You may recall my post about elephant ears and what a disappointment (of sorts) it was to discover that they were not, in fact, mammoth trophies but were…well, if you don’t know, you’ll have to read the post for yourself.
Now I discover there is another kind of elephant ears: the kind you can eat! The best kind.
Don’t worry, I might not be vegetarian (shudder) but even I would balk at a pachyderm pot roast.
No, my lovely American friend Laurie, who blogs at laurieanichols, sent a surprise parcel in the post – a tin of elephant ears: homemade biscuits, so-called because of their shape.
Sadly, the Hub has just been diagnosed as diabetic, so he couldn’t have any; Spud doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, so he had a taste, approved of them, but declined to eat any more; Tory Boy lives elsewhere; and I watch my weight these days.
I value my friendships more than my figure, however, so I manfully swallowed as many elephant ears as I could.
At the risk of offending all of my other friends who have fed me homemade biscuits before, I have to apologise and say: these were the best biscuits I have ever tasted.
I will always remember them fondly. And so will my waist. Thank you, Laurie!
To relieve it, I have gathered together some funny, interesting and dull stuff. You can thank me by reciprocating in your comments with your own interesting facts.
Children are a great comfort in your old age — and they help you reach it faster, too. Lionel Kauffman.
One thing they never tell you about child raising is that for the rest of your life, at the drop of a hat, you are expected to know your child’s name and how old he or she is. Erma Bombeck.
Somewhere on this globe, every ten seconds, there is a woman giving birth to a child. She must be found and stopped. Sam Levenson.
The longest war in history was between The Netherlands and The Scilly Isles. It ended in 1986 after 335 years.
Peanuts are an ingredient of dynamite.
A sneeze travels at over 100mph.
The shortest war in history was between Zanzibar and England in 1896. Zanzibar surrendered after 38 minutes.
The names of the continents start and end with the same letter.
Being a parent changes everything. But being a parent also changes with each baby. Here are some of the ways having a second and third child is different from having your first.
Your Clothes
1st baby: You begin wearing maternity clothes as soon as your pregnancy is confirmed.
2nd baby: You wear your regular clothes for as long as possible.
3rd baby: Your maternity clothes ARE your regular clothes.
Preparing for the Birth
1st baby: You practice your breathing religiously.
2nd baby: You don’t bother practicing because you remember that last time, breathing didn’t do a thing.
3rd baby: You ask for an epidural in your 8th month.
The Layette
1st baby: You pre-wash your newborn’s clothes, color-coordinate them, and fold them neatly in the baby’s little bureau.
2nd baby: You check to make sure that the clothes are clean and discard only the ones with the darkest stains.
3rd baby: Boys can wear pink, can’t they?
Worries
1st baby: At the first sign of distress – a whimper, a frown-you pick up the baby.
2nd baby: You pick the baby up when her wails threaten to wake your firstborn.
3rd baby: You teach your 3-year-old how to rewind the mechanical swing.
Dummy
1st baby: If the dummy falls on the floor, you put it away until you can go home and wash and boil it.
2nd baby: When the dummy falls on the floor, you squirt it off with some juice from the baby’s bottle.
3rd baby: You wipe it off on your shirt and pop it back in.
Nappies
1st baby: You change your baby’s nappies every hour, whether they need it or not.
2nd baby: You change their nappy every 2 to 3 hours, if needed.
3rd baby: You try to change their nappy before others start to complain about the smell or you see it sagging to their knees.
Activities
1st baby: You take your infant to Baby Gymnastics, BabySwing, and Baby Story Hour.
2nd baby: You take your infant to Baby Gymnastics.
3rd baby: You take your infant to the supermarket and the dry cleaner.
Going Out
1st baby: The first time you leave your baby with a sitter, you call home 5 times.
2nd baby: Just before you walk out the door, you remember to leave a number where you can be reached.
3rd baby: You leave instructions for the sitter to call only if she sees blood.
At Home
1st baby: You spend a good bit of every day just gazing at the baby.
2nd baby: You spend a bit of everyday watching to be sure your older child isn’t squeezing, poking, or hitting the baby.
3rd baby: You spend a little bit of every day hiding from the children.
I went grocery shopping yesterday and rather enjoyed it. I don’t normally like shopping; I never have, even when we had plenty of money. I am intimidated by bored and rude sales assistants – but at least they are better than hairdressers. Hairdressers are scarier than dentists; scarier than walking Stockport streets at night; scarier even than a doctor’s cold hands at a five-yearly check-up. They hold the key to my appearance in their hands, and I am powerless to stop them having their wicked way with me. I once had a hair cut. I asked the hairdresser to bob my hair to the top of my shoulders, and cut in a fringe. As she was combing it, she remarked on my natural kink, saying that she had one and it was useless trying to fight it. She decided to give me some layers to make it manageable, and then she began cutting, and cutting, and cutting; tiny snips at a time. I was in the chair for at least an hour, but by the time I realised how short my hair was going to be, it was too late to protest. I wasn’t wearing my glasses and her friendly chat lulled me into a state of torpor, and it was only as much time passed that the horror of what was happening gradually dawned on me. She bobbed me to the top of my neck, not my shoulders, so I had what’s technically known in the hairdressing trade as ‘short hair’. Giving in to the kink meant flicking it out at the back, but the sides and front curled under. I have to say that I was really pleased with the whole look for as long as it took me to walk out into the damp British air and the frizz to kick in. The hairdresser later confessed to my mum, who she knew and was therefore another reason not to complain about my shearing while it was happening, that she just couldn’t stop cutting and I was sitting so quietly and acceptingly that she kept talking and cutting and talking and cutting in panic.
Tory Boy decided to grow his hair long when he was fifteen. I had to accept his decision but it drove me nuts, particularly as he is the only person I know who can wash his hair without cleaning it and dry his hair so that it remains wet. Then there was the unexpected side-effect of his unplugging the hairdryer without switching it off. Every time I came to use it, it would explode into action as soon as I plugged it in, leaving me several heart attacks closer to a hospital. I tried telling him politely, and followed it up with a threatening email when that didn’t work; eventually I was forced to hide in the kitchen, jumping out on him whilst simultaneously turning on the hairdryer as he walked in, so he could have the hospital bed next to mine. But it didn’t work; he looked at me as if I was stupid and, when using the dryer, began exaggeratedly showing me he had switched it off, and then secretly switching it back on again to catch me out. My only choice was to ban him from hairdryer contact altogether and wake him an hour early so that his hair had time to dry naturally before school. Lack of sleep on my part meant that strategy lasted one day.
My Blonde Friend once gave me a load of luxury bubble bath as she had developed an allergy, nudge nudge wink wink, know what I mean John? Remember that annoying advert from the Seventies? Eric Idle and Breakaways, if I recall. Aren’t adverts strange? As a child I thought only brunettes got dandruff because there were no blondes in the Head and Shoulders ad. I was astonished when Tory Boy got dandruff: my then scruffy blonde baby never rinsed his hair properly, of course. Anyway, Blonde Friend gave the bubble bath to me instead of her mum because she didn’t want her poor frail mother to slip in the bath. I treated myself to a luxury bubble bath one Sunday night while the menfolk were watching Top Gear (this was in the days before I discovered the strangely attractive midget that is Richard Hammond). Despite three metre-high bubbles, I didn’t really enjoy my bath: as I was getting in I slipped and banged my knee and was in agony for an hour; the menfolk couldn’t hear my howls of pain because they were laughing so hard at TG downstairs.
Hair plays a big part in my life. I wear a full body apron, no sleeves, and a tubee over my head when I cook, a la Yentl, because the favourite saying in our house during a meal isn’t, ‘That was delicious, Mum,’ or even, ‘Well, at least you tried,’ but, ‘I got the hair.’ My hair finds its way everywhere: the usual places like plug holes and bed, but also in all food (even when it’s stored in the fridge) and behind the toilet. I don’t know how it gets there; it’s not like I ever go behind the toilet to clean. The Hub is also affected by hair. He likes to give our pets the best life he can, and if that involves buying brushes to groom gerbils, then so be it…he will ignore my mocking laughter while they sit nestling in his hand for a brush, then take their turn to groom the hair on his arms, and his moustache.
Even Christmas Dinner can be hair-perturbed: one year, things went better than usual in spite of my mild hysteria, first over cooking, then on putting my chair and all my weight on TB’s foot (screaming adolescents are not good for my nerves, no matter how much pain they claim to be in). However, my hat would not fit on my head over my tied-back hair, and I pulled out my clip in a hissy fit, threw it on the floor and tried again to adjust my hat, which snapped back over my right ear, leaving my ear ringing, me sulking, and my family laughing at me. It wouldn’t have happened if I’d been to Mum’s hairdresser on Christmas Eve. That was the year the boys gave me thoughtful gifts: TB bought me a month’s supply of Maltesers and Spud bought me a Christmas pinny, a collapsible washing bag, and a pair of nose hair clippers.
I truly believe that the hardest part of being a parent is letting my children go, which is rather ridiculous, given that I spend all my time preparing them for independence, for a time when they won’t need me. Having said that, there are mornings when I am more than happy to let some of my children go…like the morning when TB berated me for being cruel, wicked and unfair, for not only did I make him polish his shoes and apply his acne cream, I didn’t pass him the lemonade bottle last night when it was me who wanted him to tighten the top after pouring him a drink while he was drying his hair, thus making him late for school fourteen hours later and forcing him to rush. I admit it: I am a dreadful mother; I thought so as I watched him through the window, strolling to the bus stop while fiddling with his mp3 player, hair doing a passable imitation of Jimi Hendrix in a wind tunnel, clearly determined not to miss that bus he was so late for. It was not the first time my teenage son had stressed me out: he once managed to turn a civil invitation to the cinema into an argument that left me rescinding the invitation and stabbing an innocent chicken sandwich. This is the child that I took shopping with me yesterday. Nineteen and determined to one day rule the world (watch out teachers, you’re heading for a colony in Antarctica), he spent the time choosing alochol supplies, riding the trolley, and out-Barry Scotting Barry Scott with his Cillit Bang advert impression.
I enjoyed my shopping because I saved £20-odd. Stuff was marked down by £1-2 – only 19pence for cooked chicken slices! I thought I’d died and gone to pound shop heaven. I loaded my trolly and later my freezer, and we may be eating ham sandwiches for the next three weeks but, hey, it only cost me £1.37 so stop moaning and enjoy the added hair flavouring.
A final word on hair things: the Hub once made pom-poms with our niece, helped her with her cross stitching, made bracelets, and beaded her hair, much to Spud’s disgust at such girlie activities in the man who claims to be his father. It didn’t surprise me. When we were courting in our teens, I sat with my cropped head and watched his mother plait his pony tail, muttering all the while, ‘I expected to do this for me daughters but not for me son!’ No wonder gerbils like his moustache. And don’t start feeling sorry for him because I’m mean: he likes to be kept on his toes by my teasing, believing variety is the spice of wife.
I am a little fat. I like food; what can I say? I have dull hair: mousey. I don’t wear much make-up and have no need of a dressing table. If I look like a bag lady, I chose my own clothes. If I look nice, the Hub picked them for me. Despite all this, I am a little vain. This photograph is from 2003. I had to go back that far to find one of me that I liked. But I don’t really care: my husband still thinks I’m beautiful and if he doesn’t, he loves me enough to lie about it. I’m lucky. I have two boys. They never lie to me. Still, you can't have everything.
The Laughing Housewife 
I have the funniest readers in the blogosphere (not necessarily ha ha…)