It's been a little over eight weeks since my little man made his début on the outside world. During this time I've mastered the art of juggling, can multi-task like never before and have learnt many a very valuable lesson, but mostly, over everything else I've learnt, I have come to understand the true meaning of the term, 'Mummy's Boy.'




My goodness that child, though I say it myself, is completely delicious. I could get lost in his enormous baby blues, when he gazes at me, his eyes wide like deep blue pools, I become completely mesmerized. And his head, oh the sweetness of the scent of his little bald head, I wish I could bottle the fragrance and smell it forever.




If I actually owned an apron, it has to be said, I think I would tie my little Leonardo to the strings with great big bows.




And I used to seriously despise Mummy's Boys, honestly I did. (Though perhaps it was the actual Mummies I despised more than their Boys.)




Perfectly good men have been kicked to the kerb, many a mobile phone number erased and several, otherwise promising, matches have been burnt-out on account of all the boys sharing one common trait, f'ing awful Mothers.




To give you an even clearer indication, I once dated a guy who had to be home every evening, without fail, at seven o'clock sharp to share an evening meal with his mother. His mother had a particular thing against girls being in the house, and since I did not actually posses a penis (though had more balls than most men I know,) I of course was never actually welcome to stay and thus had to wait for the duration of the meal, (usually three courses) outside. In his car. Oh yes, his car. He was 21.




Seriously 21 years old and unable to invite a girl in for tea?! Nor to even perch quietly on the couch whilst he ate his tea. Utterly crazy. I guess you know it's time to ditch 'em when they rush a dinner date with you to be home for a second date with the mother.




Now I've always been nice and polite and respectful towards those women whom bore the sons that I took interest in. I always tried to be friendly and I always ensured my skirts were never too short nor my heels too high upon meeting the parents, yet it was a rare occasion when my manners were returned by the Mums, (though Dad's have always seemed quite pleasant.) And typically those fortunate enough to not have dragons as mums were usually the ones I wasn't all that bothered about in the first place.




I suppose if I were to really analysis things it was the single Mums, the Mums who had single-handedly taken care of their little boys, who were always the most unpleasant. And I totally get it, they'd invested time and love and effort into the life of their strapping sons and were so frightened of being left along when, or if, that son flies the nest. I can understand that, of course, yet the upset I felt by being snubbed by this breed was enough to make me vow that if I ever had a little boy myself, I would be different, no matter what my circumstances.




My Nanny Brenda says, 'A daughter is a daughter all her life, a son is a son 'til he finds a wife.' Now I don't know if that's true, but is enough to make me want to lock my little Leo up in his bedroom for years and years, away from the temptations and troubles of girls like me. Unreasonable, yes. Stupid, yes, but true nevertheless. Alas I know from my own experience that to breed and raise yet another Mummy's Boy is unnecessary and frankly cruel to any would-be suitors out there.




Fortunately my own Mother-In-Law has managed to do a pretty perfect job of raising her offspring to ensure he has the perfect balance of Mummy's Boy Syndrome in him. He loves his mother, adores her in fact, he respects her and can get her to do all his ironing with just a little wink and a smile, (pretty much the way he gets me to do most things too lol) and yet he does not share a freakishly unhealthy or abnormal relationship with her at all. I definitely think I could take a leaf out of my mother-in-laws book, and I'm not even saying that just for the brownie points either. :-)




It is my intention to raise my little boy to be a happy, healthy, kind and caring young man, with all the qualities of a gentleman, the courage of his namesake - the lion, and of course the strength of an ox. I know, I'm striving for absolute perfection, but I do like to aim high :-)




I have come to realise, within these past few weeks, that the methods of which I use to raise my little Lady however differ from those I use with her baby bro.




Not that I treat my children unequally or love them differently or anything, I am absolutely head over heels for both of them, it's just that I've discovered that raising a little boy and raising a little girl are two completely different tasks.




I can't quite put my finger on the actual differences between the methods I use though, it's odd. I suppose it stems from my wanting different things for them perhaps? Different aspirations and different ideas of the kind of people that my two little cherubs might grow to be. Of course nobody knows what the future holds for either of them, all I can really do is prepare them for the paths I imagine they may take.




And let's face it, certain qualities are more beneficial for certain sexes. I don't mean for this to sound old-fashioned or chauvinistic or anything. It's not like I'm going to teach Lori how to sew and bake and powder her nose and all that and then teach Leo to make paper aeroplanes, play keepy-uppy and construct a number of weird and wonderful things from wood, (haha, can you imagine?!) - It's just that I believe there are separate foundations for each gender that need to be laid down before the building can commence. (I realise I make reference to building and stuff quite a lot lately, blame my mother for getting me hooked on, 'The Home Show,' and then blame the gorgeous softly-spoken George for being way too irresistible to switch off! Lol – Sorry Jay.)




I'm not going to stereotype my kids according to their sexes, despite my own personal preference for men to be men, (rugged and tough) and women to be women, (flirtatious and feminine) I won't be upset if Lori becomes a mechanic and Leo comes home wearing make-up (though Daddy might have a thing or two to say I'm sure! Lol) just so long as they are happy, I'm happy.




And on the off chance that this blog still exists in, ooh i don't know, 20 years or so, I'd like to make the following declaration to those who may have the pleasure of falling for my children, they way i have done . . .

I, Stephanie Connolly, hereby promise to never wind up being an absolute dragon of a mother-in-law, (just so long as you take care of my babies :-) )




x

 
 
My husband, Jay, hasn't exactly got, what you might call, a way with words. I mean, he tells hilarious jokes, (he never forgets a good punchline, unlike yours truly,) and he can do great accents, (my favourite is his Irish one, it's delicious -I would have married him in seconds if he'd used that on our first date!) and when he's working he uses a silver tongue in all his sales pitches. Yet when it comes to describing things Jay will almost always favour his own terms, sound affects and actions over the language of a standard Oxford English dictionary.


It took a while before Jay and I truly understood each other. Not that we have a lack of communication or anything, it's just that I am, in Jay's words, 'a posh Surrey tart,' with a love of the English language and he is a typical west -end London lad that knows and uses virtually every form of cockney rhyming slang ever invented, (and some that I'm pretty sure he's invented himself.)





You want me to give you an example don't you? Hmmmm, well he once called me and said,

'I've just gotta rub over me Baked Beans before we go out tonight. Should I wear my Scooby's or my Gloria Gaynors?'




Which roughly translates to,



'I've just got to iron my jeans and should I wear my shoes? ('Scooby Doo's') or my trainers? '




Gradually, as time has rolled by, we've managed to find a compromise between our two languages so we can chat like any other couple, though I still use terms he finds hilarious and he still says things like, 'tune, by the way,' when a good song comes on the radio or, 'it ain't about that,' when he finds something he doesn't like so much.




One of my favourite characteristics that my gorgeous man possess though is his ability to do Blockbuster sound affects. Seriously he can make the strangest noises. He can simulate a car or a plane or any other motor for that matter, and can make machine-gun noises that wouldn't be out of place in any violent movie. I think it's a talent he shares with the majority of his kind, (the males species that is,) because I've noticed that lots of boys can do it. (Perhaps they learnt at the secret lessons boys had at school, the one where they also learnt to set their farts on fire and to make paper aeroplanes that really can fly?!)




Anyway the point is I am now pretty much used to the way he communicates and thus wasn't surprised when he just pointed out that instead of his life being, (*whistles* a happy tune,) it's more, ('dun, dun, DDDDUUURRRNNNN!!!')




(What he means to say is that instead of everything being easy and simple in his life, it always seems to be complicated and dramatic.)




And this, I'm afraid is where I have unknowingly influenced him. You see my life is always a little dramatic too, I almost always take the hard route and those things that old people are always on about, that are 'sent to test us,' always seem to be sent directly to me. (Perhaps I should redirect my mail?!)




Drama always seemed to follow me around, yet now it appears to want to follow Jay too. Which is why my husband is currently stranded approximately 170 miles from home up in Middlesbrough.




It's a long story, (which involves the loss of a car key and the lack of a spare,) and the conclusion is that instead of being home with Mummy and Leo, Daddy is wearing yesterdays clothes, smells like a tramp, (I imagine, because he forgot to take a towel to use after taking a shower,) and is awaiting the arrival of the spare key which should be with him before 9am tomorrow morning, (according to the very nice lady at the post office whom also kindly informed me that I'd forgotten to actually seal the envelope containing the spare key. Ooops.)




So anyhow I am now technically home alone. Little Leo is spending the night away with Nanny Sandie, (which was arranged during the bizarre hour during this afternoon when it was suggested that I would act as courier and rescue my hubby by taking the 4 hour (and £77!!!) train journey up to meet him,) and Lorelei is still down at Nanny Annie's (and I'm missing her like mad!)




I've got my Tilly and my Jack (both of whom act like Rottweilers, will keep away the burglars and thus will, for one night only, be allowed to sleep on my bed tonight!) – I've got my Tinkerbell (although she hasn't been home for a while, dirty little stop-out) and of course I have Woody and Lucky (the two ducks in the garden) but other than that I'm on my tod.




I'm a 21st century chick. An independant woman. I don't need a man. I enjoy my own company and will saviour this time alone. Ah who am I kidding?! I miss them all already. And I don't quite know what to do with myself.




I have toyed with the idea of drinking Jay's Stella's in the fridge and then belting out a few tunes on the karaoke machine (yep, we must be the only family in Britain to have a karaoke machine in our living room! lol) but singing solo to a couple of mutts seems a little sad, even for me.




I have also toyed with the idea of clearing Lorelei's room and getting cracking on the makeover I'm going to perform as a surprise for her when she returns home. (I've been all inspired by 60-minute makeover and have concluded if they can do a whole house in an hour (give or take the tea break they have half-way through, lazy buggers) I can certainly do a room in 2 weeks!) - Yet I just can't bring myself to tackle the mountains of bits of plastic and play-dough and broken or unused toys.




The telly is somehow displaying billions and billions of channels but still absolutely nothing worth watching and the housework is beckoning but I'm on strike. No way am I going to spend the evening scrubbing thank you very much. (Though I am aware that it is Wednesday and therefore I need to 'do the bins.' Yet since this is Jay's job I'm not really sure what, 'doing the bins' actually entails . . . anyone? lol)




I could go out. Except I have about a fiver in my bag and cash-card is up north. I could invite some friends over, (except we've nearly run out of toilet roll and I don't think it's very good etiquette to invite guests over and ask them to bring their own.)




What did I used to do before I became a Mummy and a Wife? It seems an age away . . . let's see . . . If i wasn't in the pub, or out dancing the night away I might have been in the gym, (Katy and I used to go together. We'd weigh ourselves first, then work-out, then weigh ourselves again, then go and have a Maccy D's to console ourselves on the discovery that we hadn't lost an ounce. Lol) – or failing that I think i would have been at home pampering and preening and beautifying myself.




Yep. That's what i'm gonna do. Stick my ipod on shuffle. Spend an hour in the tub. Deep-condition my hair. Exfoliate. Moisterise. Face-Mask. Slip into my softest PJ's and chill . . .




And just like that. Suddenly I'm not feeling quite so lonely after all ;-)