In my first real job after Uni, I worked for a teeny ad firm. There, I became painfully aware that my inner mind speaks in cliches. Suffice it to say that I wasn’t (and am not) a copywriter by any measure of talent. Happy to report that after a decade or more of reading real literature instead of People magazine, I’ve improved on this front…but I’m still at want for wit.
So, really, it should come as no surprise that as an over-stimulated, under-rested mummy of two–majorly deprived of ‘me time’ and adequate solid literature, I’ve reverted back to my cliche ways despite my grandest efforts. And barely a day goes by that I fail to utter at least a few cliches…and sometimes I even discover where a cliche may have rooted from. A recent example: ‘hopping mad’. Attempting to take C out of the bath at time when he wasn’t ‘done’, he was ‘hopping mad’. How could I tell? He cried (wailed even), began to cry so overcome that his face became tomato red and began to sweat AND began hopping up and down.
So, as I go about…I’m learning that sometimes cliches are useful. At times when we feel we’re alone (ie with a wailing child who’s hopping mad), realising that generations before us have experienced the same suddenly makes me feel a bit less alone. It’s as if my grandma’s up in heaven playing bingo checking off the cliches I utter–but more importantly, those I understand–as if they’re milestones in my life’s book.
So, lately, the cliches which resonate most?
Oh, don’t they grow up too soon. (W is 3 now. C is 12 months)
The days are slow, but the years are quick.
So, this post is a fancy way of my announcing that our boys aren’t babies anymore. Back in April, we asked W how he’d like to celebrate his 3rd birthday and he requested a family hike (it’s in the genes, apparently). We obliged and ended up along the south coast for the day–in the New Forest by Lymington. We played with sticker books on the train as we watched the wild horses out the train window.
It was a gorgeous day with incredible sea-views, but very windy. C was in the Baby Bjorn. W was in the Bush Baby hiking backpack–and also walked a bit, as well. In all, we hiked 6 miles before finding ourselves drenched by a quick-moving storm and ducking into a pub for comfort and a fresh, hot meal.
Then, back out on the trail to hunt for a scenic spot to enjoy our cupcakes. We found one and W played his new toy trumpet (his birthday gift) in response to the bevy of swans parading about looking for toddler spillage. (Luckily, they didn’t find much attributable to our crew…for once?!)
And for C’s first birthday in May, G’s parents were in town. We went glamping in the English countryside. It’s camping–but with beds and running hot and cold water and a gas-powered fridge, as well. So, in short, we had everything but electricity. Since we live in a big city, we like to ‘get away’ to the middle of nowhere. This time, we went to a goat farm–it’s called Dandelion Hideaway–and was a great place for us to spend an extended weekend.
Oddly for England, we had great weather the entire time and the boys loved having the freedom which comes with such a large expanse of green space outside the front door. No cars are allowed by the campsites, so we could let them have a long lead–that’s a rarity in our lives. We still don’t have a car and didn’t rent one. Instead, we took the train up (Dandelion Hideaway is ~1 hour outside London) and a taxi there (~15 minutes). And we cheated and had Ocado deliver our groceries to the tent. Yep. That’s how we roll…car camping without a car
W groomed a Shetland Pony. C collected eggs from our chickens every day. Both W & C were kissed by a baby goat while I wasn’t looking (but luckily, I was pressing the shutter for our camera). We fit in a short hike. And everyone had naps daily. Oh…and plenty of s’mores and birdnest cupcakes were had by all.
So, given the ages of our boys…I suppose this post is some kind of goodbye to pregnancy and babyhood. It’s been fun…mostly.