special day.

And I only do cooking because if you don't feed the little buggers they start complaining and I DON'T want a CD of specially selected songs to singalong to while I do it, thank you very much, you patronising marketing bastard, you. *And breathe*

...Not that I'm likely to have to staple on a pleasant smile to cover an appalled rictus of horror while I unwrap something this particular Mother's Day.

TeenTwin1 has informed me that she can't possibly afford anything because she's too busy saving for Leeds Festival and "that's important, muuuuum." TeenTwin2 will be spending the weekend in London, consequently she's said she'll bring something back for me. I fully expect that something to be a packet of hotel biscuits, half eaten. The Tween is still bearing a hamster related grudge and busy perfecting a malevolent stare, if she gets me anything at all it'll probably involve the bomb squad and cordoning off the street.

And The Boy? Well, me and The Boy will go shopping on Saturday when he WILL see something just right for Mother's Day which he WILL insist on buying, even IF we have to stand in front of that thing for three hours while I say: "Isn't that nice?" VERY LOUDLY.

Six year olds can be VERY slow on the uptake sometimes. *Tuts*


The presents of Mother's Days past
The Boy drawn by TeenTwin1


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