Little Aussie Poms

In which Ollie loses a dearly beloved tooth

If you are remotely squeamish, this is your opportunity to flick over and read something else.  Don't say I didn't warn you.

Last Thursday Alex and Oliver were sat up to the table eating their respective breakfasts like the good boys they are.   Alex finished his breakfast and got down.  Ollie had not finished his breakfast but decided that as anything Alex can do, he can do too, he would get down as well.  Not waiting for my approval, he scrabbled down, lost his footing and fell off his rather slippery high chair.   I picked up my wailing baby and saw to my horror that his mouth was full of blood, which is when I realised he'd clipped the corner of the chair next to him on his way down.  Then I saw that one front tooth was missing and my blood ran cold.  I've always liked that expression.  Now I know how it actually feels and it's not so pleasant. 

Apparently I'm not great in a crisis.  I rang Steve who was on his way to work, yelling at him to come home immediately and I rang my friend Emily and left a garbled message that Ollie looked like a pirate.  Then I crawled around the floor looking for the missing tooth and stripped Ollie down to shake his clothes out, but the tooth did not turn up.  I was reluctant to give him anything to drink in case it washed the tooth down his throat, but the sheer volume of blood pouring out meant I didn't really have a choice.

Four hours in children's A&E  and several x-rays later we found the missing tooth.  Not in his tummy as first thought, but rather jammed back up into his gum.  When the maxillofacial specialist pulled Ollie's top lip up and showed me where the tooth was sitting, it was as much as I could do not to throw up.  Even now, just thinking about how hard he must have hit the corner of that chair to send the tooth back up into his gum with such force, makes me feel sick.  I have to keep reminding myself that it could have been worse, it could have been an eye.

But while I was going weak at the knees with the horror of what had happened, and beating myself up with guilt, Ollie was a superstar.  Each department in the hospital we visited (and we visited many, sometimes more than once) was simply an opportunity to play with a new toy box and meet new people.  People who, to their credit, did not recoil in horror when the boy who looked like a curly haired angel smiled at them and turned into Sloth from the Goonies. 

A few days later we went back to the hospital for a follow up visit at the maxillofacial unit.  The good news is that so far there's no infection.  Now we've been discharged into the care of the dentist and we play a waiting game.  First we wait to see if the tooth performs its milk tooth magic and re-emerges by itself, which apparently is common.  If the tooth hasn't come back down within three months, well, it has to be surgically removed.  If the tooth comes back down and it's a different colour ... it has to be surgically removed.  If it comes back down in a different position and affects his bite ... it has to be surgically removed.  Then we wait some more to see if the trauma has damaged his permanent tooth bud, something we won't know until the permanent tooth makes an appearance in five years or so. 

I'm resigning myself to the fact that we probably won't see that tooth again, which is something that fills me with immense sadness, despite the fact that I know it's only a tooth and a milk tooth at that.  But we all want our children to be perfect and our smile is so very much a part of who we are and how other people percieve us to be.  I know it doesn't change who Ollie is, but it's going to take me a while to get used to it and to shed the feelings of guilt that I could have done something to prevent it. 

So here he is, home from the hospital and slightly battered and swollen - but still smiling.

Happy Anniversary

Just over a month ago (which is how long this post has been sitting in my draft box) Steve and I celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary.  I use the term "celebrated" loosely, I hasten to add.  We did not spend the entire day rejoicing in our love for each other.  Steve took the boys to Tesco and I got a bit of ironing done.  We're real romantic like that like. 

Then I decided a bit of wallowing and reminscing should be done.  I also thought it might be quite nice to post a wedding photo on Facebook, seeing as seven years ago I looked like this:

And this:

I'm not sure why I was scowling by the way, but I don't have many wedding photos on disc and this is the best I can do. 

Look at that, not a bat wing in sight.  And check out those itty bitty collar bones standing out in all their glory.  I was a bit on the skinny side. 

Damn.  I really was a bit on the skinny side.  Now I am not.  Now I look like this:

I'm the fat mum at the back pushing the cute boy on the swing.

For a minute there I felt a bit jealous about the skinny girl in the wedding dress with the collar bones.  Then Steve and I went out for dinner.  We did not go to a fancy restaurant and spend crazy money that we don't have on exquisite food - we went to this place. 

Next to us were a young and rather lovely couple clearly on a date.   We were at an all-you-can-stuff-down chinese buffet and the girl next to us pushed around a few cucumber slices from the crispy duck section and batted her eyelids coyly at the boy opposite. 

And that, my friends, is what it means to be married for seven years. 

Steve and I talked and laughed all evening -  mostly about our children, but that was ok, because they're ours so we weren't boring anyone else.  We unashamedly overate and on the way home I had to undo the top button of my jeans before I could breathe again. 

We've weathered the worst, Steve and I.  And if we're at this place now where we are content and comfortable with who we are, and still have a laugh, well, that's good enough for me. 

Toothless Wonder

Good grief.  Well that didn't take long. 

Tourettes Child

Alex loves Ollie.  He loves Ollie so much that he's cheerfully teaching him all he knows.  Especially all those rude words he thinks are so controversial at the moment.

The result of this loving teaching is a two year old who thinks its hysterical to shout these words at the top of his voice at the most inopportune moments. 

Yesterday in the supermarket we passed a rather large gentleman with a bushy beard and a noticably unwashed odour.  Oliver checked him up and down and his initial question was, "What DAT Mummy?!"

Me (whispering):  That's a man, sweetie.

Oliver:  No Mummy!  Ho ho HO!

Me:  No Ollie, not Santa, just a man.

We passed the man/Santa.  He didn't smell too fresh.

Ollie:  POO Mummy!  Yuck yuck POO!

Mortified, I scuttled away.  Unfortunately the man/Santa was perusing the same aisles we were.  We saw him again.

Ollie:  POO Mummy!  POO!  YUCK!  URGH!!

We scuttled in the other direction but by this time Oliver was on a roll and getting carried away.

Ollie:  POO!  POO!

People looked.  One lady smiled indulgently, feeding his enthusiasm.

Ollie:  POO Mummy!  POO!  POO!  BUM!!  BUM BUM BUM!!!

As Ollie's shouts echoed through the aisles of Sainsbury's we made a hasty exit.  I'm surprised we weren't escorted by the security guard for unruly behaviour. 

I'm trying to teach Ollie nice words to yell, like "chocolate" and "pinot grigio" but so far without success.  I think "poo" and "bum" are here to stay, at least for the immediate future.

Bugger.

Wibble Wobble

This afternoon, after getting tea for the boys ready, I wandered out into the garden to find Alex studying his reflection intently in the glass table top.

"Something's wrong with my teeth Mummy," he said.  "They're not in a line."

Not unduly concerned, I explained to him that no-one's teeth are completely straight and it's nothing to worry about. 

"But it's not right Mummy, look."

I looked, just to humour him and then realised something wasn't quite right.  One little tooth looked ... wrong.  Like it wasn't quite fitting properly.

I touched it.  It moved ever so slightly under my finger. 

Urgh!

I tried very hard not to leap back in disgust whilst trying not to heave. 

"Well, well," I said to Alex.  "Looks like you have a wobbly tooth."

I'm not sure how long these things take but I'm reliably informed it could be up to two weeks.  Two weeks!  We're only on day one and watching him wiggle it around in his mouth is already turning my stomach. 

So look your last on the cheesy camera smile.  It's about to get worse.

 

Tooth Watch here we come.

Beware the wrath of an angry mother

I don't really do public displays of anger.  Actually I don't really do public displays of anything, I'm your original wallflower, fading into the background with practised ease. 

But not when someone I'm paying  (in the words of their mission statement) to "help children build confidence" reduces my five year old son to a distraught weeping heap on the floor.  Ho no.  Then the red mist turns up and I become Embarrassingly Angry Mum.   The one you like to watch out of the corner of your eye whilst pretending to have no interest at all and being secretly relieved that it's her and not you.

For the last few months Alex has been attending a class loosely based on the principles of karate.   I love the ideals behind the classes and I think with the right teacher, it could have been great.  Unfortunately from the very beginning I've less than impressed with his teacher - let's call her Susan*.    Still, as Alex has embraced it with typical Alex enthusiasm we rolled with it and dutifully turned up each week.   In hindsight, it's a big ask of a 5 year old to attend a 45 minute class after a full day of school and expect him to concentrate all the way through.  But let me just say here that whilst the attention of the other boys his age wavers from the start, Alex begins by giving it his all.  It's usually only as the lesson progresses that he loses interest and finds it difficult to concentrate.   Up until recently there have also been older boys in the class who find it much easier to grasp what is required and have the requisite attention span, which unfortunately only highlights the apparent failings of the younger boys. 

Each week, the "best" boy in the class is given the dubious honour of Pixie* of the Week.  Needless to say, Alex hasn't often received this award, something he shrugs off with a vow to try harder next week.

Last week's session began as they always do.  Alex threw himself into it until he got too hot and tired to continue.  At this point, he explained to Susan that he was tired and he was hot and he was sweaty.  Did she offer any useful solution, like taking a breather or having a drink from his water bottle?  Did she heck.  She ignored him as she usually does when presented with a situation that comes right out of the Too Hard basket.  Naturally at this point Alex lost the will to live and did not take part and did not have fun and retreated into Alex World.   And in Alex's defence, he's only five years old, had just done a full day at school on a hot summer's day and he tried to explain to her how he was feeling before his behaviour deteriorated. 

So far situation normal.  But at presentation time, in front of all the parents, it all went hideously wrong.  Susan began by saying she was going to do something slightly different this week.  "This week", said Susan, "I'm going to begin by telling you who's NOT getting the Pixie Cup."  

We waited ... and the boys fidgeted.

 Alex!" said Susan.  "You did really well at the beginning..."

Alex misheard.  He thought he WAS getting the Pixie Cup and excitedly got up to collect it at which point my heart sank. 

 "Oh no Alex!"  said Susan.  "You're not getting it - you lost it.   You didn't pay attention, you didn't do as you were told and you're not going to get it now after all.  I'm going to give it to Bob* instead." 

Alex understandably burst into tears but instead of quitting while she was ahead Susan then bumbled on a bit longer trying to get Alex to understand exactly where he'd gone wrong and lost the bloody cup. 

At this point Alex broke down completely in a weeping heap of hot, sweaty, exhausted and embarrassed five year old boy.   

What in the name of all that's good and holy was she trying to achieve by this?!  If she expected Alex to nod in agreement and promise to do his best next week, she will have been sorely disappointed.  As much as I don't do public displays of very much, nor does my son.  A public dressing down in front of his peers and their parents, addressed to him alone, was pretty much Alex's worst nightmare.

That's when the red mist turned up.  I swept my weeping son into my arms, fixed my glare on Susan and I'm pretty sure I said something about her completely humiliating him in front of everyone but I can't be sure.  It's a bit of a blur now. 

I wonder if I might have overreacted slightly but looking back, I actually don't think I did.  The mission statement of the club includes building children's confidence and I fail to see how picking solely on Alex to highlight supposed bad behaviour is supposed to build his confidence in any way, shape or form.  I've written a bit of a snotty email to that effect and we'll see what happens. 

It's an unfortunate situation to find ourselves in because Alex has always been very enthusiastic about Pixies*, and ironically we originally enrolled him because we thought the disciple of karate would do him good.  But watching Alex singled out in front of his peers for public humiliation is not the kind of discipline I signed up for.   As his mum, I'm well aware of his personality and his failure to concentrate for the full 45 minutes of the class and yes, he hard life lessons to learn.  But he can learn them with the positive support of his family, his friends and his school teachers.  

As far as Alex is concerned, Pixies* has simply finished for the summer and I will quietly fester on his behalf.

* names changed to avoid any nasty recriminations.

Mwah ha ha ha...

And so the quest for World Domination begins.  Naturally you'll remember the tale of the Bunny Brigade? 

Blue Bunny #1 left the fold and went to live over the road with his new pal Jack, much to the initial horror of Jack's dad who thought Jack had shoplifted one of Ollie's best beloveds.  Blue Bunny #2 also moved over the road to live with little (oh so very little) baby Max where he is now to be found clutched in one of Max's little paws. 

As for Blue Bunny #3, he  is fast becoming a seasoned traveller.  First he was sent to the UK by Nanny Annie in Australia.  Unimpressed with his new life in the UK, alone and ignored by the very person he was sent to be loved by, he packed his little suitcase and went off to live with Samuel in Dubai.  The path to Dubai was not an easy one thanks to Dubai's dodgy postal service and to get to Samuel he first had to travel back to Australia in Nanny Annie's suitcase.  Fortunately for Blue Bunny #3 Nanny Annie just happened to be over here to retrieve him.  There in Australia he was collected by Samuel and his mummy, who had travelled all the way to Armidale in their quest to claim him.  (Ok, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, maybe they were technically going to be there anyway).  Samuel loved his blue bunny with a passion and took him back to Dubai but by this time Blue Bunny #3 had caught the travel bug.  I heard a rumour he was missing Australia so insisted the whole family pack their bags and move back. 

Behold the delight on young Samuel's face.  I hope your cockles are warmed by this particular tale of adoption. 

And does Oliver care that his soft and lovely bunny brigade are leaving the fold?  Are you KIDDING?!  Not a bit of it.  Give him his stinky bunnies any day. 

Return of the Caveman

The other day I was cooking dinner and asked Steve to pop out to the garden and get me a couple of sprigs of rosemary.

This is what he dumped in front of me:

Neanderthal man.  Alive and well and living in Lower Stondon...

The Alex we love...

How do you mark your eldest son's fifth birthday?  It feels like it should have been some kind of momentous milestone event, but with the threat of redunancy hanging over our heads at the moment and the axe about to drop, we are ever so slightly terrified about spending money.  Last year we bought the boy a bike.  This year we bought him a box of lego.  Last year he had his fishy fiesta party, this year he was allowed to have five friends over for a birthday tea.

And you know what?  He didn't bat an eyelid and that is where the essence of Alex lies.  Complete acceptance (well, most of the time) of what life throws at him and a total lack of consumerism.   Don't get me wrong, Alex is no angel.  He is highly strung, high maintenance, noisy, sometimes unfathomable and often just plain annoying.  But he doesn't have a materialistic bone in his little body and he has no idea how by just being himself, he is helping us get through a very difficult time. 

That's not to say he didn't have a great birthday.  He did indeed have five friends over for a birthday tea and thank GOD it was dry and warm enough for them to go mad out in the garden.

 

He also was lucky enough to have a cracking cake thanks to Toni.

But next year my darling boy, I promise with my hand on my heart you will have the biggest party ever and be allowed to invite your whole flipping class if you so desire.  Although Alex being Alex, he probably won't.  He told me yesterday he'd had the best birthday party ever, and next year, as he'll be six, will it be ok to have six friends for tea instead? 

Black Eyed Birthday Boy

Two years ago today I gave birth to this young man.  Not only was he enormous, his face was so squashed he could barely open his left eye and his nose seemed to spread across his face.  He also had no neck.

I was pretty sure he was the ugliest baby I'd ever seen and I fell instantly in love. 

By this time last year he'd grown into his looks and we were all even more in love with our Ollie and his perma-smile. 

Another year on and Ollie is happy, good natured, slighty clumsy and has a steel plated skull.  He bounces off hard surfaces with a smile, which is fortunate considering he has no fear and would leap off tall buildings in a single bound given half the chance.  He is also currently experimenting with a whining Spawn of Satan lifestyle which is slightly less endearing and hopefully will turn out to be short lived.  His favourite word is "noooooooooooooooooooo", but he's also rather partial to a "cuggle" before bed and he likes to play with his "cack-car" which is Ollie-speak for tractor. 

Today, as he turns two, Ollie is also sporting a rather attractive black eye. 

 

This in no way hampered the birthday celebrations as he cheerfully ran around the garden with all new mates, who very handily are all siblings of Alex's classmates.  As with Alex, who had his gang of peers, Ollie too now has his very own gang.

The only slight wobble of the morning was, bizarrely, the cake coming out.

 

Clearly all rather overwhelming.  Still, if you can't have a diva moment on your birthday, when the hell can you?

Happy birthday Ollie.  We still love you baby boy.

So they DO like each other ...

Every now and then as a parent, in between the squabbles and the bickering, you get lucky enough to witness a rare moment of brotherly solidarity - a moment of uninhibited and unconditional love.

If you're REALLY lucky, your camera's nearby and you get to record the moment forever before they realise you're there and start hitting each other over the head again.

In the news

No news, gossip or scandal today.  Instead here are some photos of Alex's classmates. Sadly you'll be hard pushed to find any of Alex as the boy has never been a fan of dressing up.  If you're quick you can catch him lurking at the back of Rocco's rock band, still in his school uniform.  But I do like the class photos at the end.  Alex is there third row back, far left. 

Escapology #2

What is it with my children and their early desire to escape the confines of their cots?  Alex's method was simple and to the point.  He would vault over the side - a gymnast in the making.  Oliver's method however is more inventive and far more destructive.  An escaped prisoner in the making I fear.

A couple of days ago I put Ollie up for his afternoon nap.  He always has an afternoon nap because regardless of what he thinks, he needs an afternoon nap.  On this particular occasion however, Oliver disagreed with me.  After coming downstairs I heard banging and clattering which I put down to the next door neighbours.  They often bang and clatter, much to Steve's disgust, but that's another story.  Then I heard a door slam.  It sounded far too near to be the neighbours but I put that down to an open window and a slight breeze.  Then I heard a little voice.  "Mama?"

Couldn't really put that down to anything other than Ollie and there he was.  Upstairs this is what greeted me - behold the remnants of his cot.  In the words of Ollie, "uh oh."

Oops.

You'll be wondering why I've not written for oh, say, four months?  Ah, that would be the credit card that expired and I never quite got around to entering the new details.  This evening, in a random act of responsibilty, I've updated them and been allowed to re-enter the hallowed grounds of Typepad. 

Then you'll be noticing the distinct absence of any recent photos.  Ah again.  That would be the not so random act of complete irresponsibility on my part.  For the last couple of years I've been cheerfully taking photos off my cameras, flinging them onto the laptop and making mental notes to Back Them Up.  Unfortunately those mental notes got stored in the part of my brain shrouded in cobwebs and smelling faintly of mothballs.  I don't go there very often.  I'm kind of regretting that now, since the laptop crashed in a grand fashion last weekend. Despite being talked through every available option by my brother, eventually the only way forward was to insert the dreaded recovery disk.  The laptop's working a treat again but I have lost every single photo of my children stored on there.  Heartbroken doesn't even begin to cover it. 

The only silver lining is that the last photos I backed up were just after Ollie was born so I still have his precious newborn hospital photos.  Thanks to the miracle of Facebook I also have quite a few I can retrieve from there and I took so many photos on our recent treck home to Australia that my Dad put them all on disk as we went along. 

And speaking of the trip home, I WILL make an attempt to blog about that soon.  I've made a mental note to do so and I promise to store said note in the part of my brain that still opens and closes without creaking.  Honestly...

The Tale of the Bunny Brigade

Once upon a time there was a tiny little baby called Oliver.  Oliver had a loving Nanny who knitted him a small blue bunny.  Oliver took an instant shine to his floppy little bunny and soon it became his best beloved.  It quickly became clear that bedtime would only happen if the soft blue bunny was clutched in his little paw, so his loving Nanny swiftly knitted him another. 

As small babies are wont to do, Oliver sucked and gnawed his blue bunnies and occasionally threw up on them.  Both bunnies were washed many times and naturally began to show signs of wear.  Oliver's mummy realised this would never, never do and requested more blue bunnies.  If you felt the earth shake last year it would have been the force of Nanny Annie's needles as she churned out the bunny brigade. 

Just look at their soft blue loveliness.  Don't you just want to pick one up and cuddle it?  Yes, you do. 

This, then, is where you and Oliver part company.  His little face may light up in delight when he sees one of these soft, lovely bunnies but on closer inspection he will frown and throw it away in disgust.  Because you see these bunnies are indeed soft and lovely and they do not smell of sour milk and a whiff of vomit.  Whereas Oliver's best beloveds are no longer soft and lovely, they are threadbare and thin, and if truth be told, a little crispy in places. 

 

It is a sad and sorry tale and the future of the soft and lovely bunny brigade would appear to be somewhat bleak.  Maybe one day loving homes can be found for them with those who do not find their soft, clean, loveliness so utterly offensive.