Power Cut

Spooky lookin' feker!

The electricity was very inconsiderate and decided to go on strike between midnight and 1am recently.

I quite like the dark and we keep the landing light on for the kids which is a bit of a pain in the arse, so to be bathed in velvety darkness was heaven.

Then Lovely Liam woke up.

In pitch blackness.  And thought his eyes had stopped working.

It was a second or two before I figured out what had happened too. I couldn’t see my hand in front of me. Somewhere there was a child crying softly and I knew by the shuffling sounds he was walking around.

I jumped out of bed before he fell head first down the stairs.

I guided him back into our bedroom with some difficulty.  He kept turning round in circles and at one stage tried to walk through the mirror. 

“Where are you?  I can’t see you.  Don’t leave me.  What happened?”

“The electricity is gone.  It’s ok.  Jump into my bed to keep warm. Your daddy is gone downstairs to flick a few switches.”

It was so dark.  And so quiet.  I looked out the window and the road lights were out too.  

Not a trip switch so.

I managed to find the Lego Star Wars torch thingy santy had brought and used the light in his legs to walk downstairs. 

The radio clock was out too and I wanted my phone to tell the time. 

Some time later Lovely Liam and I were wrapped up, back in his bed, with the light from the Star Wars man casting an eerie glow about the room.

“It’s a good thing Santy brought that, isn’t it?  Or we’d be DOOMED!”

“It sure is.  It’s late. Try and get some sleep now.”

“But what happened?  I couldn’t see anything!”

“The electricity is gone, that's all.  But I found you, didn’t I?  The lights will come back on in a minute.”

“Ok.  Does our car work?”

“Yes.”

“How come?”

“Because it doesn’t need electricity.  Please go to sleep.”

“Ok.”

My eyelids were closing.

“I was a bit scared.”

“I know you were, Liam.  But me and your Daddy are right next door to you.”

“That’s a good thing.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I have one more question.”

Of course you do.

“Will our sink work?”

Jesus, I hope not.

Kids Ain't Got Time For That

edoozie.blogspot.com

Kids aren’t picky creatures by nature.  They don’t mind if there’s chocolate down the front of their jeans.  Showering and changing underwear on a regular basis wouldn’t be high on their list of priorities either.  It doesn’t bother them if a bit of scraggy bread is left in the bottom of their schoolbag with a banana skin.  They like black slime.  Mine certainly don’t lose any sleep over two day old socks.  Here’s a couple other things kids just don’t care about.  This is not a definitive list.  Of course.  It never is. 

That you are tired.  Exhausted even.  The fact that your words are jumbled up - you may have invented a new language FFS - escapes them!  Their little lives and absolutely everything that revolves around it cancels out anything you could possibly ever want or need.  Did you not read the small print?

That you are hungry.  Starving even.  The fact that you have eaten a banana, one pink marshmallow and half a bag of Haribos since 9am (it’s now 4.45pm) neither interests nor worries them. You are standing purely because there are three extremely strong cups of coffee in your stomach.  They. Don’t. Care.  Build a bridge coz they aren’t listening.

That you are in pain.  Excruciating even.  The fact you have a headache, a stomach ache, an ear ache, a life ache doesn’t cost the ingrates a single thought.  Being in the hormentals isn’t their problem either.  And it’s not, you accept that.  Just about.  But could they just kill each other quietly for the next ten minutes please!

That you are in the bathroom.  Might be naked even.  Nu-uh.  Not their concern.  The fact the latrine is the only place where you can have a coffee and a read of Red magazine in peace and quiet doesn’t bother them.  How dare you try and snatch five minutes to yourself.

That you are asleep.  Comatose even.  The fact it is a weekend morning and your subconscious is all over that and this is your extra hour in the scratcher bears no relevance to them.  They have an arse that needs wiping.  Now! Who cares that it’s 6am and they require breakdown assist in the bathroom?  Not them!

That you have made a cup of coffee/phone call.  Even.  The fact that you have spent all morning running around after them and the phone call involves booking their birthday party appears to be your problem.  They have an injury that happened by walking on a crumpled bit piece of paper and they need you to tend to it now!

That you have sat down.  On a chair even.  The fact that it’s for the first time in five hours and there isn’t a steering wheel in front of you, matters not a whit.    Do you not see their collection of rocks that must be looked at and talked about?  This is an important time in their lives and it must not be neglected.  Shame on you for sitting down.

It’s a hard life for us parents.  We could be adults about it and suck it up.  Or we could whinge, give out, berate and moan and then suck it up.  Through a straw.  It’s called Pinot Grigio and I’m a bit partial. 

I Forgot to Take My Pill Book Review

“When I became a mum for the first time, I went through what I think most women go through, which is total bewilderment!  I didn’t know how anything “worked” anymore – how did I go to the shops, how did I have a shower, how did I meet friends – with this new little person attached to me!”

Sharyn had me at bewilderment.

When I took my firstborn to the GP for his two month jabs, I took a seat in the packed waiting room.  The nurse popped her head around the door and asked if she could see me for a second.  What did the novice mother say?

“Will I bring him with me?”

Major duh moment!

So it’s safe to say I identified with Sharyn’s words, in fact I identified with most of her book.  A few pages in and I was nodding furiously, grinning my head off at her, “Zero-To-Drunkenness-ometer.” 

Who isn’t familiar with that?

Then there was the description of the Irresistible Ride Me Now Dress.  We should all have one, right?

Will & Grace (remember those two?) and NKOTB (New Kids on the Block for the uninitiated) also get a mention.

When she wrote about her own deadly mother giving her santy bags for the end of her bed at Christmas, I said out loud, “Mine does that too!”

She went out for chicken wings when she went into labour.

I’ll stop now before I give it all away.

So what else did I like?  I enjoy a funny book, who amongst us doesn’t?  But I loved how Sharyn switched from irreverent and raucously funny to sombre at times.  A perfect example is showcased in my favourite chapter entitled Boob, Interrupted. 

I have a couple other extremely favourite bits.  My favourite quote has to be, “I might be in a wheelchair missus, but me willy still works!”

Then I got to the bit about the tea and toast and the old lady giving the baby a fiver saying, “he’s on his way in, we’re on our way out.”  Sharyn touches very briefly on religion, she’s included a bit about an Amazonian braless Russian and if you don’t feel rage reading about the night a gang of 11 year old girls run riot on the Luas, there’s something wrong with you. 

This is the perfect book for your handbag.  There are 22 short chapters that are like short stories in themselves; making it an ideal read for when you are on the bus, during your lunch break or outside the school gate.

I read it in a day.  I did joke that my kids would be fed digestives and baked beans or all of their meals until I’d read it.  They weren’t but they may have had to make do with bread sticks for snacks.  This book needed finishing. 

I Forgot to Take My Pill is a funny, no-nonsense, no holds barred (bad language included – another favourite bit) account of pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood.  Written by Sharyn Hayden, a comedian, an actress and mother of two, she also finds the time to blog at Raising Ireland. 

I Forgot to Take My Pill is available on Amazon from today, 20^th May 2015!

I was given a copy of I Forgot to Take my Pill in exchange for review.  As always, all opinions are my own!  

The A-Z of Me!

The A-Z of me tag is a quick way to tell people lots of useless crap about yourself.  It’s a bit of narcissistic fun and I’ve really enjoyed reading them all lately.  It’s also a lot harder than you think! 

Anyhoo, I’ve been tagged by Ellen from El and Baby A so in passing the baton I now tag Mum I Am.

A is for Athy the town I hail from in south Kildare.  A heritage town and one I didn’t appreciate when I was younger.  But who does?    

B stands for Blogger.  I have been a blogger for over three years now and it has opened up a whole new world for me.  It has helped me (I hope!) hone my writing skills and I regularly appear in Irish parenting magazines such as Easy Parenting and Mums and Tots.  I also have a weekly column in a local newspaper.  People aren’t afraid to talk to me at all. 

C stands for Caesarean Section.  Lovely Liam was whipped out rather quickly when I was almost 38 weeks.  He is still rather fond of listening to the story of how he came out of my hole.  His words not mine.  

D stands for Dublin where I lived during that obligatory rite of passage in my twenties and into my thirties.  I have some very fond memories of the lovely time spent in Ranelagh with a large group of friends.

E is for eggs of which I am rather fond.  A great source of protein and they really do fill me up.  I love them boiled, poached or scrambled.  But I have to scramble my own.  Very fussy like that.

F is for fanny.  Fanny bag, Fanny in Enid Blyton’s Folk of the Faraway Tree books and I’ve got one.  What’s not to love? 

G is for Guinness.  I love the stuff.  But I will only drink a glass and not a pint.    When I was pregnant for the first time, non-alcoholic beer tasted too much like sudsy washing up water for my liking so I tried Guinness on the premise that if it was good enough to be dished out in Irish maternity hospitals, it was good enough for me. I allowed myself one glass only.      

H stands for hangover.  Which I had at the time of writing.  We attended a lovely family communion over the weekend and I over indulged in the white wine.  I will never learn.  But at least my four year old witnessed everything and made sure to fill me in the following morning.  Leaving him at home the next time!    

I stands for incoherent.  Sometimes, when I am very tired, pissed off, stressed or just plain old full of life, I literally do not have any of the words.  Even simple stuff like trying to say my boys’ names and issuing instructions is beyond me.  I use words like “thing,” “yoke,” and “stuff.”  Example being, “Boy!  You!  Get that yoke and put it in the place.  No!  Not that!  The other thing and put it in the place!”

J is for Juno, our lovely girl doggy.  Without a doubt the smartest, cleverest most patient four legged critter to have ever lived with four boy children and their parents.  She is almost three years old and already getting her little white beard under her chin.     

K is for Kick Ass which I like to think I do on a daily basis but in reality I usually get my own ass kicked.   

L stands for Lidl as in the supermarket.  Ours was razed to the ground for a total facelift.  It got one and opened its doors for the first time last Thursday!  I feared for my life in the car park!  And I almost lost my four year old twice when I got inside.  It was so much fun I went back in after the school run with the other three.

M stands for Menfolk of which I have five.  And they have made my life all the richer.

N is for notebooks of which I have many.  Some are empty, some are filled and others have bits and pieces written in them.  I love notebooks.  But you should see the absolute state of my handwriting.       

O is for Opulence.  A lifestyle I aspire to.  When I win the lotto.  See here and here for my lotto wish lists.  

P stands Partial Heterochromia Iridium.  That’s the science bit.  The English bit is I have one.  Basically it’s a brown spot in my iris.  My left eye is half green and half brown.     

Q stands for quiet which my house is not!  I like my space, both physically and emotionally.  When things get too loud, I get nervy and jumpy. I have been known to cry on the stairs during these times.    

R is for running.  I spend quite a bit of time doing this; away from my boys and of course the times when I strap on a pair of Asics and go for a 5k or a 7k depending on the energy levels.  Juno comes with me and sometimes I try to race her.  If the weather is really hot and warm, I win.  She doesn’t do well in the heat. 

S is for sleep.  Of which I was denied for so long.  But now it is all mine again.  Bahahahahaha.

T stands for The Fear [of lots of things] but mainly any of my kids falling and cracking their skulls open or losing a digit in the slammer gate in the school yard.  Breaking it down further, it’s the logistics of arranging childcare for three other kids in the event that I have to rush off in the case of an emergency.  That’s the hard part.  I’d let them fall all over the place otherwise.   

U stands for underwear.  (Sorry, I was stuck!) I could have mentioned u-bend or underwire.  Did you know that a good bra can make you look anything up to 6 pounds lighter?  It can!  Your clothes will fit much better as a result.  G’wan, treat yourself.  Get a professional measure and buy yourself something nice.   

V is for Vanilla.  I love vanilla ice-cream, I use proper vanilla extract when I bake and if I were to describe myself, I think I would probably say vanilla.  Maybe with a bit of strawberry ripple on a really good day.  I am ok with being vanilla.  I don’t court drama and dislike confrontations of any description.  I’m vanilla and proud.   

W can stand for nothing else except wine.  My lovely ice cold Pinot Grigio of a Saturday evening.

X is for X-rated and by that I mean my language at times.  I suppose it’s not as bad as what I say in my head.  Having kids around you pretty much 24/7 keeps it clean.  Ish.  I do love a good swear word though.

Y is for Yes!  Yes when I step on the scales and lose another pound.  Yes when I won a lovely dress from Rock Frocks at Valentines. Yes when it’s the weekend and Yes for Equality.  Vote Yes!

Z is for zits.  Or fekin spots.  I seem to be breaking out more and more recently.   It’s not adult acne or anything like that, but I do get one or two really sore under the surface ones.  It’s only one of the many things I am noticing about myself over the last while.   It’s like puberty in reverse for me.  That Time of My Life.

That’s my A-Z of me.  Feel free to do one of your own. 

Mother Gets Drunk at First Holy Communion

In which an Irish mother gets polluted at a First Holy Communion and ratted out by her child.

At a family gathering in Kildare last weekend, a 42 year old mother of four forgot to stop drinking.  In her defence she maintained there were numerous factors at play.  “It was a lovely day and who doesn’t like a glass of something cold on a sunny day.  Also I’d had nothing to eat since 10am.  Stupid, I know.”

Drinking on an empty stomach is not the way to go.  “There was even food at the communion.”  Sheila went on.  “Lovely chicken curry with rice, salads and desserts.  Banoffi I think and definitely a strawberry meringue. But I’m not fond of either. I did have a bit of curry though.”

Sheila said time got away on her.  She enjoyed herself immensely, chatting with other people.  She has a vague memory of a conversation with another woman outlining the benefits of sending your child to an Irish school or it could have been about shoes. “I recall telling the other lady the owners of the shop were “shoe bastards.”  Sheila rolled her eyes in mortification.  “I shouldn’t be let out really.  And I think that’s largely the problem; I’ve got four young kids and I hardly ever get to socialise.  So when I do, I tend to lose the run of myself.”

The celebrations were great craic, Sheila remembers that much.  Then it was time to go home.  “All of a sudden it was after 10pm.  We’d been there since four o’clock. One of my boys was hanging out of me with the tiredness so we had to leave.  My husband was dragging me out and to the car.”

The drive home was a blur.  Literally.  “Even if I had the common sense to ask my husband to pull over, it wouldn’t have been in time. Before I knew it, I was sick on the floor of the car.  Can you imagine?  My lovely frock caught most of it though.”

Sheila carried her shame and embarrassment into the next morning.  Things were to get worse, however.

Sheila’s youngest was, typically, the only one awake in the car the previous night.  Sitting behind her, he had a cinematic view of her being sick.

Not one to forget, he innocently told his granddad how, “Mammy was sick all over the car and into her shoes last night.”  Other relatives got a similar variation.  “Mammy drank too much wine and couldn’t walk into the house.  Daddy had to drag her.”

“He’s a holy terror.”  Sheila admits.  “You’d have no secrets with that lad around.  He won’t be coming to the next get together, I can tell you.”

In finishing Sheila would like to pass on some sober words of advice.  “Pacing yourself is so important at these things.  You’d also do well to have a decent sandwich or something beforehand, for soakage, you know.  My poor fake Louboutins.  I’ll never get the smell out of them.”

Indeed.        

Fuaimeanna agus Focail (Fuming and Effing)

Sounds like something else I'd like to say!

Today I decided to do something I had been putting off for the last two weeks; buy the school books.  For next year.

Yes, I know.  We’re not finished this educational year yet and I’ve got next year’s hardbacks already boxed and waiting for collection in the shop.

We get our school booklist early.  It’s great and it’s horrible.  Especially when school tours are around the corner (I forked out €71 for three school tours) and our school are also looking for pre-requisites to be paid in full before they break up for their summer holidays on 28^th June.  (Pre-requisites times three makes €232)

For those who are not familiar with pre-requisites (or other requirements) these include worksheets and photocopying, arts and crafts, some book rentals, and other miscellaneous items.

And that’s before I buy so much as a Pritt stick, an eraser, a shoe or a red school jumper.  

Oh did I mention that my Junior Infant came home a couple of weeks back minus his sports top?  His brand new sports top?  He is head, shoulders and chest above every other child in his class and wore an age 8.  I bought his older brother a new one instead and now my Junior Infant is wearing an age 9.  With his name written in Tippex on the front and back.   On the outside. Over the school crest.  (€23.  Not rounding up)

Which is why I decided to get the school books before I began to cry at the absolute expense of it all.

I clicked onto the website of my choosing and added the various books for the three classes to my online basket.  I was buying books only.  Copies and pencils and scrapbooks will be purchased at a later date.  Possibly the week before they go back to school.

The school books set me back €147 (rounding up) which, see above, is a great deal less than the pre-requisites.  I was delighted with myself because I made a saving of almost €18 (again, rounding up) by opting not to have them covered in store at the knockdown price of 0.95c a book.

Yes.  Per book. 

Like each.

Then I remembered how absolute crap I am with a roll of sticky book covering stuff and gulped.  I threw a “Help” SOS onto Facebook and was met with various options, none of which suited me because the lady had already called and said the books were ready for collection, so I couldn’t go elsewhere for free covering and/or free delivery.

It’s hard to believe this is not my first time buying school books or indeed anything on-line.  I shouldn’t be allowed on tinternet alone.

Then someone suggested that I use the covers on this year’s books.  Without having seen the covers on my kids’ books. 

I may or may not have mentioned previously how manky boys can be.  Affectionate?  Yes.  Cheeky? Usually.  Manky? Always.

Most of the current book covers could quite easily be used as cheese graters such is the state of them. 

There will be lots of baby wipes used and I might treat the iron to its annual outing to melt out all of the punctures holes from pencils.

*actually that might work.  Have I invented a school savings hack?*

In the same way I find tweezing the grey hairs out of my head therapeutic I have a sister who likes messing about with sticky book covering stuff.  I might have a word with her.

Either that or just use wallpaper. 

Remember covering your books with that?  You were posh if you had plastic covers in those days.

I really feel I should add a disclaimer at the end.  We are very happy with the school.  Our boys are very happy there.    I understand and accept that someone somewhere has to pay for paper and insurance and floor cleaner for the schools.  It’s just such a pity the state won’t do something more to address the cost of education.     

     

An Actual Conversation that Happened Today

Today Smallest Boy fell asleep practically mid-sentence in the car.  It’s quite amazing to watch really.  The boy likes to talk.  And talk.  He barely draws breath. I reckon he exhausts himself simply by using up all of his words.  

We had covered what skills he was going to teach me.  “Awesome ones.”  There was also a quick conversation about our favourite drinks.  Water, cappuccinos, wine and Guinness for me.  His are water, milk and freshly squeezed orange juice.

Then we had this one. 

I was on the school run and for the 798^th time, driving past the Chinese restaurant. 

“Mammy, what’s a Chinese?”  Pipes up Smallest Boy.  So I explained China is a country and the people from that country are Chinese.  Or Asian.

“Would you like to go there someday?”

I answered him honestly and said I would rather go to Australia or back to New Zealand.

“What’s in Aus-tray-la-la?”

“Beaches and sunshine and I would love to take you boys there.”

I allowed my imagination to wander a little and fancied scooping the 6 million lotto jackpot this weekend. 

“If I win all of the money, Brendan, I would definitely take you boys to Australia for a whole month.”

“And Juno?”

“No, we wouldn’t be able to take Juno.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s a dog.  We’d have to put her in the kennels.”

“In her holiday home?”

“Exactly.  In her holiday home.”  And then I went quiet.  I began to do the thing I do when I am anxious, worried, stressed or rushed.  I began to talk to myself.  Under my breath.

Couldn't leave this!

“God, I couldn’t leave her in the kennels for a whole month.  That’s way too long.  I feel bad enough leaving her there for a week during the summer.  No.  A month is too long.  What’ll we do?  Who would take her for a month?  Who could we leave her with?  I know!  Maybe she could stay for a week in the kennels, then my sister could take her for one week, my other sister could take her the next one and maybe back to the kennels again.  That might work.  Or would it be possible to take her with us?  Would she need to be quarantined though?  She’d definitely need shots of some sort.  She’d only love a holiday.  A proper holiday.  All those beaches for her to run on.  She’d be in her element.  But we’d have to makes sure we take loads of those poo bags with us.  Or maybe dogs aren’t allowed on the beaches in Australia.  I’ve never seen them on the beaches in Summer Bay.  Dammit!  This is hard!  Maybe I should just google it.  I’m sure there’s a site out there that can help me.”

Summer Bay.  For a whole month!

I stopped muttering to myself for a second.  “God, you’re so stupid!”

A loud gasp from the back.  “Mammy!  Did you say the S word?  We’re not allowed say the S word!”

“Sorry, Brendan.  I won’t do it again.”  But in this instance I definitely deserved the title.  

“You’re some tulip.”  I was off again.  “Acting like, actually believing that you had won the lotto.   Would you ever get a grip?  Gobshite.” 

I think I whispered that part.

Australia for a whole month would be lovely though.  I might just google my queries anyway.  You never know.  And like they say themselves; It could be you.

But in this case, it could be me.  Not you. Definitely not you.

Random Thoughts in the Middle of the Night

That 15 hour sleep was worth all the chocolate in the world.  Completely needed and as I pointed out to everyone when I did finally get up, “if I didn’t need it; I wouldn’t have slept so long.”

Indeed. 

Trouble is, it’s now almost 2am.   I could don my running gear and go for a quick jog round 

the block. 

Of course I’m not going to.  Instead I lie there and examine all the random thoughts that are flying through my wide awake head.   

I hope that’s a burglar.  Something/someone is walking around on the landing.  Please let it be a burglar.  Please take whatever you want without making too much of a mess.  Please go downstairs.  Don’t waken the killer guard dog.  Because if it’s not a burglar, it’s one of the kids sleepwalking or on the way to the bathroom.  Please let it be a burglar because if it is one of the kids I will have to extricate myself from my warm nest and help them back to theirs.  At least with a burglar, they can help themselves.

How many years would I do for homicide?  No amount of kicking, poking or shoving is encouraging Mister Husband to roll over and change position.  There is nothing for it;  I just might have to kill him.  I place a pillow gently (I said gently!) over his face and hold it there gently (I said gently) for five seconds.  A mild struggle ensues.  Followed by that equally annoying grunting and exaggerated lip licking thing with a bit of teeth grinding thrown in for good measure just to impress upon me how annoyed he is at having his sleep interrupted.  Disclaimer:  If you try this, I must stress that you remember to remove the pillow. 

Chocolate voices.  Earlier on that day a share bag of giant chocolate buttons was opened.  I haven’t forgotten it.  It’s down there, I can feel it, hear it calling to me through the floorboards.  “Come and get me,” it says.  “With a nice cup of tea.  It will only take ten minutes.”        

That’s who she is!   The actress whose face was vaguely familiar 17 hours ago, and whose name escaped me, comes rushing through my frontal cortex with a clarity that has me sitting bolt upright in the scratcher, snapping my fingers in an “eureka!” moment.  I feel compelled to wake Mister Husband to tell him.  And now that I’m wide awake, I may as well go downstairs for some of those chocolate buttons.

 

 Can I hold it till morning?  Nothing worse than being woken from deep, delicious slumber by a bladder looking to be emptied.  My own.  If it’s 2am I have no choice but to answer the call of nature.  5am, however, is a different animal.  There’s less than two hours to go before rising.  Be grand.  And I am until it comes to swinging my legs out of the bed.  It is necessary to sit still for a moment; if I stand up immediately things could get messy.  Four kids will do that to your plumbing system.  Too much information?  Oh-kaay.

More things that go bump.  But this time it definitely is one of the boys.  Has he fallen from the bunk bed or is he impersonating a baby elephant on its way to the bathroom.  Crap!  He’s crying which means he’s fallen.  I wait to see if the body beside me reacts. But now I’m awake I realise I too need the bathroom and I’ve lost.

And another thing.  You crank open an eyelid to check the time, smile fuzzily because it’s 5am you’ve got two hours left in the scratcher.  Then bam!  Literally three minutes later it’s time to get up.

How does that work? 

Royal Baby Ponderings

So a little princess came into the world over the weekend.  Apparently she is going to be worth billions to the British economy.  £150 million a year by all accounts.  She will be worth £1 billion by the time she’s ten years old.

So no pressure then.  Absolutely none.  She can be seen in the same outfit twice.  It will be fine to be photographed with teething spotty rashy cheeks and drool everywhere.  A bad hair day will be overlooked.  And acne will never rear its problematic miserable head because whoever heard of a spotty teenage princess?  It makes our own angst ridden years seem almost idyllic, doesn’t it?

I’m sure you saw pictures of Kate looking absolutely amazing standing on the steps of her maternity hospital mere hours after giving birth; resplendent in heels, full makeup and not a stray hair anywhere.  Absolutely stunning.  Would that we all looked similar after giving birth.  Some of us were still hooked up to catheters and drips and had kankles.  Maybe even still have kankles.    Not something you want splashed all over social media.

It did make me wonder though, having four kids myself and covering all of the birthing scenarios, did Kate really want to be out there so soon?  Yes, she was fulfilling one of her many royal duties but the only thing you want to do after growing and birthing an eight pounder is gaze at them with a pile of magazines and chocolate at your bedside.  You can do without the added stress of leaky boobs and uncomfortable maternity pads.  Never mind coming over all woozy on the steps of the hospital and having random bodily fluids leak all over your spring frock as you greet your subjects. 

I wondered about a lot of things the morning after Kate had given birth.  I wasn’t a bit jealous of how gorgeous she looked.  Probably because I had enjoyed a 15 hour sleep the night before and she definitely hadn’t. Unless of course the royal nanny was on hand.  Which she most likely was but even the royalty amongst us have to answer to mother nature and find they are absolutely compelled to perform the most basic of tasks for their new-borns.  So chances are she was up and down answering to her daughter’s beck and call every two hours.

Some other miscellaneous things I pondered were does Kate ever get baby puke down her nursing bra?  Will she call her daughter “George” until she gets used to a new name? What response does she have handy to the “gentleman’s family.  No need to go again,” comments.   How do they divvy up the weekend lie ons? What way did that pre-press shoot conversation in the maternity room go?    Did Kate use the photo shoot as a bartering tool and tell Wills “yes,” but only if he agreed to give her all of the lie on privileges for the next six months.

I wonder will the words “George! Get OFF your little sister!” ever be screeched in the palace.  And does George scribble on the walls in biro and try to shove a crayon up the royal dog’s bum?  Is Kate like the rest of us and does she change into a tracksuit or pyjamas at the end of a long day and make toast for tea?  Does she cheat and stand into the shower, roll up her trouser legs and hang her head upside down to wash her hair because she couldn’t be bothered to have a full shower?  When it all becomes a little bit too much in the coming weeks, will Kate round on Wills and demand to be reminded which of the royal “we” thought two under two was a good idea. 

At the time of writing no royal Pink Princess name had been decided upon.  I wonder how that conversation went?  Because apparently the Queen has to grant approval.  And we commoners thought we had problems?

And the burning question:  does Kate pop open a beer and hand it to Wills when the kids are in bed?  Does she enjoy one?  Is The Good Wife on Netflix?  House of Cards or are they fans of The Big Bang Theory.

And when one of the kids appears at the top of the stairs looking for a drink of water/to do a wee/another story/ who looks at the other first and offers them a million pounds if they’ll do it?

Or one billion.  In ten years time.