Horse manure

Um...  hello.  (Small voice drifting up from a hole a long way underground). I'm not joking. I really am stuck here. What have I done? I shared my dirty secret. I exposed myself as a big giant wannabe and now I have no chuffing clue what to write about.

Dali's nightmares have nothing on this. The top of my head opens like a hinged box. A huge pile of horse manure spews out. Horrified, I try to grasp at my bits of manure, but they slip away through my fingers, floating off into the blogosphere. Anyone know the number of a good psychologist?

Why would a normally private person do this to herself? Create a blog, call it a mum blog, rant about a few things, mostly off-topic, and then post a link to your nearly 200 friends on Facebook. Nice one, Om in Mom. Pure genius.

Forget it folks. I must have momentarily lost my marbles. How about we just switch off our iPhones, laptops and all other electronic devices and do something a little less futile? Hey I know. Go to the freezer. Pull out a bag of frozen peas. Count them. All of them. Do it three times. And then write a blog about it. Yeah.

OK, rant over. I only posted today because Dan Pearce of Single Dad Laughing said that to build a successful blog you should aim to post every day. (I'd insert a link to said blog if I knew how...) Well, nice idea Dan, but I think I'll be the one to decide the optimum frequency for my self-humiliation process. Thank you.

So that's all for today. (Om in Mom taking a bow and retreating hastily backstage). Doubt I'll be back tomorrow. Got a plane to catch, and an impressive amount of hand luggage to pack.

One woman band and a celebrity spotting

We're home in England for a week. For now I'll just tell you about the journey over, flying solo with my two boys and an inordinate amount of hand luggage. My amazing partner takes us to the airport on his lunch break. He drops us at the check-in desk, pulls out a luggage strap and, with a nifty little knot, he invents a fabulous contraption that enables me to push the buggy with my two year old in, my three year old on the buggy board and all our luggage attached. All with one hand. He's quite something my man.

We say our goodbyes and I make my way to departures, gliding effortlessly through the airport, boys and baggage all under control. A veritable one woman band. I am so pleased with myself and my contraption that I have to text my partner on my mobile using my free hand. Because I can. I bask in the admiring looks and comments as I zip past people who are struggling with far inferior amounts of luggage.

Until, that is, I get to the security gate queue. I eye the zigzag cordon with a sinking feeling. I forge ahead resolutely, taking the corner posts with me at every direction change. Horace goes skiing springs to mind. I receive amused, sympathetic reactions from the people behind me in the winding tailback. As I turn the final corner, I catch the eye of a friendly man, and give him a “phew I made it” look. He smiles. I smile back. And then I freeze. It’s Boris Izaguirre (a Venezuelan-Spanish TV presenter: funny, camp, immensely likeable). Why do I get tongue-tied around famous people?

The one woman band is made to completely disassemble for the X-ray machine and then reassemble again. All bags and boys are on board. Tickets. Passports. Double-check. Boris is long gone. Damn. In a parallel universe we’d have gone for a coffee and I’d have told him about a night in Salamanca five years ago when I went to a party at my literature professor’s house with a bunch of other post-grads. My tipsy prof read aloud some passages from Boris’s (rather steamy) novel. Surely every writer would love to hear about a scene like this involving the reception of their book. Boris, I’m sure you read a lot of mum blogs... If you’re out there could I just say thanks for the beautiful moment. My dynamic, passionate and illustrious literature professor loved your book.

A different kind of picnic

Hello! I'm still here. Just been living in a hole for a few days with a poorly three year old, a stir crazy two year old and a giant to-do list that's growing by the minute. We went to the hills of Segovia over the weekend with my partner's sister, two cousins and all our kids. It was fabulous: paddling in the stream, drinking fresh milk from the farmer down the road, eating free range eggs, feeding donkeys. Good old fashioned fun. Boy did it feel good to get out into nature and recharge a bit of om.

Still no pearls though... Wait, how about this one for tired mummies stuck at home with sick kids climbing the walls? Lower your standards, let your hair down and hang out on the floor a bit more. I did today. We had a lounge picnic. Super simple – blanket on living room floor, leftover chicken in sandwiches, slices of pear and apple. Preparation time: approx. 2 minutes. Fun factor: 10. At one point my eldest decided to lie down to eat his sandwiches. Of course his younger brother followed suit. What could I do but adopt this new sandwich-eating position as well? My three year old summed the whole thing up nicely: “This is a different kind of picnic. It’s a relaxation picnic.” :-)