Guess Who Just Got Back Today? Those Wild-Eyed Boys who'd been Away!

Yep my crazy catz are back! They still have not much to say but boy I missed them!  The twins are back in town! The twins are back; the twins are back. They have returned looking like cowboys, sandy hair bleached from our mini heatwave and enough dirt covering their scrawny bodies to almost create a camouflage for strange markings now adorning their arms....mmmmm.
"What are those?" I inquire eyebrows raised.  They look around behind them searching for the mysterious "those". "Those red love hearts?" I repeat.  "Those pen tattoos on your arms?"
"Oh those," says one.
"Not much," says the other.
Now I'm curious and they know it.  "Look it's nothing," winces one.
 "Yeah," reinforces the other, "nothing,ok."
"Mobile numbers in red pen scrawled on your arms surrounded by love hearts. Of course, it's nothing," I grin and start to tentatively zip open their camp bags allowing space between myself and the bags in case of cockroaches and slugs.  Retching almost from the earthy putrid smell, I ask again: "Girls joined you this year did they?" I begin to load their items into the washing machine, tipping them all in as there was clearly no point in picking out anything clean.  Silence descends.  I turn to continue teasing. An empty room.
"Don't suppose you'll be needing these then?" I shout into the silence.
"What?" squeaks one from upstairs.
"Your're mobile phones.. if it's nothing!"
It's unbelievable the noise two pairs of feet make descending down the stairs in anxious haste. It's also amazing how fast I can still run carrying a phone in each hand!

Hobbit to Elf

"Middle Earth"has no place in my world.  The transformation from hobbit to elf is almost complete!  Yesterday, I joined the Fellowship of TOWIE as a  most fabulous squirrel from the Wirral scraped the Black Wraiths which were attempting to suck the very life force from my feet.  My tootsies had become "precious" and I had only one fear ....would my"Primarni"  heels  prevent me from slipping into the fire of  the hard skin of Mordor or would dwarves armed with "pedieggs" and scapels be able to ward off the evil of Sauron and allow me to skip unscathed  into "Rivendell "or in my case Loikeside, Furruck.
Oh yes. I had bought into the "Only Way...." Suddenly the mountain of moldy festering cheese, sliced by the knife of the friendly scouser chiropodist had become my salvation.  I had pretty feet!  I had girly feet! I had TOWIE feet. My plates could serve the good, the bad and the wealthy of Essex .  I was dizzy with the thought.  I was also dizzy with the flipping pain!  I had lost at least two shoe sizes from the scraping and could barely stand!  Hobbling down the main drag would be attractive if I was a  Geisha: beautiful but sto,c but I'm an Essex girl and we do tantrums, screaming and howling!  Wraiths and Harry Potter dementors bring it on- you ain't seen nuffick yet till you see a precious Essex girl in pain!  Believe me your ring is safe!

Double Tourette Trouble

The house is noticeably quiet today, disturbingly actually.  The twins have gone off to "Camp".  I assume it's scouts’ camp but after their school report about the infamous "man-hunting", I am now quite concerned that perhaps they have joined some insurgency vigilante group to hone their skills in bloodshed.  Still, they disappeared down the hill and as I watched their identical frames recede into the distance, I heard the affectionate name they call one another echo in the wind -"Cock!" and then I knew they would be just fine.

Yep.  My adorable ‘identikits’like to  swear like sailors much to my dismay.  First thing in the morning to last thing at night.  Their chosen profanities seem to revolve around their genitalia.  Banging on their door in the morning to get them up for school provokes a response of, "Knob!” Sometimes with an added dairy product of “-cheese!"; handing them tea in the evening gains me a: "What's this bollocks?" and their favourite curse to any suggestion of school work or household chore is: "Balls!"

The need to constantly refer to their privates confuses me. Are they just mentally checking that their penis and testicles are still attached or believe constant reference to them constantly will prevent them dropping off?  Anyway, for a week I will be two "members" of the family down.

Caught Short

No stranger to chaos and dirt, indeed the initial moment spent with my firstborn, hugging him tightly to me with tender care was rewarded with being drowned with meconium squelching from his backside in a never-ending gloop.  Holding him above my head and away from me, only seemed to encourage gravity to squeeze out yet more of the offensive excretion, and child, mother and sheets became one with this thick, black slime.  At that moment, it seemed inappropriate to offer him the breast and to be quite honest, my bosom had been lost in the sludge.  Mother and son had gone through a type of initiation ceremony rather than a bonding.  After said gift, he then departed, torn from my muddy chest and whisked to Special Care in shock.  Shock?  What, shock at having spectacularly soiled his mother?  Shock at having met his mother?  Or shock at having had the largest first "crap" ever?  Only he can answer that.  That will probably remain a mystery since these days I'm lucky to receive a cursory nod in passing and any attempt to engage conversation results in a growl of: "You are just SO wrong in SO many ways!"

Well, last week another noxious smell came upon us, and, lo, the smell rested over us.  From first sniff I presumed that the kit bags needed fumigating or perhaps the kit needed washing such was the musty, pungent odour.  On inspection, the kit bags were empty.  No surprises there.  Clearly, it would appear that my boys have adopted the view that after a while, like hair, kit self-cleans.  So I couldn't blame the clothing.  Mice? Small rodents and toads love this house.  Nope.  So when my man could eventually drag his sorry arse away from watching sport and come over, he was greeted with:    “What do you think that smell is? Can you go and sniff around upstairs please?"  Strangel,y he was reluctant.

"Hormones!" he announced with authority. "Boy hormones!"

"Hormones? Do boy hormones smell like hamsters?" I queried curling my lip in disgust.  This was a new development.  Another stage in raising boys that hadn't been written in any book that I had heard about (I hadn't read any as they all seemed just so well-intentioned and boring). "For how long do boy hormones smell like hamsters?" I asked.  The thought of living in a vermin smelling hormone induced fog for years was quite depressing me.

"Oh, for the love of God woman, do I have to spell it out? Masturbation!" he declared.  No thanks darling, not before at least a glass of wine I thought.

"Masturbation? Ewwwwww. Nooooo."

"Yep, 24/7 I'd say by the stench," he grinned.  I paled at the thought that I had produced sons who were playing with themselves so much that the house was now rancid with the smell.  "Oh, please go and sniff in their rooms and tell me that the twins have adopted a mouse and it's not just the reek from sticky sheets after nights lusting about Cheryl Cole."  He refused.

The following day the source of the odour was identified.  My cooking.  My youngest son had thrown his lasagna, aka ‘Jamie's School Dinners’, into his bedroom bin and it was now a festering goo.  For good measure, he had needed to pee in the night and so, rather than be bothered to walk fifty paces to the loo, he had released a stream of golden liquid all over Jamie's quick cook lasagna recipe.  Yet another son who has no qualms relieving himself

The Day of Reckoning is Nigh!

Joy of joys!  End of term is upon me!  Horror of horrors my sons' reports!  Reports!  Why  do they still fill me with that deep-rooted sense of dread? They are not even my flipping reports!  Yet,  I sit on the bottom step of the stairs chipping at my nail varnish and praying to any god to make it all just peachy.  The last day of term has loomed and I huddle hands clasped around my knees rocking whilst waiting for my brood to come home with their ....reports!

 In my youth, (god, why is that so long ago? Why? Why? Why?),  I remember desperately wanting to be "too cool for school" and dreamt of being brave enough to open mine in front of my friends.  With  a curl of the lip and a roll of the shoulders head thrust forward and back in contempt, in my fantasy, I would sneer: "teachers and parents bring it on.  Like I care what you think!"  However, reality was the ice cold envelope that sat on my desk mocking me: "Go on then if you think you're hard enough!".  I wasn't.

Ok.  Here goes.  Yep as expected. 15 year old has romped in with an academic feast - phew- boys apparently inherit their mother's intelligence.  Well I read that once so I'm a believer!  Yet, no surprises about the general comments of "arrogance" and "lack of respect".  Come and live with me for a week!  Hello, why can't they just write: he's bloody bright but thinks he is absolutely never ever wrong and is a complete menace who likes to patronise adults and eat little children!  That would be honest.  Why am I subjected to: "could develop more empathy"?

 Right twins next.  Gulp.  Ok.  Yep.  Not so good.  Why did one of them think it was appropriate to start talking like Daffy Duck in religious studies?  Maybe I could argue that he was speaking in tongues?  The other has, apparently, developed a habit of playing manhunt in the corridors at lunchtime according to his form tutor.  Should I be concerned?  Has he just discovered his sexual leaning or is he indeed a psychopath?

Excuse me is my bedroom Piccadilly Circus?

What is it about a boy's inability to take a hint?   Bedroom door closed.  So big clue sunshine - go away!  Oh no, this non verbal communication aid is far too complex for my sons' brains so the constant stream of visits becomes more than just an irritant but a damn right nuisance.  Now of course, if they were coming to sit and discuss: their day, their hopes or fears, their undying love for their mother, then clearly my rant would be unjust and my restriction to my inner sanctum unfair.  But no, not for my brood the outpouring of  feelings or godforbid slight emotional engagement.  Nope, my boys are either running for their life from an older sibling so the small space under my bed provides a good hiding place and excellent safe zone from where to kick offending attacker, or they are just plain fed-up that I have had the audacity to unchain myself from the kitchen and escape to sleep.  So, as they barge in to find me, their mother, in her OWN bedroom, I am non too pleased to see them.  However, instead of humbly exiting in Uriah Heap style, they stand and usually greeted me with: "Oh my god, you're naked mum. So gross!" (Thank you son, I'm glad I live up to your expectation of my hideousness).  My much loved choice reply is "Is this Piccadilly Circus? I don't think so numpty. Now, sod off if you value your life and my sanity!"
And so it began today. Six this morning to be precise.  Yes, six when most normal human beings are snoring, making love or slubbering peacefully. Not I.  No, I am brutally torn from my slumber with my door bounding off my bedside table, immediately evaporating my dream of ponies (horse issue needs to be analysed at later date), as my youngest demands to know if I have his "Mooshi Monster" sticker book and to inform me he has done such a big "poo" that the loo was leaking water.  Great.  Just great.  Plunger in hand, I purge the said "turd beast" from lavoratory and retire back to my room - MY ROOM.  Now seven and being awake, I decide to text my partner - lucky him, he lives 85 miles away.  Since he is still working and to cheer him up, I begin to take a semi-risque photo of myself partially clad.
"What are you doing, mum? That is so wrong!"exclaims one twin who is now standing in my room, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. 
Looming behind him is the 15 year old: "Seriously disgusting!  Mum have you been reading 50 Shades?" .

Shout Out at the O.K Corral

Just sometimes, once in a blue moon, when they notice my eager face imploring them to communicate, we sit together and talk at the kitchen table.  Well, I talk and the three eldest boys, whilst shovelling food relentlessly into their mouths in a raw bid to escape, "ping" (complete anomaly to me).  Apparently the London riots were a national "ping" according to my eldest.

 Anyway, tonight "pinging" was banned.  So, as an "in the moment" and "up with the yoof " kinda mum, I announce that we should discuss social networking.  I was egging to have my lecture on the dangers of cyber-bullying, stalking and trolling.  Silence was broken by my youngest saying: "Is that the troll from under the bridge with the goats?"

This question was swiftly followed by one of my twins grunting: "Oh… My… God… see, why do you have to be so odd?"  Whether that was directed at his younger sibling or me, I'm still non the wiser but I decided a different approach was needed.

 "Right, Caitlin Moran. She is one of my all-time favourites on Twitter - hysterically funny and sharp. Would you like to know about her?"

Silence. "No", says the eldest.  At 15 he is unimpressionable and righteous.

 "Oh, come on, humour me, " I plead.

 "Why?" says the other twin. Now this utterance is a mountain as for at least two years he has been under an oath of silence.  So, eager to engage him, I pull my heroine up on google.

 "See, working mum who is published and hysterically funny.  I was thinking of growing out my hair dye as I'm sure I could become a Caitlin lookie-likey if all else fails."

 " Holy crap, no!  Why would you do that?" not a question but a statement fired from my 15 year old's lips as he peered at Caitlin's website.

The next ten minutes became a torrent of sanctimonious outbursts from said "I am fifteen going on sixty" son.  Now, not to offend Ms Moran too much, apparently we are twins - which again according to him, is not a good thing!  Needless to say, he believes that journalism has hit an all-time low if a cross between a character from a Tim Burton film and his mother cannot even pronounce her name correctly; believes women find Aslan sexy (he's a friggin lion!) and talks about being a marijuana addict. "How does she come close to being funny?"

With a sneer and a shrug, he heaved his 6ft rugby bulk from the table and shook his head "Nice one, Mum.  Another woman just like you who wants to be a freak on purpose!".

 Well, you try to talk and educate your children and it comes right back to bite you.  I give up!  Some shoot-outs you just can't win

Schools Out For Summer - tomorrow!

Friday morning could not come sooner as my boys would no longer be dragging their reluctant carcasses out of their musty pits towards school.  Even my cheery greetings of: "Onward boys to your future; education frees the soul and Carpe Diem" have not seemed to have helped?!  In fact, my proclamations have only actually achieved rolling of the eyes, snarls and muffled grunts of barely disguised obscenities.  How ungrateful!  The last slam of the door, clearly only firmly closed to ensure his dear mother's safety, has generally been from my eldest.  Although I finished work for the summer last Friday, I still make time to call, from under the comfort of my duvet, "Bye Darling, have a wonderful day of learning".  My thoughtful concern for my son's happiness and welfare has received a daily retort of: "Dosser!"  At least, I think it's dosser.  Unfortunately, he has always had trouble enunciating the difference between a "d" and a "t".