Bunny Teeth

Picking my seven year old up from school, I am reminded once again of the heartache that lie ahead.
'I was called bunny teeth three times today,' she says, not upset, more in a stating a fact kind of way.
Poor girl. She has her mother's teeth. I used to get called Monster Munch teeth, they were so big. But then I got a brace, glasses (and not cool ones, Deidre Barlow/Christopher Biggins style), and skinnier legs, so the teeth teasing was replaced by boys running up to me to put their hands around my ankles whilst running off and calling me Bony Joanie (a character from Garbage Pail Kids, all the rage in 1987, see above. That was me aged 12).
Luckily the 7 year-old thinks that bunnies and rabbits are very cute, so almost takes it as a compliment that she's being told she looks like a rabbit. She's also at the age where she does seem to be able to shrug it all off. The hormones haven't kicked in yet, or the seeking of approval from the opposite sex. In fact right now, boys are deemed rubbish. And not just by me.
Having a brace is at least three years away, so for the next three years she is just going to have to put up with being a bunny. It comes in quite handy around Easter.
And for now, at least, she still believes she's beautiful. She hasn't had that confidence knocked out of her...yet. How sad that you know it'll come. The self doubt, the feelings of ugliness that the teenage years bring are just around the corner. The 'why aren't my boobs as big as Jane Bookers?' years of torment in your room stuffing tissues down your bra. The overwhelming feeling of just wanting to be average, 'normal', not too fat, not too skinny, not too big boobs, not concave chest (yep, you guessed it, that was also what I was called) that takes up pages of your diary, along with a yearning for Gary Bell to notice you...
I keep telling her that all these boys who call her rabbit teeth will be beating her door down for a date in years to come.
She pulls a face. 'Urgh. I told you, I don't like boys.' Quite.
It pulls at the heart strings though, to know your child's being teased. I've just spent the last hour searching for large balls of cotton wool to wrap her up in. Unfortunately, Amazon are out of stock.


NB. I know boys aren't rubbish really, I'm married to a perfectly adequate one, have one as a dog and an older brother...

Get. A. Life

'All by myself....don't wanna be...all by myself...anymore, anymore, anyyyyymooooorrrrre,' I am screeching Bridget Jones style.
So for eight years I have been desperately seeking 'Me' time.
Ever since baby number one was born, I have moaned incessantly about never having a minute to myself, never being able to go to the loo without someone walking in, bath without a child wiping my boob with a Buzz Lightyear flannel, eating a sandwich without a small finger reaching up to steal a crisp.
Well, it turns out I don't actually want 'Me' time at all.
Funny that.
Or not.
Initially, it was great, a novelty. I could come home from the school run and have a long soak in the bath without anyone interrupting, I could go shopping without having to buy an 'Animals and Me' magazine or Moshi Monsters cards, I could talk on the phone to a friend for an hour without shouting at any kids in the background or passing them the phone for them to say, 'hello'.
Like anything, (think Beyonce's baby news or Lauren and Mark from TOWIE), the novelty soon wears off.
I am lonely for the first time in 8 years. I have no bums to wipe, no one asking where I am every three minutes, no demands for drinks or food. I don't know what to do with myself. Well, actually, I do. I need to get. A. Job. or finish. The. Book. (sshhhh don't mention that. 30,000 words and not touched for months) or even Walk. The. Dog. Yes, yes, hairy mutt, but that only takes 45 minutes.
It's so quiet.
I miss them so much.
I am googling illnesses I may or may not have.
It's time.
It's time for me to Get. A. Life....

Things I have learnt this Christmas...

Things I have learnt this Christmas...

* It doesn't have to be stressful - especially if the husband cooks on the big day and the Grandma behaves herself.

* It's really quite nice to sing Christmas Carols around the piano like you're in an old black and white movie, drinking mulled wine. altogether now...'So bring us some figgy pudding...'

* I do believe in the magic of Father Christmas. You have to believe to receive, right?

* My children have a ridiculous amount of toys. Too many. It makes me feel guilty.

* Relatives are best in short and sweet bursts.

* There is such a thing as overstaying your welcome.

* There is such a thing as too many turkey dinners.

* Sprouts are unsociable.

* Stop pouring custard on the Christmas pudding when the husband likes Brandy Cream. He finds it irritating. And certainly don't repeat the mistake the very next day.

* Never go sales shopping with your husband. It's miserable. Or is that just my husband?

* Do get someone to look after the kids, go to the local pub with the husband, order a packet of dry roasted peanuts and a couple of V&Ts. Just one hour as grown ups in a pub without any kind of J20/apple juice/Mini Cheddars/Children is totally heavenly.

* Don't eat too many mince pies/sausages wrapped in bacon/brandy cream/stilton or a relative will point out your mince pie belly and say - "Is there something you want to tell us?" There isn't. * Meet friends, go for long walks with a hairy dog, cook big pots of chilli with jacket potatoes and brownies for pudding and let the children eat buns. It's good for the soul.

* There is no shame being in your pj's on NYE at 10.30pm. Or is there?

* Read books. Especially Christmassy ones like India Knights, 'Comfort and Joy' or Ali Harris' 'Miracle on Regent Street'

* Remember that Christmas is just one day.

* Most important of all is to remember that a piece of chocolate orange solves everything, for everybody. FACT.