Hotels with Kids...a whole new world!

going on my holliers...

 I think that it would be fair to say that our children don't get to stay in hotels very often. The first time was particularly memorable- we stayed in a Premier Inn somewhere in England last year, while attending a relative's birthday party. With officially waaaay too much family going on, for the so called 'family' room, getting the crew past hotel reception was our first challenge. So after much discussion, we decided to 'divide and conquer', as in 'stay in the car, gimme 5 minutes, then bring in the rest of them', and it really worked a treat.
 That night the party was great craic, although unfortunately the birthday girl didn't actually make it to her own celebrations- she got waylaid at home by her daughter, who was inconveniently delivering a 7th child in her bath at the time. I suppose you can't just pop your head around the bathroom door at that point and say 'That's us now, love. We're off. Don't wait up!'
Later on at the party, just after the mini pizzas, it was announced that baby Wulfric had been born, (entirely naturally), weighing in at an eye watering sixteen pounds! Well, what could we partygoers do only wet his (very large) head?
 Things weren't so upbeat in our overcrowded hotel room later on though-stuffed full of candy floss, cake and coke, a groaning Rory sat up abruptly and hurled all over a sleeping Cormac. At some level, I obviously registered 'Code Barf', and leapt out of bed, completely disorientated, stubbing my toe hard on the travel cot right beside me. The jolt and my subsequent screams of pain, unsurprisingly woke six month old Luke from his slumbers, and as you can imagine, it was all fun and games from there.
Take it from me, there's few things more sobering than cleaning up vomit drenched boys at 3am, and there's few things worse, than nursing the emerging hangover, in that same small airless hotel room, heavy with the lingering aroma of fresh gack.

Close...

Later at breakfast, the boys had bounced right back, (unlike us!), and were busy testing the limits of the 'bottomless breakfast' hotel deal.  Well used to heavy sanctions at home, they made it their sole mission to devour the hotel's entire supply of cocoa pops. Jude alone, managed 6 full bowls. Their poor cousin, arriving after the scavengers onslaught, was understandably gutted to be left with the pitiful choice of Weetabix or cornflakes.
 Our second brief hotel stay was just a few months ago for a family wedding. It should be said that this time, it was in a MUCH fancier hotel, and we had wisely opted for adjoining rooms. The kids were beside themselves with all the freebies- Easter eggs, bottles of water, biscuits, toiletries...there was even a toilet bag with a cuddly penguin and a toothbrush in it for them. But, clearly unused to the concept of hotels in general, and especially those of the 5* variety, the younger two naturally assumed that anything not nailed down was indeed theirs for the taking. In fact, I discovered Rory stashing 'this lovely book', (The Holy Bible), into his case, while Cormac was found squeezing the origami swan shaped towels into his. It seemed that everything in the room was fair game- Rory actually pondered aloud whether the very lamps would match our living room...and whether he could possibly fit them into his case.
Now I've whittered on enough, and I never even got to tell you about last weekend, when my parents, siblings, spouses and our collective twelve children descended en masse to a hotel in Donegal. I'll save that wee gem for another time, but in the meantime, here's a picture taken en route from the front of the car. All I can say is, thank God for in -car DVD players.

Peace, perfect peace.

 And no, they weren't watching Chain Saw Massacre- it was a Disney flick, about a dog that runs away or something. Who gives a shit? Because what you see there my friends, is 2 hours of blissfully quiet car time...just before two whole days of fabulous madness. Happy Monday Amigosxx .

Monday, Monday....

It would be true to say that I've had better Mondays. It began with a little voice in my ear whispering, 'Mummy, the tooth fairy forgot to come'. Bugger bugger bugger. I blearily opened my eyes to peer at the disappointment in Rory's little face and wanted to shut them again.

'Don't you worry, the Easter holidays are coming so there must be a back log. She'll DEFINITELY be here tonight, you wait and see.'

I'm not really sure what's going on with Rory's mouth at the moment, but the tooth fairy has her feet run off her for the last month or so. He is literally losing a tooth every few weeks, with the result that he now has more gaps than teeth. So, picture bloody perfect for the fast approaching family weddings and Holy Communion then!

Then, Jude came in to inform me that there was no milk for the cereal. Not. A. Drop. To Jude, for whom cereal is a food group all on its own, this was hard to take in.

'Well, could Daddy not go and get some?
'No he can't, not this morning.'

'But why not?'

There was an edge of desperation in his tone now, and he was actually beginning to wring his hands.
'Because daddy is sort of busy this morning.'
 'But Mummy, where IS Daddy and why can't he get the milk?'

'Well, if you really want to know, he's sitting in the car at the top of the road reading a magazine.'

Yes, you really did read that right. For after dropping Anna off to the school bus at 730am, he parked the car, took out his magazine and enjoyed a spot of 'me' time for, as it turned out, two hours. But not before thoughtfully polishing off the end of the milk for his own cereal first.

Meanwhile, Jude worked his way through bafflement, (What! Why?), to denial, ('Maybe there IS some milk and I just missed it'), to bitter disappointment, ('I just can't believe this is happening to me'), and finally to acceptance, ('I suppose pancakes will have to do, just this once'.)

I grumped about a bit, organising the boys for school, mildly annoyed at not being able to walk off that caramel egg I'd consumed at 10 o'clock the night before, and I don't mind telling you, the mental image of Himself chill-axing, with the seat reclined and a bellyful of milk was hard to take.

So how did it come to this, I hear you plead? Well now, to answer THAT, I'll have to rewind to Saturday morning, or actually to even further back last week, when I decided to clear out all the wardrobes of Winter clothes. Hours and hours it took me, and when I'd finished, there were piles of bags, about 10 in all, bound for various destinations. The best quality stuff was organised by age and gender and earmarked for various younger cousins and friends. There were bags of shoes for a shoe appeal in Africa, (for which Loverboy felt the need to unhelpfully query whether my red patent wedge boots would be fully appreciated, or even particularly practical. As it happens, despite appearances they're VERY comfortable.)

The other bags- mostly well worn clothes that had already been passed down through my boys, and the adult clothes, were ready for the St Vincent de Paul dropoff bin at the top of our road. Mindful of the number of bags, and the potential for confusion, I had placed all the bags for charity on the landing, while all the Belfast bound bags were safely in the back of my minivan. Then, on Saturday morning, I asked Loverboy to bring the charity bags to the bin at the top of the road, and although I knew I was labouring the point a fair bit, I cautioned him several times to make sure the charity bags were kept seperate from the family bags in the boot. And he did. I know this because I surreptiously watched him put them into the car - I just couldn't help myself-so feeling reassured, I watched him drive off.

The money shot...

Oh no! Surely not! He couldn't have, I hear you say! But oh yes, indeed he could and did. For reasons, I still cannot fathom, he somehow managed to put several of the wrong bags into the charity bin, before realizing his gargantuan mistake. Apparently, at that point he then did everything he could, save climbing into the bin, to retrieve the bags. To no avail for the damage was done. To cut a long story short, after bracing himself for my incredulous wrath, he managed to find out when the van came round to empty the bin, and yes, you've guessed it, it was Monday morning. So there you have it- after two hours he ended up retrieving the bags, I got the kids to school, stopping to take the money shot on the way, and bought more milk. Then later on, I squeezed that walk in and have it on good authority that the tooth fairy will definitely be making a stop here tonight too, So all's well that ends well. Happy Monday y'all! Emmax

Happiness is......a cupboard full of cereals..

There's nothing quite like a Tesco delivery van to raise the excitement levels round here. As usual, the hapless chap arrived and was instantly surrounded by a swarm of children, our own plus a few extra, all clamouring to see the goodies, the most important of which are the cereals. Before they're even unpacked, an inventory has been taken, and discussions initiated covering personal favourites, order of opening criteria, and for the very popular, number of allotted bowls per person. I've already  happened upon two of the boys quietly gazing at this magnificent sight with a look of deep satisfaction on their faces.Wouldn't it be just lovely to be so easily pleased?

Down the Toilet...

It started off badly and went downhill from there. A week ago, I'd done my bumper bimonthly grocery shop online, ( it took 2 hours and came to over £300), and was due to be delivered yesterday. (I also do a weekly shop, but this is serious bulk buying, as in 40 packets of cereal and 50 loo rolls-I kid you not!). Anyway I'd ordered from Sainsburys this time, just for kicks, and logged on to the Interweb the other night to add bleach. (Yes indeed-that's what I was up to at 10pm on Valentine's Night - I sincerely hope that yours was a tad more exciting!)
Then, all of a sudden,  my monster grocery shop went inexplicably AWOL. One minute it was there, the next lost somewhere in cyberspace. Quick as a flash, I sent them an email telling them what had happened and assuring them that I still wanted our lorry load to arrive between 11 and 1 the next day. Ha!
Next morning, of course, I got an automated response confirming that it had been cancelled (It had not!) and sincerely hoping that I would shop with them again. Cue my first murmured FFS of the day, but it certainly wasn't my last. Obviously, I then sent them a snotty email telling them that hell would freeze over before I'd shop with them again and they could shove their groceries ...or words to that effect. Then, because I STILL had no bleach, and we were down to our last three packets of cereal, I had no alternative but to spend the next two hours doing a similar massive shop on Tesco instead. FFS! Which only meant that my exciting morning plans of tackling the ironing pile so large that I could no longer force the cupboard door shut, was now my afternoon instead. FFS!
Prior to this, I had morphed into 'Tiger Mother' mode, (which in Ireland is just being a complete targe), turning off the TV, (this went down a treat as 'Spongebob' was on), and organising chores, piano practice and project work. To tell you the truth, all of my Tiger Mother buttons had been well and truly pushed the night before, when I'd been informed that my nephew, who's only five, is currently reading the entire Roald Dahl collection ON HIS OWN... FFS! So, with a renewed fire in my belly,( but not in theirs- It's half term after all), extensive reading material was chosen and new guidelines for personal and guided reading put in place. As you I can imagine my popularity levels are currently through the roof. FFS!
Logged into Tesco in a grim but determined mood, and I was nearly done by lunchtime. The kids were playing outside, Loverboy was munching on a sandwich, wisely leaving me alone to calculate the price of loo roll, when we became aware of the sound of gushing water in the background. Thinking that one of the kids had left the tap on in the downstairs loo, he went to investigate to find that the cistern of the toilet had only gone and cracked completely, and water was pouring out all over the floor. FFS! FFS! FFS!
Surely, this must scoop top prize in 'Crappiest Toilet Luck EVER'? Utter panic ensued- it was just like 'Titanic'. Naturally, the children relished the drama, rushing for torches and towels and later, hosting guided tours of the offending site for the neighbours' kids.
 The upshot is that it looks like we're going to need a whole new toilet, because you can't buy just the cistern. FFS! And further preliminary investigations have indicated yet another issue - Oh, why am I not surprised? Apparently, champagne coloured suites are now so passé that they're like hens' teeth, and we may have to go for a white one... which consequently would mean a whole new bathroom suite. For lack of a cistern the entire bloody bathroom may be lost. FFS! (screaming now!)
Later on, and with the ironing finally done, I'd pretty much lost the will to live- my mood was black and I didn't care who knew it. There was more to come- lying in bed late last night, the pipes in the attic began to make a very loud, dubious clanking noise... for a good ten minutes. My overly optimistic husband assured me that all it needed was a squirt of WD40, (don't we all, love), but because I'd just finished watching 'Death Unexplained ' about a coroner's office and combined with our indisputable bad plumbing karma,  I was tearfully convinced that I was about to clock out, in a most undignified fashion, by being squashed with an exploding water tank in my own bed. FFS!....Then I fell asleep.