One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish, old fish, new fish, dead fish. Crap.
Oh, Marlin, why must you complicate things so? I’m so not ready to explain the intricacies of life and death to my two-year-old. One of all parenting literature’s major failings is a simple ‘line’ I can feed an inquisitive toddler with regards to what happens to beloved pets when they decide to make an early exit. This is the second time now I’ll have had to deal with a dead fish, and last time we handled it, well, rather badly.
We’re fortunate enough to have a lovely pond in our garden; a thriving ecosystem, and a veritable hub of hippity-hoppity thingummies. Absolutely brimming with tadpoles, newts, frogs, fish and other mystery beasts Dave claims to have seen (from the descriptions we appear to have some sort of miniature ‘nessie’). It’s been a hugely fun and dare I say educational thing for Heidi to enjoy on a daily basis, and absolutely key to my love for it, is that through the miracles of biology, it’s self-sustaining. I have to do absolutely nothing to keep it going, and if some tiny creature pops it’s clogs, the pond takes care of it.
“Mummy, why is that fishy not swimming?”
“What fishy, darling?”
“That one, he’s not moving anymore.”
I eye the sorry titian blob floating, unresponsive, among a clump of pondweed. What do I say?
“Oh, he’s just having a rest sweetheart, he’s been swimming so much he just needs to have a wee sleep.”
She accepts this, and I am satisfied my quick and dirty lie has quelled any further difficult questions. Rod for own back. Over the course of the following week, sticking to my own mantra of “the pond will take care of it”, though not speedy enough for my liking, we greet the sleepy fish on our visits to the pond, I, swift to find something far more exciting to distract Heidi’s attention, as our floating friend grows ever more translucent due to the ravenous tadpoles feeding on his belly scales. Nature is grim. I ask Dave to fish it out, but life gets in the way and it fails to happen promptly. It takes a visitor to the house to point out the dead fish, within earshot of H who, with a face like thunder, walks in to tell me that her fish is “not alive anymore”. Great. I try to explain that it just got a bit sick and so it had died. This of course opened huge can of worms for all ensuing ails, fishy, or not.
Fast forward a few months, and Heidi has been the proud recipient of a 17 litre mermaid fish tank from her Gran, so we can get her first pet. Dave rolls his eyes, and states from the outset, “she can have a fish, but I’m not responsible for it’s life.” The accountability is on me, but I don’t really mind, getting a pet is exciting! I imagined letting H pick out her very own fish, and foresaw it entertaining her for a short period of time, always good in my books.
The acquisition of the pet fish was a rather different reality. When I was a girl you could win one at a fair; fish activists have long since put a stop to such cruelty. Fish have rights, and I’m all for it. Though, I’ll be the first to admit that as a heavily pregnant mother, my attitude towards such things have softened from my dreadlock-sporting, sandal-wearing vegan days. I’m still a strict veggie, but I no longer harbour the desire, or angsty-vegan tendency to tell the staff at pets-at-home that they’re running an operation in animal brutality. I’m not advocating a return to the disposable nature of fairground prize, but I didn’t envisage that I’d need an enhanced disclosure to buy some fish. After a grand inquisition from a rather accusatory member of staff, a form and a signature(!), we were finally allowed some fish. Two fantails, and we didn’t even get to pick them. Still, we had our pets and we could get out of there and enjoy them. We went through all the rigmarole of floating the bags, introducing the tank water, and eventually fishing them out into our water, careful not to mix any of theirs with ours. Everything by the book? Tick.
One week on, as I made a cup of tea last night, I glanced across the dining room to do my usual visual register; orange blob? Check. Spotty orange blob? Ummm. Dory is present, but I see no sign of Marlin. This merits closer inspection, I get down on my hands and knees (not an easy task!) and my suspicions are confirmed. Marlin appears to be stuck on the mermaid’s hand, but his fins aren’t moving and his eyes look like two tiny, unglazed raisins. I give the statue a poke, dislodging him, and accidentally sending him into the current of the pump, which pulls the poor creature, undignified, around and around the tank. He’s no longer brilliant orange, he’s pasty, beige, looking more like a limp nude pop-sock caught in a spin cycle. Even sadder, I think this may very well be his crowning moment, given we barely had him 7 days. I look around for a net, unable to find one, I fetch the ironing jug and fish the sorry lump out of the tank, and hitch him a ride on the porcelain express. I hope he doesn’t block the drains….
So, this morning, I will partake in the ultimate in mild parenting deception, and do the old fishity switcheroo. I’m in search of one mottled fantail to complete duo, before Heidi notices anything amiss.
Must say I’m dreading facing the people at pets-at-home, fearing I may be black-listed as a fish killer and sent on my way, while they hastily make up posters with my likeness and distribute them to all aquarium retailers in the Lothians. Maybe a wee stop by the joke shop for some dark glasses and a fake moustache first…
As you may have guessed from the title of this post I got a rather pleasant surprise this evening; the lovely Linda from over at ‘You’ve Got Your Hands Full’ has given me an award! I can now proudly display my Zombie Chicken! (Chuffed to bits!)
The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the zombie chicken – excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all.”
So now to pass it on to those worthy of such an esteemed literary prize! My zombie chickens would have to go to:
You’ve got your hands full (I do hope I’m allowed to award this back from whence it came!)
To all of the above, I thoroughly enjoy your blogs, and would like to thank you for taking the time to write them. I hope you’re as happy as I am to receive this little award, basically it means I think you’re a jolly good read! Please feel free to ignore it, you’re not in anyway obliged to accept it.
As I understand it, the rules (there are always some) are that you link back to moi, save the image, and display it magnificently in your sidebar for all to admire!
12 weeks ago I became an Auntie for the very first time, to a beautiful little girl, Olivia Grace. I’d long been looking forward to her arrival, being absolutely overjoyed when my sister-in-law announced she was expecting last December, but I never could have anticipated how special it would be to finally have her here. As the oldest of three girls, and the first to have children, I had yet to experience what it was like assume the role of doting aunt, where as my two sisters and Dave’s sister have had 2 and a half years of it with my own daughter. Seeing how much they truly love Heidi, and how happy they make her, I just couldn’t wait to say hello to my niece. I felt compelled to get the knitting needles out, the way I have with my own babies, and took great pleasure in making beautiful things for her! Auntie Siobhan; makes me so proud to be called that. I have to say, it’s just absolutely wonderful beyond words. (and, it has been a brilliant excuse to get camera-happy as you can see!)
Who would have thought it possible to instantly love a baby so much that isn’t your own? The first time we went to see her at the hospital, I was just overcome with how much I felt for her. Doubly special was seeing how much my own little one loves her new cousin. I’m so excited about being a part of her life, and of course, having another little girl to spoil! I hope that I can be there to share in all of her milestones, and be there for her whenever she needs a hug or eventually, a shoulder to cry on.
I’m very fortunate to have a large, close-knit family, and the bond I have with my Aunts and Uncles is particularly strong; becoming an Auntie myself has pushed me to reflect on my own relationships with them. Even now as a grown woman, with children of my own, I still care deeply about them, and and so grateful for everything they’ve given me over the course of my life so far. It’s a special kind of love that I hope one day Olivia will have for me, David and her cousins, and that she’ll enjoy spending time with us as much as we will with her.
Particularly lovely has been the opportunity to really bond with my sister-in-law. I’ve always gotten on famously with Karen, though there’s something unspeakable that connects two women as mothers. It’s been brilliant to share our pregnancy woes, and to be asked advice and to feel like I can actually be of use! I’m amazed at how quickly and effortlessly she has slipped into motherhood, and all of it’s trials so far (12 weeks with a colicky baby!) and seeing how proud she’s made her own parents. It’s lovely watching her with Olivia, and knowing how much she adores Heidi, I’m so happy that she’s now a mummy herself, and can lavish all that love and attention on her gorgeous little girl.
She’s just absolutely cute as a button, and we all love her to pieces. There.
I think that’s all the gooey-hormonal pregnant lady chat anyone needs to hear today!
Dear expensive piece of crap;
Apologies for the less than jolly salutation, but I think you and I both know we’re way past the pleasantries now. You’ve wronged me one too many times, and I feel that I must warn you, the bulk of this letter shall be rather… critical.
I’ll start though, by thanking you first of all for your efforts up until this point; indulging my love of food and desire to cook all manner of delicious treats, you did as you were asked, got yourself to the required temperature, took my prepared ingredients, and lovingly held them in your little chamber, warming them until they bubbled or turned golden brown, before announcing your triumph with a satisfying ping. You made me love my kitchen even more than I thought possible, and as a result I spent more time there than anywhere else in my house. Those days were good, I never had any reason to doubt you as you did everything I asked. We became complacent, and just ‘expected’ you to continue this diligent service for many years to come; after all, you’re only 4 months old, and who knows what culinary treats lie in store for you?
Well, you blew it. Quite literally too, and in spectacular fashion.
The first time, a Friday night, after a long day I’d cooked an asparagus risotto for tea, and had a notion for some chips. Thinking it nothing out of the ordinary, I scattered my homefries in the pan, preheating you as always, popped in the tray, and settled down to leaf through the paper while you did your thing. It was in your hands now, all I had to do was wait.
I squeal and stare in disbelief. Did that actually just happen? It did, and thank goodness I was out of the line of fire when it did, but a few minutes before I’d been standing in front of the stove, heavily pregnant, and trying not to over-stir my rice. My poor heart though, took quite some time to recover. Thank goodness Heidi wasn’t playing in here….
The cleanup operation was quite the task; ensuring miniscule shards of glass were absent from the kitchen was not straightforward, and for weeks after we still found the odd piece, in the sole of a shoe or an unsuspecting big toe. I was assured by the manufacturers that it must have been a flaw in the glass, I accepted this and after a fortnight without the facility to cook more than a plate of soup, I was just glad once again to have an intact appliance, though I found myself slightly wary of you, not fully expecting you to cook my meals to perfection as you did once before.
I was wrong to doubt you. For two whole weeks you lovingly enveloped my pies and pastries in your belly of warmth, wafting delicious smells through the house once more. Dinner was once again always on the table, and as my faith in you grew, so did a plethora of treats and other wee indulgences, that I didn’t really have to cook. It was a happy time.
Until last night, when once again you declared your unhappiness by combusting, just as I settled down to have a read on the breakfast bar.
This time I was less forgiving, the surprise quickly turned to anger, and the river of curse word that subsequently flooded from my mouth even had the toaster blushing. How dare you! How bloody dare you!
I trusted you. I didn’t have to after that stunt you pulled last time, but I let bygones be bygones, and carried on as if nothing had gone before. Water under the bridge. That’s how you thank me? By covering my kitchen in razor sharp glass? By giving me a much unneeded fright at 8 months pregnant? By absolutely destroying the pumpkin I was honey-roasting for a pot of soup? It was just squash for christ’s sake, did it really merit that? If you object to my cooking so much, all you had to do was burn it or stop working, not bloody detonate!
Well up yours, Matsui, I’ve had a belly full. Or rather ironically, not. This ends here, I’ve called the man, and I’m having you unceremoniously ripped out on monday. I cannot live with such an unpredictable character. If you’re not going to play by the rules, you can get the hell out of my house. I’m going to get a lovely new oven, that does exactly as it’s told, when I tell it too. We’re going to have such an awesome time together, making banana bread and pot pies, and you’re going to sit in a scrap yard, sulking to yourself. It could have been beautiful, but you spoiled it all. I don’t need appliances with terrorist leanings in my house.
Filed under: 1
Staring at my now tea-speckled computer screen, agog, I can barely believe my eyes.
six hundred and nine pounds. for four nights. midweek.
And that’s the bog-standard, 4 walls and a roof offering, with only the most basic amenities to equip you for your stay. And they have the bloody cheek to call it comfort’ accommodation. The middle of the road offerings between £749 and £949 depending on how fluffy you like your towels, whether you prefer the convenience of a hairdryer, and the option of a brick bbq, which lets face it in the middle of English spring, is not likely to be overworked. The top of the range lodge is £2099, which you would hope came complete with self-making beds and a golden goose, but alas no. You’d be forgiven for assuming that we’re planning some extravagant respite somewhere, mingling with the upper echelons of british society, however the reality is this is the cost of a short break at centre parcs. I wonder if they call it a break due to the detrimental affect on your poor bank account?
Being spurred on by the effects of the recession and the resurrection of the good old fashioned British staycation, we’ve been mooting the idea of a few days at centre parcs with some friends of ours. Little did I know we’d need to sell our organs on the black market to afford a ‘wee break’. How could one possibly enjoy four days in Cumbria when it’s costing so bloody much? In four short days I know I’d feel compelled to squeeze every ounce of worth out of my stay, biking at dawn, kayaking at lunch, abseiling in after tea. I’d need a holiday at the end of it just to get over the stress of having to get my money’s worth!
Shocked, I raise my concerns with my other half who chews over this new information for a few moments before offering up this gem:
” If money’s the concern then you’d be best looking at Haven. Centreparcs is like Sainsburys; people pay more to not have to mix with boiled-sweet eating idiots, that wear rangers tops for the duration of the holiday and piss-and-moan when they cant find a copy of the daily record. Thats the beauty of it.”
“That said, kids would have fun if you took them to a skip for a fortnight.”
It’s true that centreparcs is perhaps the top-end of British holiday parks (if they’ll even allow us to refer to them as that), but it’s something that’s geared at the demographic we find ourselves wandering aimlessly in; 20/30 something professionals, and their young children. Granted, you get some bang for your buck in terms of ratio of activities in close approximation to your locale, but still – can we really justify it? I mean, that’s in Cumbria; that’s barely even in England!
It’s at this point that my mind starts wandering. For that money, in fact, less than that money, we could have a week in a delightful little gite in the South of France, with its own pool, and microcosm of all things wonderful and French. There would be wine, cheese, and pastries-a-plenty. Sunshine, and no doubt that wonderful joie-de-vivre that comes with surveying your delightful surrounds and truly feeling like you’ve gotten away from it all, included in the price. Weighed up against the possibility of spending a dreich four days, quite possibly in wellies, tromping through the countryside and marvelling at acorns and rabbit poo, it seems infinitely the better choice.
The little gite on the banks of the Dordogne comes with no kids clubs and no plethora of pre-arranged outdoor pursuits. This doesn’t phase me; instead there are numerous little villes et villages to explore, not to mention Bergerac, Bordeaux and St. Emillion, heart of wine country to enjoy, complete with bustling markets and every other french stereotype us brits enjoy so much. At this point it sounds like heaven to me.
It’s then pointed out to me that as this would be a self-catering holiday, as centreparcs would be, I’d be doing the exact same things I do at home; the very things you’re supposed to go on holiday to escape. Suddenly, a wave of unwelcome images start infecting my beautiful French daydream; shouting about the mess, picking up after everyone, spending the day trying to manoeuvre buggies through cobbled streets and through pokey shop doors, and collapsing into my bed at barely gone 10pm from the sheer exhaustion of entertaining a brood of under threes and doing everything for them. This is not what I want to think about.
“Bagsy not entertaining the kids”
Well, we could always just put them in a dinghy on the Dordogne, with a packed lunch and a distress flare, no?
Sod it, maybe we’ll just book an all-inclusive week in benidorm, and spend a week in the sun, mingling with all the other day-glo pink brits, wondering where it all went wrong.
I’m surprised at how often I’ve been asked this question considering these two are still tucked up and cooking nicely. In all honesty, I can say that it’s something that I hadn’t given much thought to until other people started bringing it up. Convinced that I’d be having at least one more girl (until I found out at 22 weeks that there were two sets of boys bits in there), all I’d really thought of in that regard was , “oh I’ll get to use all those lovely things I’d kept of Heidi’s”. Additionally, when I found out I was having boys, funnily enough, what to dress them in just didn’t really factor into my thoughts. Probably why I didn’t start buying things until about 26 weeks this time. The urge to buy dozens of little corduroy dresses, with rainbow coloured woolen tights and matching crochet beanies, was entirely absent. Beautiful clothing had always seemed an entirely feminine indulgence to me.
To answer my intial question, after much pondering on the matter; no, I don’t think I will. Yes, I’m having same-sex twins, but does that mean I should indulge the stereotypes we’ve all come to expect? Before I was a multiple-mum-to-be, I found the idea of twins in matching outfits ‘cute’ and even ‘adorable’, though now it just saddens me to think that it’s almost expected. I can understand the odd outfit, worn to please well-meaning grandparents etc, but to consciously make the effort to have them the same, seems just bizarre, not to mention a lot of unecessary time and effort!
Add to this the idea of fostering individuality, and the idea computes even less. I’m having twins, but more often than not as well as rejoicing in the uniqueness of having multiples, I look forward to getting to know my two sons, and get quite excited over what the future will hold for both of them. It may sound unbelievable to others, but they already have very different personalities, so to try and ‘lump’ them together for cuteness’ sake seems, well, just plain daft, really.
We’re already having the “oh my god, how on earth will we tell them apart panic?” and it would be mad to add to that anxiety, having already discussed various indentification methodologies (keeping on hospital bands, painting a toenail on each twin a different colour, Dave has even suggested branding, but I fear that taking things too far).
I guess that I hope by dressing them in their own outfits, that I might be setting the ball rolling for other people to appreciate their individuality. I hope that they get to enjoy opening their own birthday and christmas cards, that they recieve their own presents and that they’re valued for who each of them are, rather than just being ‘the twins’. While it’s going to be wonderful for them to enjoy being part of a unique group of people, brought into the world as multiples, I don’t want to hinder their personal growth in anyway by restricting them to that label.