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

Slurry- What's not to love?

As you may have gathered by now, I have something of a seasonal relationship with rural life. During the Winter, I grow increasingly homesick for the city, so inevitably by February Country Livin' and I are on the rocks -'This isn't working anymore, we're just too different. It's not you its me!' Then, Spring creeps in and seduces me all over again with it's longer days, it's daffodils, it's frolicking lambs, and its new life everywhere, and suddenly I remember the good times, and the fun we had together, and then I'm falling in love again...at least until September.
Yes indeedy, this renewed Springtime lovein would be just about perfect if it wasn't for the annual Slurryfest that ramps up about the same time. I must admit, that when we moved out to the sticks six years ago, I was such a townie that I didn't even know what slurry was! I remember this all too well, because shortly after we moved in, a local farmer,(who was renting the few acres that surrounds our house on THREE sides, called at our front door. He asked me in a friendly,chatty manner if I'd mind if he went ahead and spread slurry on the land. Flattered that he would call to discuss his farming plans with little old me, I warmly encouraged him to go right ahead. (Work away, my good man!). But later on that night, I bitterly regretted my lack of agricultural knowledge, as I wept, dry heaved, and called that pleasant farmer every name under the sun, vowing our immediate return to Belfast.
In hindsight, perhaps my virginal city nose WAS unprepared for such a violent assault, but just last week I was 'forced' to scupper the slurry plans for our field because we had a bouncy castle booked and friends coming round. This is 'Country entertaining 101' right here People -'Under no circumstances host a party downwind of a recently slurried field.' But Loverboy, guilty at the veto, overcompensated to my horror with 'Next week is fine though, just come on over and let her go till its knee deep!' ...and he bloody did too.
To be fair though, over time I've learned to cope with the foul stench. For instance, I know now to keep all the windows and doors closed, breath in as little as possible, light the fragranced candles throughout the house and NEVER EVER hang freshly laundered clothes out on the line. But I certainly haven't stop noticing it as some claim to, or more preposterous yet, to actually appreciate it!? Let's just be clear here, we're not talking about a fine wine and this is not an 'acquired taste'. Despite this, I've been encouraged on many occasions to 'breathe in the good country air!' Pardon? Are you shitting me?(Sorry!) For never was the expression 'you can't polish a turd' more apt- the gallons and gallons of fermented animal waste sprayed with gay abandon in fields all over the countryside- is absolutely gag- tastic. And just so you know, I DO understand it's importance- shit happens and it has to go somewhere, it's part of the cycle of life and growth, blah blah blah, but it still puts me in a bad mood every time. As an added sweetener, it often ends up on the roads as well thanks to leaky slurry tanks. Only yesterday a good friend had to go and get the wheels and underside of her car washed because she didn't want to end up with it all over her driveway. Apparently her poor daughter was green by the time they got home.
But where were we? Oh yes, the beauty of the countryside in Spring, which has now tragically been overshadowed by my slurry rant. On the upside though, I definitely feel much better getting that off my chest and, right now, it's a gorgeous day out there and there's not even a whiff of the dreaded slurry in the air, so I'm off to live dangerously and hang out the washing.

The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse

Oh dear, how I hate January! Despite the fact that I'm definitely ready for Christmas to be over when it rolls around, I always wish that I could just  fast forward to the first week in February, and thus bypass the whole January buzzkill completely .
For me, along with the extra muffin top and the school runs in the dark, my annual country vs city struggle inevitably reaches it peak right about now. It tends to build momentum as November closes in, is temporarily sidetracked by Christmas, and then returns full throttle in the New Year. Oh yes, as you can probably imagine, Loverboy just LOVES me in January! I know that he grits his teeth as I do my nightly online property search, scouring suitable houses within the city limits ( OK then-it's mostly BT9,) for our tribe to move to. Unfortunately though, unless I plan on selling a kidney, or a couple of children, they're few and far between.

My favourite magazine.....no, not really!

Out here in the country, we're lucky enough to have lots of inside and outside space- a real necessity with a big family. What we DON'T have is proximity and convenience to pretty much everything and I find that a real drag. Growing up in the city meant that I took for granted being able to walk to chic shops, numerous restaurants, gourmet cafes and friends' and family's houses. Our previously unplanned decision to move to the country six years ago, was driven by a house sale falling through and our fourth child's imminent arrival. (Oh and for the record, I don't believe that Loverboy has ever REALLY appreciated the depth of trauma suffered, on moving here a short month after Starbucks opened at the end of our street - just saying.. )
I think it's probably what you're used to-what you grow up with, I mean- because I remember years ago, on first contemplating a move to just outside Washington DC, several people here cautioned ' Are you sure you want to move to the murder capital of the world?'  Then, when we got there, and folks learned we were from Belfast, THEY shook their heads and sympathized 'I'm sure you're glad to be out of war torn Belfast!' Similarly, but less dramatically, when we mentioned that we were moving from the city to the country, shocked Belfast people clucked reassuringly, 'Don't worry, it's not forever', while country people congratulated us on getting out of the dirty old city!
I suppose that everyone wants to believe that where they live is the best. And maybe it is...for them. As a city girl, I HAVE found aspects of the transition tough. (Really!? I hear you say disbelievingly!) I find that I miss silly things like footpaths and chimney pots and horns beeping.... and family. But thankfully, as February creeps in and with the promise of Spring just around the corner, I begin to notice and appreciate again all the really great things about living here. The wonderful school, the best of  friends, the real sense of community, the idyllic childhood our children love, the space around us, the changing of seasons...and as for the rest-well, a diesel car, a good taxi firm and filling our lives and home with friends and family all helps.

I'm getting me one of these bad boys..

You see, I'm only too aware that it's not just all about me, me, me-there are six others living here as well, and we DO have a good balance for now. That will naturally change over time, and if I'm honest, I know that we won't be here forever - as the children gradually migrate from our little corner of the world, I'm pretty sure we'll follow. But in the meantime, during the winter, and most especially in January, I'm sucking it up, knowing that Spring is a-coming and anyhow, I know how to make a skinny extra hot latte even better than Starbucks!

A little bit country.....

I'm not a country girl, not really. I may live in the country for now, but in truth, it's not my natural habitat. So consequently, and usually when I'm in the presence of the properly countrified, (those who love, appreciate and enjoy rural life and country pursuits), I feel like a bit of an interloper. I find myself listening, slightly detached, to enthusiastic discussions with a mixture of envy and genuine puzzlement, because I just don't get it myself.

For instance, the keeping of chickens in your back garden. Why would I do that? Why? The housing and feeding of scratchy, noisy birds just so that I can get a few eggs? I can buy half a dozen of them, organic, free range for £1.20. (Random related question- what IS the difference between a chicken and a hen? Anyone? If you know, please fill me in because I'm afraid to ask!)

Now that's MY kinda welly!!

Or the hunting thing? With the exception of fox hunting, I'm not claiming any moral high ground here. It's the 'tramping through cold, wet fields for hours just to take out a few ducks or pheasants' part that I struggle to understand. Aside from the donning of a quilted coat and designer wellies, where's the pleasure in that? I don't even LiKE the taste of duck.

Between you and me, and until quite recently, I had long nursed a Jilly Cooper fuelled hope, that horseriding might have been MY particular country pursuit...But alas! After an hour of bouncing around a field, with every horsing accident I'd ever heard of on a constant loop in my head, and my pelvic floors battered beyond belief, I've had to face the fact that this too was not to be. Thankfully,I'm comforted by the reassuring knowledge that my new pony skin handbag will fulfill all of my equine needs from here on in.

Don't get me wrong, there are lots of great things about living in the country- the space around us, the head clearing walks, the tight community, the relative silence...and erm, lots more...just give me a minute to think...I realize that I sound like a walking,talking townie cliche but you've caught me on a cold January day! Ask me in July and I'll have you moving from that three bed semi to the sticks in no time.

A friend who sometimes rather comically, mixes up her sayings, advised me 'to weigh up the prawns and the cons of situation'. But THATs a Pandora's box for another day. In the meantime, I'm off for that bracing walk-who needs Starbucks anyhow?!