Tangles

Those who always dreamed of having a little girl probably imagined spending special mother/daughter bonding time whilst lovingly brushing her hair.

Let me shatter that illusion and tell it like it is.

This daily task has the ability to turn the sweetest little cherub into a hissing, snarling, thrashing wild animal.

We go through this fiasco every morning before school. It’s usually last-minute as, being my least-favourite morning duty, it’s the one that’s procrastinated. It will see me chasing Miss Five the length of the house with the offending ‘weapon’ while she skedaddles it, squealing in terror.

Short of me pinning her down, it’s usually achieved following a threat along the lines of getting it all cut off until she looks like a boy and, eventually, she subsequently goes to school looking semi-respectable.

It’s not helped by the fact her hair is nearly down to her backside. Despite well-intended innuendos from the grandparents, she’s never had a hair cut in her life and that’s my bad. Because it originally took so long to grow, when it finally did I couldn’t bring myself to get her beautiful golden locks cut and now that she’s at school, it’s a case of finding it hard to fit in a trip to the hairdressers with her siblings in tow.

And there’s no way I’m touching it. The few times I cut my own fringe when I was younger, it always turned out uneven, requiring several further trims until I resembled a  China girl gone wrong.

But then last weekend her young cousin came to stay bringing with her a new hair brush which I shall not name for fear of being accused of taking commission. But it’s said to tame the wildest mane pain-free which I’d heard of but never really believed was possible.

I thought it was worth a shot so summonsed a weary-looking Miss Five my way.

At first she put up a fight, which was probably more psychological than anything else but, after a while I noticed she began to relax and actually enjoy having her hair brushed.

A miracle had just occurred.

Before long we had completed the job without so much as a whimper and her hair looked like spun gold. 

That was it – I was sold and went straight away to the website to make an order.

My mornings just got easier, my wild animal tamed and we now start the day off friends.

For those of you still faced with this daily drama, you’re probably wondering how to get your hands on one of these magical devices.

…Let me just call the company and see if they’ll put me on a commission rate and then I’ll get back to you.

Jungle Hour (Baby Days)

There comes a time when you realise you’ve popped out the other side of the baby days and the world looks like a different place.

This hit me one day when I ventured out after 5pm.

There were different people out on the streets. Instead of the usual faces – mothers with strollers who you’ve smiled and waved to every day for the past few years on passing, smiley check-out ladies who’ve cooed over and witnessed your children grow up, the elderly man with the lovely manners who delightfully still tips his hat – there are different people walking the same streets. People you’ve never seen before living in your own community because you lead completely different lifestyles preventing your paths from ever crossing.

And if you venture out just after 5pm, they’re in a hurry. Instead of the leisurely pace by day, there’s a slight, more-frantic air as last-minute supermarket errands are carried out amid road rage as everyone just wants to get home from work.

Yes for those of you who are kid-free, let me enlighten you: We don’t get out much after 5pm.

Doing so could be a nightmare. This is commonly known as Jungle Hour in the family home. Witching Hour or Feeding Time At The Zoo are others. It usually occurs between the hours of 3pm-5pm when the tribe decides they’re starving. This is when you don’t listen to one of the many new-age pc rules about not using tv as a babysitter and you turn to it every time without fail out of desperation to put some food on the table and ship them off to bed.

If this is all sounding a little hazy that’s because it is, because you know what? I’ve forgotten!

It’s now a thing of the past and you don’t realise just how inundated you were until you step out the other side - and up a curb without having to always cross the road where there’s stroller-friendly access. Oh the luxuries! 

It’s these small things that make you realise. You see, there’s some of us that have probably missed a whole series of changes to the coloured lights under the canopy bridge. I mean, since when did it change from red for the 2011 Rugby World Cup to blue? (I’m only kidding, it isn’t that bad.)

Self-inflicted sleep deprivation was unheard of in the early days. On the rear occasion I’d venture out, it was hard not to count down the hours of lost sleep before my “alarm clocks” would be waking me up come 5.45am.

But now I’m happy to report I am out the other side and life just keeps getting easier.

...Just don’t mention the teenage years still ahead.

Worst Mum Incident

How many of us have, at times, felt like the worst parent in the world over an incident and been far too ashamed to admit it?

Well I’m going to share my latest episode with you in the hope it will make you feel better.

You see it was Halloween and I was out walking with mum. Along the way we passed numerous groups of kids on the streets decked out in their trick or treating outfits and I declared that, seeing as I didn’t have the kids that night, I was going to be a Halloween grinch and lock the doors and pull the curtains.

Last year I had a persistent bunch who, after receiving their lolly stash, ran around the house to ring the other doorbell and tonight I really couldn’t be bothered.

We got home and had not even made it upstairs when the doorbell rang.

“Freeze!” I ordered mum, safely out of view from the door.

We stood there for a while as the doorbell continued to consistently chime before deciding the coast was clear. We were just heading upstairs when the second doorbell started up.

“Little shits,” I think I heard myself utter as we continued upstairs where I promptly pulled the curtains.

I needn’t have bothered. Mum left and, shortly after that the rain started, thereby ending any more trick or treating fun for kids.

The following evening I got a text from mum.

“I think you might have been hiding from your own kids – Jayla ran up to me in the playground at lunchtime and said they came trick or treating and my car was there but we weren’t home!”

Needless to say, this news didn’t make me feel too flash. I could only imagine them excitedly donning their costumes and walking round to mummy’s house only to be met with closed doors and their dejected little backs turning round and walking away. 

Two days later they got dropped back home and ran in to tell me all about how they came  trick or treating and I wasn’t home. I had already decided not to own up to the fact that I was.

So the worst Mother of the Year Award goes to …