Is it the new Doctor Who?
Nope, it's Maia.
Thursday, 30 July 2009
Wednesday, 29 July 2009
14
Ever get the feeling that people are staring at you?
Well, we're here. A long 19 hours from door to door, but we've made it, and mostly unscathed. Those of you who read my blog often will have noticed the red flag waving wildly at my use of the term mostly unscathed. You'll be be nodding sagely, 'There's a story coming....'
So there we were about thirty minutes after take off on our Frankfurt to Boston flight. It was the biggest plane I've ever be on, and totally packed. Jamie and Steven were in the double seats in front of us, Maia and I together one row back. She was lying down with her head on my lap, looking up at me. I was stroking her forehead, she was reaching up and stroking my cheek, and I had a momentary thought 'This is one of those perfect motherhood moments. She's so sweet. I love her so much'. Her mouth opened... 'Is she going to say I love you too, mum?' I wondered.... No, she's going to projectile vomit, vertically, back on to her own head. I did what any mother would, I tried to catch it in my hands. In my panic to sit her up so she wouldn't choke, I hauled her into my lap, inviting her to throw up all over my torso. She heaved several more times and then stopped.
We looked at each other. We surveyed the damage. I tapped dad on the shoulder to interrupt him from his movie. He turned around. He eyes widened as he saw me covered in sick from shoulders to waist. Like a Wet T-shirt Contest that had gone badly, badly wrong. He looked at his daughter with every square inch of her body drenched, her hair saturated. He looked across the aisle at the woman who had turned her travel blanket into a burqa, shooting daggers in our direction. At the tourists behind us jabbering excitedly in Japanese, proffering tissues. The steward and stewardesses running full pelt down the aisle brandishing towels. We did the walk of shame to the bathroom with 200 pairs of eyes surveying our drenched and smelly fate.
We spent the next twenty minutes in the lilliputian toilets, using small moist towellettes to mop up our bodies and the tiny sink to wash our hair repeatedly. Of course I hadn't packed any spare clothes for me (I'm generally of the opinion that as I'm toilet trained I don't need to) so my only option was to wear Steven's zip up hoody. With no shirt. Just so you know, he is 6'1" and I am 5'4". The dread of not wearing a bra slightly outweighed wearing a sick-soaked one.
I don't know about anyone else, but when I travel I like to make a tiny bit of effort not to look my worst. Especially if I'm meeting relatives at the airport. Maybe I put a new t-shirt on, or jeans that I have to zip / unzip to get on, or I comb my hair. I might put on a little bit of makeup. So it was with some distress that I rocked my new look last night: a 'little bit of makeup', an XL hoody down to my knees, well fitted jeans, and wet hair. Nice décolletage though.
So there we were about thirty minutes after take off on our Frankfurt to Boston flight. It was the biggest plane I've ever be on, and totally packed. Jamie and Steven were in the double seats in front of us, Maia and I together one row back. She was lying down with her head on my lap, looking up at me. I was stroking her forehead, she was reaching up and stroking my cheek, and I had a momentary thought 'This is one of those perfect motherhood moments. She's so sweet. I love her so much'. Her mouth opened... 'Is she going to say I love you too, mum?' I wondered.... No, she's going to projectile vomit, vertically, back on to her own head. I did what any mother would, I tried to catch it in my hands. In my panic to sit her up so she wouldn't choke, I hauled her into my lap, inviting her to throw up all over my torso. She heaved several more times and then stopped.
We looked at each other. We surveyed the damage. I tapped dad on the shoulder to interrupt him from his movie. He turned around. He eyes widened as he saw me covered in sick from shoulders to waist. Like a Wet T-shirt Contest that had gone badly, badly wrong. He looked at his daughter with every square inch of her body drenched, her hair saturated. He looked across the aisle at the woman who had turned her travel blanket into a burqa, shooting daggers in our direction. At the tourists behind us jabbering excitedly in Japanese, proffering tissues. The steward and stewardesses running full pelt down the aisle brandishing towels. We did the walk of shame to the bathroom with 200 pairs of eyes surveying our drenched and smelly fate.
We spent the next twenty minutes in the lilliputian toilets, using small moist towellettes to mop up our bodies and the tiny sink to wash our hair repeatedly. Of course I hadn't packed any spare clothes for me (I'm generally of the opinion that as I'm toilet trained I don't need to) so my only option was to wear Steven's zip up hoody. With no shirt. Just so you know, he is 6'1" and I am 5'4". The dread of not wearing a bra slightly outweighed wearing a sick-soaked one.
I don't know about anyone else, but when I travel I like to make a tiny bit of effort not to look my worst. Especially if I'm meeting relatives at the airport. Maybe I put a new t-shirt on, or jeans that I have to zip / unzip to get on, or I comb my hair. I might put on a little bit of makeup. So it was with some distress that I rocked my new look last night: a 'little bit of makeup', an XL hoody down to my knees, well fitted jeans, and wet hair. Nice décolletage though.
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
Monday, 27 July 2009
11
Sharing clothes 15 years earlier than expected
Procrastination takes me down some pretty interesting paths. Last night when I was packing up our stuff, I suddenly thought, "I wonder if I have the body of a two year old?' And it turns out, I do. Here's some proof.
A shirred dress on Maia:
And on me as a top:
And as a skirt (please ignore the sassy pose, I don't know what came over me):
A pillowcase dress on Maia:
A pillowcase dress on me:
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that I should wear Maia's clothes. Only that I can.
A shirred dress on Maia:
And on me as a top:
And as a skirt (please ignore the sassy pose, I don't know what came over me):
A pillowcase dress on Maia:
A pillowcase dress on me:
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that I should wear Maia's clothes. Only that I can.
Sunday, 26 July 2009
9
Other than The Whys, Jamie has another current obsession: being 'the winner'. By the winner, he means getting / doing things first. For example, this is how I start my mornings:
Scene: Doling out breakfast, handing two plates of toast to two toddlers at precisely the same time.
Jamie: (panicked) I want to be a winner with the toast!
Maia: I winner too!
Jamie: (paroxysms of anxiety) 'No, I'm the winner of the toast!'
Maia: No, I winner!
Jamie: (crying) I want to be the winner of the toast!
Maia: (crying) I winner too!
Me: (lamenting the absurdity of her life) For God's Sake! You're both winners of the toast!
And so it goes... Winner of the Shoes. Winner of the Juice. Winner of the Toothpaste. This competitive spirit has pervaded the minutiae of our lives.
So the other day, we took the bus across town to meet up with our new friend Lucy and her two kids Robert and Emily. We were all on foot because it's a lottery whether you get an evil bus driver who won't let you on with a buggy. As a bonus, it couldn't have been raining any harder. I'm sure you won't be shocked to hear that I find walking beside the road with two toddlers stressful, but as I'm not a driver we have a considerable experience of it. I devote most of my energy to attempting to hold Maia's hand / hood / back of her coat, keeping my body between her and the road, or just carrying her screaming and kicking under my arm if she doesn't listen. I more or less trust Jamie, because he is old enough to appreciate the danger of roads, and isn't a risk-taker like his sister. Or so I thought. As we approached the pedestrian crossing with the delectable button to press, he broke off at a full sprint to try to be the Winner of the Crossing. Finding Robert an obstacle to being the Winner, he executed a move normally seen in American Football and looped around him, slightly into the road. This is how my mind's eye remembers it:
Robert wasn't actually on a trike, but that's the only picture I had of him. And maybe the road didn't have a cement mixer, a Ferrari, a double decker bus, a steamroller, a fire engine, a motorcycle and a combine harvester all on it in a haphazard fashion, but it was still pretty dangerous and made my stomach clench in fear. I'm not really sure why I'm telling you this because I feel like a terrible mother for letting this happen on my watch. Like the Winner of the Guilt perhaps.
I want to be a winner! Or die trying.
Other than The Whys, Jamie has another current obsession: being 'the winner'. By the winner, he means getting / doing things first. For example, this is how I start my mornings:
Scene: Doling out breakfast, handing two plates of toast to two toddlers at precisely the same time.
Jamie: (panicked) I want to be a winner with the toast!
Maia: I winner too!
Jamie: (paroxysms of anxiety) 'No, I'm the winner of the toast!'
Maia: No, I winner!
Jamie: (crying) I want to be the winner of the toast!
Maia: (crying) I winner too!
Me: (lamenting the absurdity of her life) For God's Sake! You're both winners of the toast!
And so it goes... Winner of the Shoes. Winner of the Juice. Winner of the Toothpaste. This competitive spirit has pervaded the minutiae of our lives.
So the other day, we took the bus across town to meet up with our new friend Lucy and her two kids Robert and Emily. We were all on foot because it's a lottery whether you get an evil bus driver who won't let you on with a buggy. As a bonus, it couldn't have been raining any harder. I'm sure you won't be shocked to hear that I find walking beside the road with two toddlers stressful, but as I'm not a driver we have a considerable experience of it. I devote most of my energy to attempting to hold Maia's hand / hood / back of her coat, keeping my body between her and the road, or just carrying her screaming and kicking under my arm if she doesn't listen. I more or less trust Jamie, because he is old enough to appreciate the danger of roads, and isn't a risk-taker like his sister. Or so I thought. As we approached the pedestrian crossing with the delectable button to press, he broke off at a full sprint to try to be the Winner of the Crossing. Finding Robert an obstacle to being the Winner, he executed a move normally seen in American Football and looped around him, slightly into the road. This is how my mind's eye remembers it:
Robert wasn't actually on a trike, but that's the only picture I had of him. And maybe the road didn't have a cement mixer, a Ferrari, a double decker bus, a steamroller, a fire engine, a motorcycle and a combine harvester all on it in a haphazard fashion, but it was still pretty dangerous and made my stomach clench in fear. I'm not really sure why I'm telling you this because I feel like a terrible mother for letting this happen on my watch. Like the Winner of the Guilt perhaps.
Saturday, 25 July 2009
2
I was so happy this morning to receive a stunning customer appreciation picture courtesy of one of my new Scottish customers. Her little one is wearing a Ginger Blossom peasant top with tile sleeves and her older daughter a blue apple babycord tunic. Or as she refers to it, 'her beautiful new happle dress'. Bless her :)
The 'happle dress'
I was so happy this morning to receive a stunning customer appreciation picture courtesy of one of my new Scottish customers. Her little one is wearing a Ginger Blossom peasant top with tile sleeves and her older daughter a blue apple babycord tunic. Or as she refers to it, 'her beautiful new happle dress'. Bless her :)
Friday, 24 July 2009
11
Shock and Awe
Despite not being as well-publicised as this Shock and Awe:
My own Shock and Awe is no less dramatic:
That's a reenactment of me looking at the computer yesterday as my sale generated 500 hits to my blog and more orders than the two day fair I did last weekend. To be honest, we're all shocked here:
I'm so very grateful to everyone who re-tweeted, linked and blogged about my sale and, of course, all the people who've ordered. The strength of people's kindness and the power of social networking is awesome. I'm truly humbled.
My own Shock and Awe is no less dramatic:
That's a reenactment of me looking at the computer yesterday as my sale generated 500 hits to my blog and more orders than the two day fair I did last weekend. To be honest, we're all shocked here:
I'm so very grateful to everyone who re-tweeted, linked and blogged about my sale and, of course, all the people who've ordered. The strength of people's kindness and the power of social networking is awesome. I'm truly humbled.
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