All posts by ShaziaK

Me Time

Remember when you used to have a life….before the kids came along, and you could do whatever you pleased? When getting your roots done, your eyebrows threaded or legs waxed was considered basic maintenance and not luxury ‘time out’ from noisy, belligerent/beautiful brats? These days I have to meticulously plan and book all of these necessary appointments well in advance (and yes, they are necessary as nobody wants to have a moustache or a caterpillar monobrow – it’s not a good look). But I also consider these appointments a bit of a treat these days as they enable me to escape the madhouse and focus on myself, albeit for pruning purposes. As I’m being plucked and prodded I feel immensely thankful that I have an hour to myself to indulge on ME.

Time out. Woo hoo!

Some women feel terribly guilty about indulging on themselves. Fortunately for me, I don’t suffer from any such affliction. I even make a point of having monthly massages to destress and get rid of all of those toxins (that’s what I tell the Old Git anyway when he rolls his eyes at me as I’m heading out of the door). Happy wife, happy life. Happy mummy, happy home. Mums experience daily levels of stress that often go through the roof, be it when your kids repeatedly ignore you, have hissy fits in the supermarket or reject all meals and demand Cheerios instead. Sometimes I feel as if my eyeballs will pop out of my head out of sheer fury or that I will implode with frustration. Having a relaxing massage or getting my eyebrows beautifully threaded is a welcome, exotic escape from this and provides me with much needed respite. I don’t care if you are a brain surgeon or a CEO of a multi-million dollar company, kids can stress you out like no other, as well as emotionally and physically drain you.

There is of course the small matter of living within your means. Nobody is suggesting you splash out on a luxury spa weekend every month (although it sounds delightful) or have a hair and beauty consultation with a celebrity stylist. As implausible as it sounds, pampering doesn’t have to be lavish or overpriced. It just has to focus on you.

So whether it’s an evening spent at the gym, a touch up at the local hairdressers, or a quick mani/pedi, all these things are valid ways to spend your time, not just because they help you keep fit or look good, but primarily because they give you a breath of fresh air and make you feel good. How brilliant is it to be able to read Hello Magazine whilst drinking tea at the hairdressers and not have to worry about Ludoo having a potty accident? How wonderful is it to be able to get my threading done whilst listening to relaxing music and have no child whinging about using the iPad or wiping their snotty nose on my top? Glorious. It’s a brief reminder of my life B.K. (Before Kids) and a way of affirming my own identity as Shazia Khan the woman, not Shazia Khan the mum. Most of the time I tend to the needs of my kids, but for that one hour of pruning, I tend to myself.

Embarrassing Encounters

Last week I saw my builder in his underpants. It’s true. He’d been working on my bathroom, and after he’d packed up for the day, he decided to get changed out of his “builder pants” into his regular trousers. Which is fine, apart from the fact that he decided to do this in the corridor. Of course I walked out, only to be confronted by my builder with his trousers around his ankles and an expression of utter shock on his face. What’s more, he wasn’t wearing boxers but skimpy Y-fronts. For once in my life I was completely speechless. Neither of us knew where to look or what to do. I quickly composed myself, walked past, he pulled up his trousers and now we act as if nothing ever happened. Which is of course the most appropriate way to deal with such an encounter.

But then it got me thinking about all the other embarrassing experiences that I’ve had. Like when I walked in on my friend’s (now ex) husband sitting on the loo at a dinner party. I just could not look him in the eye again after that. Or when I was around eighteen and my top, which was buttoned down the front, completely popped open whilst I was talking to a male friend. Just like that. In full view, in the middle of the library. Credit to my friend who kept his eyes firmly on my face. But that just seems to be the British way. We pretend as nothing has happened and quietly move on.

Of course children are the one MAJOR exception to this. They don’t ever quietly ignore things and will always make a song and dance about anything potentially embarrassing. But it’s not because they are evil little psychopaths. No. It’s primarily because they are still learning to process other people’s feelings and filter their own thoughts. So, when Ludoo points at people in the supermarket and asks loudly why they have got a “big belly” (no, these are not pregnant women), or when Flump stares at people in the changing room, after swimming, and queries why they have “fur” on their private parts, I have to remind myself that they are still learning the art of empathy and sensitivity (but first I bollock them for embarrassing me so publicly).

Kids often ask quite valid questions but always at the wrong time. They don’t get the concepts of tact and discretion. They just tell it like it is and it takes years of embarrassing episodes before they understand that it’s not necessary to blurt the first thing that comes into their overactive, chaotic, brilliant little minds, especially if it refers to other people’s body parts. Big sigh.

But back to my builder. I have to say I am impressed by how quickly we have both been able to forget and move on from “pants gate.” There’s no residual awkwardness and he seems to be doing a good job in the bathroom. The only thing I will say is that I do have the occasional flashing image of his skinny legs in tight underpants. He really does need to invest in a decent pair of boxers.

Just say NO to pants like these

Personal Space? What’s that?

I don’t know what it is about little people but they have absolutely NO concept of personal body space. If they are giving you kisses and cuddles, that’s all well and good, but a lot of the time it’s neither of the above. I’m forever getting poked, prodded, tugged, stepped on, yanked and slapped.

Take yesterday. I was doing the usual ferrying around from nursery to school to home to swimming (taxi please). Whilst Flump was busy dunking her head underwater and ignoring all swimming instruction, Ludoo was hanging off me like a baby baboon. I could barely see a thing as his legs were wrapped around my neck and his ass was in my face. Each time I tried to rearrange myself he would find some other way of contorting his body around mine. Trying to make any conversation with other parents was completely pointless as Ludoo just got in the way….literally. On other occasions he has been known to wipe his nose all over my clothes just after I’ve got ready to go out, or rip my tights and find it hilarious. He’s a hooligan, I tell you (he must get it from his father).

Baby gymnast

And then there’s Flump. She seems to have a worrying case of wandering hand syndrome. She is obsessed with poking and (ahem) squeezing certain body parts of mine. I keep telling her it’s TOTALLY INAPPROPRIATE but she insists she only wants to do it to me and that she likes how squidgy they are. Okay, too much information. But I really should have seen it coming as she did once pinch an estate agent on his ass when she was three years old…poor man didn’t know how to react, as the Old Git and I looked on horrified.  Anyway, the bottom line is (see what I did there?) my kids appear to have some serious boundary issues when it comes to me (thankfully they don’t do it to other people, apart from the estate agent incident which was years ago). As far as they are concerned, I am there to be jumped on or groped as and when they desire, and sometimes it flipping annoys me.

The question is how do I get them to respect my personal body space without rejecting them? I can hardly tell them to sod off, can I? I reckon the answer must lie in chocolate buttons. If I deduct a chocolate button from their hypothetical stash each time they physically harass me, then that should be incentive enough to stop, surely? Or perhaps I just have to sit it out and allow myself to be manhandled?  After all, it’s their way of showing affection and expressing their needs, albeit in an irritating and invasive way.  Soon they will be teenagers, slamming doors in my face and grunting at my every sentence. Then I will be the one harassing them, lunging for kisses and a cuddles.

It’s a Mystery

There is something very suspicious going on with the Old Git. The other night he came home with a gift. He has been known to occasionally bring home some flowers or chocolates (three times a year on my birthday, our anniversary and Valentine’s Day, and even then it’s with some passive aggressive prompting from me), but on this occasion it was something different. He unexpectedly presented me with a  dress. Now for some of you lucky/smug folk this may be nothing extraordinary. But let me reiterate, this is not normal behaviour for the Old Git. Nope. This is the first time in almost ten years of marriage that he has ever surprised me with an item of clothing as a gift.  And what’s more shocking is that it was rather nice. Which leads me to only one conclusion…he must be having an affair.

The dress in question

Why, after ten years of marriage, would he behave so strangely? What has prompted this sudden fit of generosity and romance? He must be feeling guilty about something. The mind is in OVERDRIVE. But I’ve checked his phone messages and emails (we all do it, right?) and there doesn’t appear to be any unusual activity. I’ve also checked the credit card statements and there aren’t any unaccounted expenses. When I query the Old Git about his motives he just shrugs sheepishly and carries on with his day.  Which leads me to my second conclusion….he must be having some sort of mid-life crisis.

You hear about it all the time. Men reach a certain age and they start questioning their priorities. They go out and buy convertible cars, take up extreme sports or pack in their jobs (if the Old Git ever did the latter he would be DEAD). My fear is the Old Git is heading towards some sort of dramatic, catastrophic life changing moment and the dress purchase is an indicator of this. SHIT. What the hell am I letting myself in for?

Then of course there is a third possible explanation. I could just take the Old Git’s word for it and accept (albeit suspiciously) that he just wanted to do something nice for me. He isn’t exactly the chatty type and so having a ‘deep n meaningful’ about why exactly he bought this dress hasn’t yet materialised, despite my best efforts (he would rather clean the toilet or watch paint dry than have a conversation like that). But what I am aware of is that he gave me this gift on the eve of his big milestone birthday. I wonder if the approach towards middle age has brought with it a moment of appreciation for him? He hasn’t said it in so many words, but I think he has realised just how flipping brilliant a person I am and how lucky he is to have me as his fantastic wife and the mother of his two (somewhat demanding) children. That must be it. Sometimes, at key moments in our lives, we do experience an epiphany about who and what is important and reach out to those we may take for granted. It gives us all that warm fuzzy feeling. I think I will settle for this rather more favourable interpretation of his recent strange behaviour. Naturally I’m very grateful and all that jazz, but let’s just say, I shall be watching him closely.

Day Out in the Pissing Rain

Today I was forced to bite my (otherwise very vocal) tongue and be gracious about spending the day out in the pissing rain. “It will be fun” he told me.  “We will have a great time,” he promised. All in the name of flipping quality time with the children.  A day out at a family theme park on a cold, wet and windy day …my idea of adult hell.

Ordinarily I’d tell the Old Git to sod off but as it was his birthday I thought I’d be a little kinder. Plus he had already told the kids who were hyperventilating with excitement so I was, in effect, trapped.

Against my better judgement, off we went to our local theme park in the pouring rain. The kids looked like drenched little rats, Flump had mud seeping through her socks, Ludoo’s eyelashes had rain dripping from them, my wet jeans were stuck to my thighs and the Old Git was marching ahead holding onto a Hello Kitty umbrella.


Despite all of this they all seemed thrilled to be there, running from ride to ride, happy to wait in queues (why on earth were there other families there in the pissing rain, that’s what I want to know??) and enjoying their “fun day out”. I, on the other hand, was wondering what the hell I was doing there. Apart from the obvious bad weather, I had to traipse around a monstrosity of a theme park, subject myself to men dressed completely inappropriately (flip flops and shorts in the pissing rain, I kid you not), and eat really, really bad, tasteless food. The icing on the cake was being forced to sit on a ride with Flump and getting squirted in the face with water as the Old Git watched on and laughed hysterically.

If looks could kill
If looks could kill

Let me make myself clear. This is not how I would normally choose to spend my time. I’m more likely to be found sitting in a boutique café sipping on an Earl Grey tea with a warm chocolate brownie (kids in tow, if necessary). I don’t do theme parks….out of choice. Last year, when we went to Paris we did the compulsory trip to Euro Disney and I seriously wanted to kill myself (and Mickey). I’d rather take my kids to a museum or sightseeing and expose them to a bit of culture and history. But of course they would rather learn their times tables or stick pins in their eyes.

So in my book, I’m an absolute flipping saint for allowing myself to be subjected to the pissing theme park experience. I’m feeling quite smug about it now as I’ve scored in the good wife department (the Old Git is happy/stunned that I complied) and I’m apparently a “fun mum,” according to Flump. I may well have been emotionally blackmailed into it and may well have wanted to beat the Old Git to a pulp for suggesting such a horrendous family day out, but everyone’s a winner right now……………the things we do for love. Just don’t ask me to do it again any time soon.

Oh to be Single Again.

A lot of my friends are still or newly (post-divorce) single and they all seem to be having a ball. I’ve discovered there is a whole plethora of dating apps at one’s disposal and an equal number of networking and meet up events that singletons can attend. Every five minutes my friends seem to be getting ‘pinged’ by interested parties on these applications. And trust me, these guys aren’t all unattractive weirdos. Some of them look decidedly yummy and quite well accomplished. Today I spent a good hour swiping left/right/up/down on various dating apps on my friend’s behalf. I was absolutely mesmerised. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun! Not only that, my friends get to go out on exciting dates, get wined and dined and complimented. In contrast, I get a takeaway from the Old Git on a good night, and a grunt on a bad one.

Of course the downside for my friends is that they have to manage multiple dating profiles which can all get a bit confusing and exhausting apparently. They tell me text flirting with all of these hot guys is time consuming and tiring. Boo hoo, cry me a river. What’s there to moan about? Whilst they are out hitting the town I am sitting at home watching documentaries about serial killers. Whilst they are getting their hair and nails done in preparation for their dates, I am cleaning up potty accidents. And whilst they have plenty of exciting anecdotes to share about their hot dates I have tales of toilet training.

I think I may have a case of dating envy to be honest. Last month I had garden envy (my neighbours have an immaculate back yard which makes mine look rubbish) and this month it’s all about dating. I miss the days of dressing up for a date, going to cool restaurants and the butterflies in the stomach that accompany it. Nowadays, if I get any kind of feeling in the stomach it normally means indigestion. Unfortunately (or is it fortunately?) the Old Git and I don’t get to go out together as much as much as we used to due to two little blood sucking, sweat inducing, tear provoking human beings that currently control our lives.  But back in the day we had a ball. Perhaps I need to channel this residual dating envy in a constructive way and make more of a concerted effort to organise date nights with the Old Git? Now there’s an idea.

The grass is indeed always greener. My single friends may think I live in a permanent state of marital bliss and I may think they have an exciting, sexy, party-going lifestyle. The reality is neither is true and each of us has joys and sorrows. The important thing is, I suppose, to appreciate what we do have in our lives and not yearn for things that we don’t. So, I’m going to pick myself off my reclining sofa, put the TV remote and Kit Kat to one side, and go and find the Old Git to give him an appreciative kiss [no tongues]. He may just keel over in shock.

Nursery Drama

Ludoo is back at nursery and by God I’m excited. The problem is Ludoo is not. Despite attending all of last year, he is finding the whole morning drop off routine quite traumatic….again. There is a lot of wailing, gesticulating and nose wiping going on.  And he’s not the only one…the other day it was like a frigging chorus of ten screaming children, with Ludoo being the loudest and most expressive (apart from this one child who was rolling around on the floor howling hysterically).

The interesting thing is, I never had this issue with Flump. She just skipped into nursery and got on with it. Independent and full of enthusiasm. Ludoo, in contrast, starts sobbing before we even get to the nursery gate, with his desperate pleas “Mummy I want you, mummy I need you.” Admittedly it’s hard to hear and not the ideal start to my day. As awful as it is, I frequently leave him sobbing in the capable hands of his nursery teachers. The key, I find, is to make a quick exit…the longer I linger the worse he becomes. And when I return to pick him up, he is perfectly happy, with food, paint and snot smudged all over his face, just like all the other children.  I know he’s had a good time and I know it’s good for him (and me) to be at nursery.

I’ve come to realise that some children are just more sensitive and needier than others. Ludoo demands my full attention and requires constant reassurance. Sometimes it’s at the most inappropriate of times, for example when he kept asking me loudly at my daughter’s school assembly ‘Mummy do you love me?’ at five minute intervals. It was a bit embarrassing but if I didn’t reassure him he got increasingly agitated and upset. That’s just him. Whilst it drives me nuts sometimes and can make life a lot more challenging (especially in the mornings), the flip side is no man has ever given me this level of attention in my life. EVER. Not even the Old Git when he was trying to woo/trick me. I am the centre of Ludoo’s world and the focus of all of his attention and affection. I’ll take it for as long I’ve got it.

The Old Git’s Approach to Bedtime

I don’t know how it rolls in your household but my old man’s bedtime routine is diabolical. It takes about two hours longer than my own ‘wham bam get in bed or else you’re dead..’ approach and consists of rolling around on the floor, laughing hysterically, a lot of tickling and running around like crazed puppies on speed. I can cook a meal, do the washing, watch two episodes of EastEnders, and the Old Git will still be getting the mini monsters ready for bed.

Quite frankly it doesn’t bother me if I’m off out with the girls… as long as I don’t get any phone calls from the kids wailing down the phone and demanding that I come home…my phone’s normally on mute anyway [evil laugh]. But if I’m at home and I ask the Old Git to put them to bed so that I can get on with the zillion other things I have to do, it narks me off when I can hear them having a party upstairs. Why can’t he just get on with the task in hand? Why over excite them before bed? And why does it always have to end with me stomping up the stairs and yelling at them to get a move on?

My evenings, post bedtime, are the equivalent of a relaxing spa day but without all the spa facilities. I like to switch off, chill out and recharge. So if the kids eat into that time too much I start twitching like a deranged person. But for the Old Git it’s a totally different experience. He hardly gets to see them during the week and so the weekends are precious time spent with them. Even though it pains me and goes against all my Hitler tendencies, I suppose the odd night spent where the kids run riot isn’t going to kill me. If it’s good for father/daughter/son bonding, then who am I to piss on that parade?