A moving experience...PART ONE

For the last 6 months or so, our lives have been filled to the brim with all things “House Move”.  Now we are finally tucked into our new pad, the stress and the seemingly never-ending list of paperwork to complete seems like a dim and distant memory.  Thank goodness.

Writing about it whilst we were in the thick of it all felt like tempting fate, but it’s too late now!  We’re in!

Everyone knows the old adage of moving house being up there with bereavement and divorce in terms of stress, but you don’t really remember, especially when the last time you did it was 16 years ago.  And like childbirth, people generally do it more than once, so it can’t be THAT bad, can it?

Let me start by saying – we LOVE our new house.  Everytime I walk through the door, I can’t quite believe it is actually ours.  We own a 3 bed DETATCHED house with parking.  Us.  We drink own brand coke and cider – just to give you a level if you don’t know us personally. 

We have 2, that’s 2 toilets.  Amazing.  Apart from the fact that I now have to clean 2 toilets and buy more loo roll (WHY?  How are we using more loo roll, when there are exactly the same amount of bums in the house still?), it’s fantastic to be able to have a wee downstairs, but NOT to have to trip over a chair and stub your toe on the step up into the kitchen on the long, dark trek to the downstairs loo at 4am.

It’s also bloody marvellous to have a shower, walk out of the bathroom and straight into your bedroom, where your clothes are all stored in your lovely new wardrobes and drawers – just waiting for you to put them on.  No more the walk of shame from the downstairs bathroom, covering your best bits with a towel, through the kitchen, through the dining room, up the stairs and into the bedroom, only to find you’d forgotten to pick up a bra from the airing cupboard just outside the bathroom.  The most annoying thing was discovering 5 hours later, the wet towel you’d left on the bed...

We also now have a hall.  I know it might sound daft to those of you who already have a hall to be pleased about such a simple thing, but it’s a very important simple thing.  Previously, we had an awkward porch, filled with shoes and coats and bags, followed immediately by the lounge where you had to circumnavigate the finely honed selection of exactly the right sized furniture and cat hair tumbleweeds.

The hall is ace.  The amount of doors leading off it to other rooms is a revelation.  4 if you count the downstairs loo.  That’s 4 places I can be shut away from the children.  Bliss.  If you don't understand the need to be shut away from your children, then this blog is not for you...

The bedrooms are bigger, full of character and period features and MOST IMPORTANTLY, nobody has to walk through anybody else’s bedroom to get to their own.  It’s the best thing ever.

Here’s the trade off.   

It doesn’t smell like our house.  There is still a definite whiff of dog in the air.  He was a lovely, friendly dog, but a stinky doggy dog nevertheless.  Also, it smells a bit damp occasionally, but she is a 120 year old lady so quite frankly, we can allow her a bit of leeway.

Add to that, the reluctant temporary return to the heady aroma of a cat litter tray in a bathroom with no outside windows and an electric vent fan that sounds like the unlikely offspring of a Boeing 747 and a mosquito.  Not a great mix, nasally speaking.

The windows are gorgeous, original, magnificent wooden sashes.  They are also completely knackered.  The glass is cracked, the sills are rotten, they rattle when the cat sneezes and we have banned the children from touching their bedroom ones on pain (pane!) of death.   

We want to give our beautiful stinky house what it deserves, which is the TLC and the period restoration of the features that I (ahem, we) fell in love with.  But Sarah Beeny and Laurence Llewelyn Bowen we ain’t.  Neither do we have their cash, boobs or sleeves.  If I had my way, we would replace and maintain the wooden sashes, but only if the following criteria were met:

1.   We could afford it.
2.    We could afford to get a professional in to paint them every couple of  years.
3.    We could afford to pay the heating bills of a detached house with no double glazing.
4.    We could afford it.

None of the above are relevant, so we are therefore doing the next best thing and getting double glazed uppy downy ones. (Technical FENSA approved term...) Hurrah for UPVC *sings Pulp’s Common People in head*

The house also needs a new lid.  Terrifying and expensive, but true.  A lovely man is coming to do it, but I am not sure either of us can properly relax until it is finished and the sharp sucking in of air over teeth is all over.  It’s quite a fundamental thing, a roof.  Apparently...

So that’s it.  A month in.  Still surrounded by boxes, bubble wrap and stuff that we don’t know what to do with or where to put.  A lot of it I’m not even sure if we still want, it was just “our stuff” and we were bringing it with us.   

The giant roll of barbed wire that was loaded onto the van on moving day had to be the highlight of “WTF!!!” for me.  Until I was passed a box to go up into the loft, labelled “OLD BANK CRAP” that is. 

Luckily, we’re getting a new roof, so no rain can leak in and ruin the very important contents of THAT box...

Things I should know by now, but apparently don’t...

I am 36 and a half.  I should know better.  For the most part, I’d like to think I do.  In fact, a large chunk of my life is currently spent in abject frustration that the thing I knew was going to happen (because if you bounce that big football in the house it IS very likely that it’s going to knock over the cup of coffee on the table) DOES in fact happen.

I was slightly dreading my 30^th birthday when it started to loom large.  Old, I thought.  I don’t want to not be in my twenties.  I remember distinctly thinking about my life in terms of a newspaper report and how I would now be described as a “30 something mother-of-two”.  Terrifying.

And then it happened.  I had a fabulous birthday, surrounded by my family and friends, with loads of surprises and a particularly unexpected and expensive present from my lovely husband.  The best present of all though, was actually my thirties themselves!

Never have I been happier with where I am, what I am doing and who I am.  Because that’s what happens in your thirties.  Nothing’s particularly different.  I am now a 36 and a half mother-of-two.   

I am forever grateful for my gorgeous kids.  I am also grateful that I have been there, done that, got the t-shirt (I am literally wearing the t-shirt I wore in hospital for the first one, as I type this...) and I will never again have to argue with my husband about what to name the next one.  They wipe their own bums, brush their own teeth (with a lot of nagging) and most excellently, DON’T NEED NAPS ANYMORE.

I am also the fittest and healthiest I have ever been.  I haven’t smoked for 10 years and 8 months.  I miss it every day, but don’t miss the cost, the smell and the horror of it.  I run. I RUN! I am 5 ½ stone lighter than I was 10 years ago.  OK...at some points I was 6 ½ stone lighter than I was 10 years ago, but I’m working on that.

The point is, being in my thirties has given me a certain perspective on life that just wasn’t there in my twenties.  I am fully aware of how lucky I am to have all of the things in my life that I have, and am thankful for them every day.  A decade ago...not so much.   

Maybe it’s because I didn’t have the kids then and life wasn’t as settled, but I also think it has to do with my attitude.  If you think your life stinks – it will. If you focus on the negative aspects of where you’re at, then you will never see how much positive there is around you.

Whilst there are at least 12 occasions on a daily basis where I internally say “I knew THAT was going to happen”, there are still a few lessons that I never seem to learn...

1. Intensive Conditioners.  What’s that all about?  It’s just conditioner, in a smaller bottle, for twice the price of the normal conditioner that you use.  And yet...every 6 months to a year I buy one.  I then use it once a week for a couple of weeks.  It makes NO DIFFERENCE to my hair, apart from making the roots greasy because, even though I know you don’t put conditioner on your roots, that’s what it says in the instructions. Idiot.  Stop it. 
2. Alcohol is bad. M’kay? (Hopefully someone will get the South Park reference there.)  It’s my worst remaining vice - alcohol that is, not South Park.  Whilst I certainly don’t spend every morning necking paracetamol and hankering after a fried egg sandwich, there are a significant number of days in the month where I feel less than perfect due to overindulging in the demon drink.  Is that number more than in my twenties?  Probably not.  Is it sensible to drink to the point of dancing on tables?  Probably not.  Will I ever change? Probably not. 
3. Skirts.  They don’t work on me.  Not now, not ever.  They just don’t.  Yet once every 6 months (is there a memory loss pattern going on here?) I am inexplicably drawn to a denim, button-up number.  I think to myself – this is the one!  This is the skirt that will work.  I take it hopefully to the changing rooms, wiggle into it and then...laugh.  Laugh out loud.  Skirts and me. Nope.
4. Hairwashing (see no. 1 for reference) When I was pregnant, the hormones caused a hundred different disturbing side effects – heartburn, cravings for ice, excessive wind (well...it COULD have been the pregnancy...) but the best side effect was how amazing my hair looked.  There was a significant amount more of it in places I didn’t necessarily want it, but nevertheless, the glossy, shiny locks on my head were manageable, thick and lustrous.  And I only had to wash my hair once every 3 days.  It was amazing. I was last pregnant 7 years ago and since then, there has never been a time that I can go more than 2 days without washing it.  Maximum.  It’s just the way it is now.  And yet...sometimes I wake up and think – I wonder if I can get away with it today?  I’ll just put some dry shampoo in – it’ll be fine!  No.  No it won’t.  Never again.  Don’t kid yourself.  You look like one of the heroin addicts in OITNB. Just wash it. 
5. Staying up late on a school night.  Just one more episode of Game of Thrones won’t hurt...will it? *snores quietly into breakfast coffee* 
6. Cheese.  Need I say more?

Will I ever learn?  I do hope not.

At least I can rest safe in the knowledge that I will always be right about doing homework when you get it – it’s always better to have tears and shouting on a Friday night when there is a whole weekend of wine in front of you, than on a Monday morning...

Find your level...

I haven’t blogged for an absolute age – probably since the day after I got the fantastic advice that I should write something every day to develop my writing style…hmmm.

For those of you who know me well, you will know that Jolly Spoon has been busy in other creative ways, but more about that another time.

I have various notepads dotted around my house, mainly due to my unfortunate tendency, (courtesy of my mother), towards obsession.  I see a notebook I like and I HAVE to have it.  I then can’t bring myself to write in it because it is too beautiful to sully with my scribblings.  After the requisite amount of time has passed, or I have bought a more covetable notebook which bumps it down the list, I can add a neat (to start with) reminder, note or good doodle (usually heart related) to the first, fresh page.

Notebooks are a little bit like clothes for me – obviously not because I wear them, I am not that bonkers – but because they have a similar grading system to each other.  Finding a “Perfect Top” and finding a “Perfect Notebook” cause almost identical chemical reactions in my brain.

You see a top.  You like it.  You try it on. It fits.  You look good in it and you scurry off to the till to make it officially yours! You then need to find the perfect occasion to wear your new top – you can’t just pop it on the next morning for goodness sake!

It starts life as a “Going Out” top.  After a few wears, you feel like it isn’t as special as when you first bought it.  Everyone looks at you like “She’s got that top on again…” and the pictures on Facebook begin to be indistinguishable from one party to the next.

The poor top is downgraded to “Day Wear”.  Depending on who you are, what you do and how often you work, it might become a “Work” top.  For some people, this is the level immediately below “Going Out” and for others it is only just above “Gardening and DIY”.  I know someone who has organised her levels unlike anyone else in the universe, but for fear of death or at the very least maiming, I cannot share the absolute hilarity with you I am afraid.

Some of the sub–levels worth a mention, but not to be worried about in any detail are:

“Weekend Daytime Going Out” – inclusive of, but not limited to:  Jeans (not boyfriend style), Chiffon tops (not low cut) and Dresses (not short – unless it’s sunny and then NEVER with heels)

“Cruise Wear” – always with sequins, has to have at least 4 matching items (including 3 pairs of shoes and 4 handbags)

“Exercise Wear” – I won’t grace this disgusting sub-level with detail.

“Lounge Wear” – a relatively new sub-level.  At one point, it was completely unacceptable for your friends to ever see you in your dressing gown. Now it is positively encouraged.  This new level includes: cartoon character inspired t-shirts, pj sets and the dreaded onesie.  You can tell an awful lot about someone from their lounge wear style…mostly things that you didn’t want to know.  

Some of you will be predicting that I will launch into my usual Pants vs Pyjamas debate at this point.  I WILL NOT.

Anyway, I digress.  The “Going Out” top has fallen through all of the levels and has eventually reached the bottom.  It has fallen apart, or just doesn’t go with any of your current selection of jeans and leggings.  It languishes in the back of your wardrobe or airing cupboard, occasionally popping out for you to sneer at it and shove it back into oblivion.  If it is lucky, it might end up in a charity shop – to be discovered and reloved by a new owner, but more often or not, it will end up as a rag or in the bin.

The notebook equivalent of this is the “Pit of Despair”, also known as being given to my children to scribble in.  The poor pad has been through the “Christmas List” and “Handbag Jotter” sub-levels already and wishes it hadn’t skipped past the “Lost in a Storage Box” level.  

Its last hours are spent as a canvas for an Angry Bird drawing or a Hello Kitty painting.  The final nail in the coffin comes from a felt tip pen, held in one place for too long, whilst the child is distracted by a passing cat or an episode of Phineas and Ferb.  All remaining pages have now been ruined as the ink soaks through each layer and spreads like a disease to the back cover.  No fresh, blank pages remain and the recycling bin beckons.

This blog entry was supposed to be about ‘Things that annoy me on a regular basis’, which have been collated over the last few weeks in my “Kitchen Side” notepad, which exists also for notes to my husband and things that I need from the Coop. That will now have to be my next blog entry I think. 

I will leave you with the image of the first page in a current notepad of mine, followed by the most recently written on one.  It is the perfect pictorial representation of the “levels” in action…

Hotels - like home, but more uncomfortable and expensive...

A night away! It’s with work, but still, a night away it is!  It’s nice to have a break from routine, get away from all of the things you have to do when you’re at home.  Like washing up.  My hands currently look like they belong to an 80-year-old woman who’s been working on a North Sea fishing boat all her life.

Or like reminding people to do things.  Have you tidied that up?  Have you read that yet?  Have you wiped THAT? Don't get me wrong - it is a joy and a privilege to have children, but it’s also lovely to be called ‘Molly’ for a couple of days instead of Mum.  Or MUMMY!!!! Or Muuuuuuuuummmmmm (said with at least 3 syllables...)

When I started to write this, I was lying on one of the beds in my hotel room.  “One of the beds?”, I hear you say incredulously.  Yes, that’s right.  2 beds in my room.  Both single though and it took me 20 minutes to choose the least uncomfortable of the two to sleep in.  I luckily didn't embarrass myself (as much) like I did last time I was in a hotel for work.  I checked in, went to my room, but the lights wouldn't work.  Maybe they've had a power cut I thought to myself.  No, the telly is working.  How very strange.  I should definitely let them know about that on Reception.  I didn't know you had to put your room key in a special bit by the door to make sure you didn't leave the lights on when you left your room did I.  Really wished I had phoned Reception to tell them instead of announcing my idiocy to the queue of people waiting to check in...

Still.  I am away from the kids, away from the school run, away from the pancakes.  Arse.  I’m away from the pancakes...  Still.  I can have a few drinks and dinner.  Hmmm...could do that at home though.  Still.  I can get up later than normal.  Except I can’t, because I have to go into the office with someone else as I don’t have my car. Still.  A change is as good as a rest (see previous posts for further wisdom on that score.)

And there is the fact that I can watch tv in bed – a rare treat! (I must have a look at my expectation/excitement levels and think about readjusting them...)  But wait, there’s nothing on that I actually want to watch and NO SLEEP TIMER!  No sleep timer?!?!  Is this the 1980’s for goodness sake!

So, inevitably, I end up having an awful night’s sleep in an uncomfortable bed, waking up at 3am to the telly blaring out an infomercial for unwanted hair remover.  I am dribbling slightly, but at least there is nobody here to see it – not that my husband would be anything other than comatose if he were here...

I also have a recurring nightmare that I have accidentally (tipsily) set my phone alarm to go off on the wrong day and/or time.  This resulted in me waking up every hour or so in a complete panic, scrabbling for my phone to see how long I had overslept by.

When the dulcet tones of Sloth from The Goonies finally roused me at 7.45am (small, but not insignificant lie-in, completely wiped out by the panicked flapping episodes 4-5 times in the night), I felt like I had been  beaten up by each individual mattress spring.  (Once you go memory foam, you never go back...)

Still.  I did only have to get myself ready for the day, and I was a very good girl and got washed and dressed with the minimum amount of fuss.  I think I should get a sticker on my chart.

Was it worth the school morning trade off for such a bad night’s sleep? Too bloody right.

(But I wouldn’t want to do it every week.)