Aimee Horton

When they get hurt.


Urgh.  When we have children we all prepare ourselves for the pain that goes along side it.  Not just the day to day stuff which includes constant yabbering and back chat, or the lack of sleep, but the pain of them actually hurting themselves or being ill.

I knew there would be numerous trips to the doctors, and probably some to A&E too.  It’s a sick feeling that sits in the bottom of my stomach every time it crosses my mind.  Now, nearly four years in to the whole parenting debacle, I would have to say (and as I type this I know I’m probably jinxing myself), we’ve been fairly lucky.  We’ve had rashes, allergies, cuts, bruises, falling down stairs, but nothing too serious.

As you know from my last post Fatty has just started walking, gained real confidence, started to walk to objects rather then just people, and he’s really happy, gets this MASSIVE grin on his face.

Yesterday he took a tumble.  We were in the lounge and he was heading to the coffee table as he’d spotted his current favourite reading material (the NEXT catalogue – I’m so proud!), and was going for it.  We were all sitting on the sofa, Matthew and The Beast sitting watching a movie, and I was just catching up on a few twitter conversations and text messages.  I saw it happen. He’d picked up speed, he started to fall forward, he reached for the table, he fell short.  He cracked his head.  He cried.  I feel awful, I missed him, I’d chucked down my phone I’d reached forward, but it was all in slow motion, I wasn’t fast enough.

There were tears, Matt raced from the sofa because he’d heard the THUD and asked if he was bleeding.  I didn’t think he was the bit I thought he’d hit was just scuffed, then he lifted up his head.  Blood poured down his face into his eye and ear.

I grabbed the tissue from the tissue box (poor Miffy tissues probably didn’t expect to be used to mop up blood), and Matt raced to the bathroom and I ordered him to use my cotton wool pads instead of his answer to clearing up everything – loo roll.

It all happened very quickly, and amazingly calmly.  While I was rocking my big fat sobbing baby, we had the running commentary from the beast:

“MUmmy SHHH I’m trying to watch the film, Mummy, look I’m spiderman KSSHH KSSSSSHH”

I discover the cut is almost an inch long.  We discuss it and whilst it’s stopped bleeding relativly quickly and he’s stopped crying, we decide to call “111” for advice.

“Mummy, can we play trains?”

I get on the phone, I speak to THE QUIETEST PERSON IN THE WORLD.

He’s asking questions. “Is he restless Mrs Horton?”

“‘SCUSE ME MUMMY, ‘SCUME ME MUMMY, I want to play trains now, you be the yellow train and I be the red one”

Me: “Well, fairly, but then you would be if you had blood in your eye wouldn’t you?”

Startled silence: “How would you say he is restless Mrs Horton?”

“Mummy, Mummy, look, my nail needs cutting”

Me: “well in the normal upset way I guess”

Sounding confused: “Well….is he gasping for air?”

Me: “OHHHHHH BREATHless.  I thought you said RESTLESS, no.  He’s fine”.

Eventually they advice is as expected.  A visit to A&E.  This is where I admit what a horrible mother I really am.  I didn’t think “oh my poor baby”, I didn’t race there straight away. I thought “oh ffs”.  I know that’s wrong.  But I kind of knew there wasn’t much wrong with him really, other then the massive cut that wasn’t really bleeding anymore.

So first we packed a picnic.  Warmed up the pasta and sauce he was going to have for tea anyway, a yoghurt and some biscuits.  I packed a bag with some toys and books.

This might sound strange, but The Beast fell down the stairs at 10 months old and we were there for HOURS, I know how long these things can take.

I left Matthew and The Beast playing trains.  We drove up, and checked in (for want of a better phrase!), and sat down.  Around us were sick people (obviously). Big ones, little ones, bloody ones, vomiting ones, coughing ones, ones in wheel chairs, one with slings.  Urgh.  There was a child with a sweet wrapper stuck up her nose, and a little boy about the same age as the Beast with a big bloody lump his forehead, his mum was sobbing.  He was quiet.

I got a few dirty looks as I fed the Fat one his dinner, he didn’t help by making “mmm” noises, smacking his lips and getting cross when we ran out.  We were seen by the nurse.  She had to help me get him back in the pushchair as he tried to escape.

We sat for a bit longer.  He ate a biscuit and read his book.  A few children gathered round me, I handed out books and toys.

We got to see the Doctor within two and a half hours, which actually, I don’t think is all that bad.  I gathered up my books and toys and went in.  He took one look at the fat one and said “that’s an easy one”.

He glued him.  There were more tantrums.  He shouted at the Doctor a lot, told him not to touch, kicked at him and shook his head when the doctor started to talk to him.

We were dismissed, we were free.  We drove home, and got the boys in bed by 7.15pm.

I woke up every hour to check on him to make sure he was still alive.  He was.

This morning he’s fine, he keeps knocking it, it looks pretty ugly, but it could have been a lot worse.

I have a feeling this is just the start.  Do you think I’ll be allowed to take Gin in my pack ups?



When you are followed around by Zombie crying children who don’t bend.


So, if you hadn’t already guessed…Fatso is now crawling.  A lot later then his brother, but he’s there, he’s done it FINALLY.  I thought this would make him less frustrated and less grumpy (he’s gone from being lovely and happy and content, to quite hard work, darn him), but it hasn’t.  He hates crawling.  Proper. Super. Hates it.  It’s a necessity to him, but there is no enjoyment out of it, it just takes him towards the food, or towards something to pull himself to standing with.

Because of this, I am now regularly followed around by the thud of fat hands and knees accompanied by the crying sound effects.  Climbing at my legs when I’m cooking, pawing at my knees while I’m having a wee, face pressed against the (should be cleaner) glass of the shower cubicle (you guessed it, while I’m showering).  It’s not enjoyable.  It’s usually a result of me trying to put him down somewhere after walking around while he holds on to my fingers, when that happens he suddenly resumes the “plank” position, and unless you use a foot *cough* I mean, unless you bribe him with a toy it’s impossible to make him sit down.

I think I must breed this type of child because whenever The Beast is upset/at the end of the tantrum, he walks towards me arms outstretched wailing, face red and puffy, snot streaming, and it doesn’t go well when I run away.  I have no idea why.

At home, you just get on with it, but when you’re out and about it’s a bit more different, you have things to do.  When you pick them up from nursery some times (usually when it’s cold and raining) you get two different delay tactics (they would rather stay at nursery then come home – should I be worried, or should I try and palm them off?), you get the car seat plank where Larry stretches out and throws his head back, refusing to bend in the middle and screams.  When Theo used to do this – if a bribe didn’t work – I found a technique, which whilst I wasn’t particularly proud of it, it did the job.  I used to climb in front of him, hold the harness with both arms drop him in fast, then using my head to bend his stomach fasten him in.  This probably lasted about 2 weeks before he got the message.  With Larry – I fear that I will lose my head in his stomach for ever.  There is also the light switch flick.  This is where The Beast has to climb in by himself, positions himself in the middle of the car, standing between the car seats and flicks the light on and off.  It’s only a matter of time before my battery is flat because of that little game.  With this, I’ve managed to after much threats catch him off guard by pulling his belt loop, hood and shoe in one swift swipe.  This makes him loose his balance and he falls perfectly into the car seat where I use the head technique and fasten him in.  He then gets no reward chart magnet.  I get snot in my hair.  Neither of us are particularly happy.

When we’re out and about, the pushchair plank has only just started.  In fact.  It caught me off guard.  Fatso LOVES his pushchair, he will happily sit and watch the world go by.  But for the first time ever when I actually met with my friend (@JordanFleet) at Meadow Hall.  After lunch I went to put him in his pushchair…and all of a sudden he was flat as a pancake (well as flat as a fat wobbly baby can get).  Luckily I still only need to bribe him with a sneaky dummy or packet of raisins.  We all know as per the lying by the puddle incident The Beast can zombie at the blink of those big grey eyes.  He will walk in front or behind you arms stretched in front of him until you pick him up.

Reading that back, I’m not really getting many rewards for my smashing parenting skills am I?  Oh well.  I will probably have to use at least one of the above in about half an hour when I fetch the kids from nursery.

Then I will need a strong G&T.

When you realise you’ll never have the final word again


WHY WHY WHY do I let myself get drawn into an argument with a THREE year old? Honestly – you’d think being the mummy, and being “in control” I’d be a big enough person not to throw my own tantrums.

This week the beast has been tired and on edge.  I’m sure it’s because he’s tired. He’s also been off his food.  This drives me mad.  I TRY and be understanding I really really do.  If he said “I don’t want my dinner because my mouth hurts” I’d be slightly more understanding, however, he doesn’t.  He says “In a MINIT mummy” or “I’m to tirreeddd” to eat it.  Every now and then he’ll accept an offering of me to feed him, something I really hate doing, he’s been feeding himself since he was about 11 months for crying out loud, why should I start doing it again now?!

So on Monday we had an inevitable fall out.  We had a lovely morning, made apple crumble (yes, that’s right, I took part in a “craft” with my child), played a bit and then he helped me make lunch.  I was feeling the perfect SAHM.  Then we sat at the table and chatted and ate our sandwiches together, when I say we ate them together, Fatso and I ate our sandwiches, our salad and crisps.  The beast nibbled on a few bits of salad, ate his crisps and took one bite of sandwich.  When I encouraged him to eat more so that we could have pudding and then go to the farm he snapped “IN A MINIT MUMMAY – I’M TOO BUSY RIGHT NOW”. *breathe*.  I tried to ignore. But then I blew my solutions too early, I think the lack of sleep must have messed with my head causing me to lose all rationale.  I used my fake call tactic, I “called” Anna and explained we couldn’t go to the farm any more because Theo was a baby.  This usually works.  This time it didn’t, in fact, it made him more petulant, which made me more frustrated.  All the time Fatso was sitting there and I notice him sneaking bits of tomato off the beasts plate.

I then do what I promised I would never do, normally I ignore – I don’t know what got into me, I coaxed and bargained, but in the end I caused the mother of all tantrums by taking his precious motorbike away (for some reason he’d decided he got it for eating all his dinner so this seemed like a good test).  I explained he could have it back when he ate all his dinner again.  This caused a melt down which resulted being sent to the hall for 3 minutes.  When I went to get him he was tantruming on the stairs.  This resulted in much finger wagging and explaining how dangerous it is and my big gun – the thing I only do as a shock if it’s dangerous (or biting), I said he could either behave and do his time for 3 minutes in the hall or I would smack his bottom 3 times.  This makes me sad.  He chose to play on the stairs, so he got the 3 smacks.

Smacking.  So controversial.  Not something I do very often, I can count it on one hand.  And if I do it, it’s rarely very hard, probably more like a gentle pat.  But the message usually gets across.  He calms himself down, does his 3 minutes in the hall, apologises and asks for his motorbike back.  I explain he can have it back if he eats his tea later.  He does. He has it back.  We also went to the farm.

So I failed in what I strive so hard to do.  I was weak.  I didn’t follow through on my threats, and then I lost my rag.  This was obviously sticking in my mind when last night he refused to go in the bath.

A solo bath time, not my favourite (in fact, I loathe bath time), and two very tired children.  Again, while Fatso (who is trouble in his own right, I will update you on that another day) played happily in the bath I got the snappy “IN A MINUTE” response.  So we stripped him down, and instead of distracting him like I normally would I dumped him in the bath.  HUGE mistake.  As soon as I did it I questioned what on EARTH was going on in my mind.  I assume it was something along the lines of “I’m the mummy YOU WILL DO AS YOU’RE TOLD”.  I should know better.

Much splashing, shouting, crying (from baby and toddler – baby gets upset from toddler crying and from mummy shouting), naked cold kicking doors ensued before he finally calms down and apologises to Larry for upsetting him.  We have a brief wobble over PJs (not the ones he wants – tough) and when the baby is put to bed we do story and cuddles.

As I tuck him in, he says quietly “you didn’t smack my bottom today”.  I explain that no I didn’t, that because he had apologised to Larry I didn’t have to.  He says “you shouted and made me cry” (cue my a stab to the heart) we have a brief discussion about what had happened, I feel I have the final word when I say “no more screaming and crying any more, and you’ll be a good big boy” kiss him good night and stand up and go to leave the room when a little voice follows me with “and no more shouting and making me cry any more, and you’ll be a good big gurl”.

Now where the chuff is that delivery of wine?