Aimee Horton

When it’s about w(h)ine.


Today has not been a good day, which is a shame as it had all the qualities to be a lovely day.

Yes, admittedly I have girl flu and have been up half the night with The Chunky Monkey, who whilst didn’t get out of bed “until the sunshine comes up” did spend most of the night shouting “MUMMMEEEE III NEEEEEEDDD MILKKKKKKKK PLEEASSEEE. NOW“. Normally I wouldn’t cave quite so easily, but I’m tired, The Beast is tired, Mr Aimee is tired, we’re all bloody tired apart from him.

However, Mr Aimee let me sleep in for a bit longer then normal, and we agreed to visit my mum after The Beasts tennis lesson. Not mega busy, but nicely leisurely. Perfect.

Except for one tiny issue. The Whine.

Anyone with kids knows what I’m talking about. Noise I can cope with, I’m not saying I particularly like it, but I can cope with it. I can zone it out, either by opening a car window, turning on the fan over the hob, or putting on a song LOUDLY. I’ve even been known to succumb to a song that they like just to get them dancing and not talking, but whining. That’s another issue all together.

I’d love somebody to do a scientific study on whining. A study which analyses the pitch and octaves of a whine, along with discovering the proof that it does actually make grown mums and dads NEED an alcoholic beverage. How does it make you feel like you would actually rather jump out of a moving vehicle then hear that sound FOR ANOTHER MINUTE? HOW does it make you actually seriously google the term “is taping my child’s mouth shut frowned upon?” followed swiftly by Is there such thing as a Gin Drip?.

You see, the whine is a sound which sends shivers down the spine. It grates more than a cheese grater on your knuckles, it’s JUST NOT NICE.

It sits along par with nagging, and talking over you. Oh…and asking the same question again, and again, and again, and again, AND AGAIN, so that even though your answer is always the same, the way in which you present it changes each time in an act of frustration and desperation…

“yes darling, you can have something to eat when we get to Grans”
“yes, when we get to Grans”
“not now I don’t have anything when we get to grans”
“well, where am I going to get the food from now?”
“I know you’re desperate but I can’t make food appear as if from nowhere”
“what do you expect me to do? Magic it from my bottom?”
“If you say the phrase ‘desperate hungry…except for a banana’ one more time I may be forced to scream”

The Whine today caused Mr Aimee to utter the slightly naive phrase “I just can’t take it anymore, they’re always worse when we’re both at home” to which I want to shout “NO YOU JUST DON’T SEE IT WHEN YOU’RE AT WORK YOU DOOFUS”, however I replied swiftly with the justification of “no, this is how they are, you see, do you now understand the reason you get a text at 3.45pm saying ‘hurry home…bring gin’, imagine dealing with it ON YOUR OWN”.

So how does one deal with a whine? After a bit of investigation there isn’t such thing as a soundproof suit, there isn’t such thing as a gin (or prosecco, or any alcoholic beverage) drip, and it’s apparently it’s not acceptable to tape your child’s mouth shut (and even if you do this the tone of which a whine comes out can still be heard).

So I’ve gone for the only solution possible, put them to bed bang on time, open the bar at 7pm and drink enough booze to remind yourself why you wanted the little >>insert word of your choice<< in the first place.

Pass the gin.

When your brain hurts.


My brain hurts a lot this week, and considering it usually hurts between 7am and 7.30pm every day, you know this must be bad.

The noise of two children, especially after a week of half-term, along with my desperate (and poor) attempt at cutting back on gin are weighing heavy and loud.  Remember when I was looking for the mute button? *sobs* I actually miss those days.

On Saturday I tried an experiment.  Between the 07:00 and 07:30 time slot I  said the word “OK” 57 times.

“Mummy, let’s play Captain America and Spider Mummy” 


“Actually, No.  Let’s play Captain America and Captain America’s Mummy”


So, Captain America’s Mummy, you need this…this sword”


“So, I’m Captain America, He’s Fat Man, and Daddy…let’s pretend we don’t have a daddy, and daddy is…er Captain America’s Brother”


“And Captain America needs to ride a bike…a bike without stabilisers, and Captain America’s Mummy says ‘oooh, be carefulllll Captain America”


Then Daddy…Daddy comes on and says “Don’t go on that bike Captain America, Captain America isn’t Captain America he’s ACTUALLY Iron Man, and you’re The Hulk”


And then. Right. So let’s pretend I’m Iron Man, and you’re the Hulk, and Daddy is Spider-Man’s daddy, and…and…and we need Cheerios”


“So I’m Iron Man, and this is my gun.  I shoot gun things out OK?”


“So. We need to build a den, and to build this den we need a torch, let’s use your phone ok THE HULK”


“Right, so we’ve got our torch, and we’re hunting, we’re looking for people to kill and you say “Don’t Kill people OK?”


“And I say, I WILL KILL People if I want to because they’re baddies, and you’ll say “NO PUT THEM IN JAIL” and I’ll say “OHHKAYY THEN” so I’ll catch them, and I’ll put them in jail, then we can all go for Ice cream”


That was about the jist of half an hour before I’d had my cup of tea.

Then over the weekend, questions started, questions which I am totally not smart enough, or prepared enough, to deal with,  have eased themselves into my already frantic days.

Just when I’m trying to stack the dishwasher.

“Mummy.  The earths core is hot isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s right, very hot”

“What’s next to the Earths core?”

“Something else?” I say hopefully whilst trying to arrange the casserole dish so that it doesn’t catch on the spinny thing.

“No. I don’t think so.  Because if that was the case, we could dig down to the core.  Why don’t we get hot? Why is our planet not hot if the middle of it is hot? Why is it cold and wet a lot of the time”

The one while I’m negotiating the drive home..

“Mummy.  What’s this wobbly stuff on my leg? Why does my leg not have any bones in?”

“It does have bones in, it just under your muscle, and fatty tissue”

No, it’s not there, I can’t feel any bones”

“You have bones, it’s your skeleton…remember the skeleton? Remember how we said if you didn’t have a skeleton and bones you’d just be all floppy” (I am in no way endorsing that this is actually what happens…but let’s face it, he’s my child, he’s never going to be a doctor so we’re ok if the facts are slightly wooly)

“No, I can’t feel it, why can’t I feel it? And why would I go floppy? Your tummy is all floppy and you can still stand up and run about”.

Then there’s the question whilst I’m changing The Chunky Monkey’s Nappy

“Mummy, why can’t we crack this open?”

Not looking up “Excuse me? Crack what open?”

“Our heads?  Why can’t we crack our heads open and peel our skin off all the way down to our knees?”

“Because, well. We can’t, we’re human”

“So, why do we have skin? How do we get skin?”

“Because we grow skin”

“How? When do we grow skin?”

“When you’re a baby, before you’re born, and you’re growing in Mummy’s tummy, that’s when you grow skin”

“How did I get into your tummy?”

“Er…Ask your teachers”.

In some random queue.

“Mummy, how do you make lifts”

“Well…builders make lifts”

“yes…but how do they construct them?” (I’m really regretting teaching him that word, that, along with atrocious and compromise have really come back and bitten me in the bottom a few times)

“Well…I think they do it in a factory…”

You THINK mummy? Don’t you know?”

hmm. “Yes, they DO do it in a factory”

“So, how is it delivered then? How do they get it to where it needs to be?”

“In a lorry”

“That must have been a big lorry…actually ACTUALLY it must have been a MASSIVE lorry”

“Yup. It was huge”

“Did you see it?”


“then how did you know?”

And just as I’m tucking him in this evening…

“Mummy.  Why do some people have orange hair?”

“well… lot’s of people have different colour hair and some where glasses and…”

Is it because they eat a lot of carrots when they were in their mummy’s tummies?”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

While all this is going on, their is the on going counting tourettes being fired at full blast in the background, alternating with what appears to be some sort of new age rap version of Baa Baa Black Sheep and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star

Then, after all that, even as I read through the post (to make sure I don’t sound too ridiculously thick), and the thought of his questioning voice sends the sort of shivver down your spine which just makes you want to put your fingers in your ears and go “LA LA LA LA LAA LA LA LAAAA LEAVE ME ALONNEEE” I can’t help being thrilled that his mind is ticking away, that he’s motivated when it comes to learning,  I just sometimes wish the questions would come a little less intensely. OH…and I really really wish that they were more along the lines of “how do I make pizza?” or, “Can I get you a gin and tonic mummy”.

Instead, however, they are questions which not only hurt my brain, but make me question my already questionable intellegence, which is rather gutting as I thought I would have at least two more years before I would.




The first thing that my eldest son said to me this morning (after “I need a pooh”) was “Mummy, what on earth have you got on your legs?”

I’m fairly disappointed with this reaction, because I must admit, I thought that today I was fairly down with my kids.  I hadn’t even GUESSED that my outfit could have been construed as anything other then perfect.

You see, in case you hadn’t guessed, we are superhero addicts in this house.  By “we” I mean “they”, because to be honest,  I’d really rather not be dragged into the whole web shooting, cape wearing, green goblin pumpkin throwing, iron mummy, Peter Parker, Ben 10 alien rigmarole. However, they love it, so I have grudgingly embraced Marvel Comics, The Avengers, and old school Batman and Superman, and as Daddy Pig would say…I’m a bit of an expert.

Not only do I know my Peter Parker from my Clark Kent, my Ben Tennyson from my Tony Starks, and my Bruce Wayne from my Robert “Bruce” Banner, I know all the scripts to all three of the Toby Maguire Spider-Man movies, I can draw an amazing Venom, and let’s face it, my To Infinity and Beyond launching from the tree stump in the woods is pretty impressive…but I also have now been trained to audibly “oooh” at any merchendise which I come into contact with.  And it feels like we have it all. We have  super hero plates, pjs, clothes, dressing up costumes, masks, toys, sunglasses, hats, pants, plasters, cups, posters, DVDs, swimming shorts, rash vests, cars, paper, pens, pencil cases, crayons, you name it we have it.

Not that we need the merchandise while we shoot webs, jump off various bits of furniture (hmm), twist, turn and fall to the floor pretending to be hurt (I refuse to discuss “make dead” I’m not really into opening that can of worms again).

Just incase you didn't believe me.

Just incase you didn’t believe me.

So, when an email from ASOS landed in my inbox last week and a pair of leggings popped up, I was more excited then a 31 year old woman really should be.  I’d seen the Batman Bodycon dress, I’d wanted it, but I couldn’t see when I was going to wear it, and I’m not really one who could pull off a Spider-Man t.shirt elegantly.

But THESE bad boys, I wondered if I could pull them off, wear them for running in (when I start again), so with hardly any lots of persuasion from twitter I bought them.  They came, I tried on, I clapped, I loved.

Ready for some super hero running

Ready for some super hero running


So it would appear, even though my son looked at me in disgust, I am super excited about my super hero leggings.  Which begs the question, have my children moulded me?  Shouldn’t it be the other way around? After all, that’s why I chose their names, long names for highly paid businessmen, short cool names for sports personalities or a position in the entertainment industry…WHAT?! THEY OWE ME! I LET THEM DUNK THEIR BISCUITS IN MY TEA! 

Have you become sucked into interested in something you never thought you would just because you’re children are so enthusiastic about it? Or is it just me?