Phonecalls post kids

Pre motherhood phonecalls were excellent. Really top notch. Beautiful examples of clear adult communication.

I mean, we got cut off every five minutes or there would be some jarring darlek- like announcement from time to time but looking back, I can say, hand on my heart they were bloody lovely. 

Since being blessed with two delightful toddling sprogs with only an 18 month age gap I can safely say phonecalls are shite.

Now, not only do I have to compete with the signal cutting whims of Mother Nature, and the urgently announced need for WO Pugwash to hot foot it to X deck for tea and crumpets with El Captaino, I also have to compete with two screaming small people.


They are happily smacked up on CBeebies, or whatever the latest offering from the iPad is, when the phone rings. 

I spring into action, drop the latest pile of plastic tat I’m tidying, or clothes I’m about to wash, or the cloth that’s wiping rice crispies laced with fucking mastic off of the high chair and get to that phone.

The very split second I answer, the nano moment I depress the talk button with my thumb, the very instant I reach my goal- it happens. 

My two little contented angels morph into the spawn of the kraken.

They simultaneously start screaming and shouting at me, whilst making a beeline for my calves. I don’t know why they do it, I don’t know how they do it. To be honest with you I don’t really care. The point is they bloody do do it.

So that’s the beginning of the phonecall buggered then. 


The rest of it is usually a disjointed conversation, half me trying (and failing) to tell Popeye about my day. The other half is a disjointed running commentary, of what Popeye must only be able to imagine is some kind of scaled down humanitarian crisis. It goes a little bit like this:

“…yeah so I’m really hoping that I can get X done at work tomorrow. Sweetpea put that down, no now, mummy is getting cross, … otherwise it will really mess up the deadline, what is that? No, mummy will take that, it can hurt you, you will cry and need to go to the doctor. Yes the doctor will make your owies all better, but that’s not the point! …that I’ve got on Monday.

I spoke to my sister the other day, yeah she’s fine, she’s moving house and- oh shit Sproglets got a sippy cup full of squash, hang on, (cue wrestling-a-ten-month-old-over-a-cup noises) –give it to mummy, good girl, it’s ok don’t cry. Sproglet  here, look! How about this toy ooh look it’s got lights WOW!…so they haven’t set a date for completion but it should be exchanging in the next- Sweetpea give it back to your sister, no, she had it first, give it back now please. Show mummy your BEST sharing!

So how are things with you? Really? Cool. Oh hang on  Sweetpeas just come over. What’s the matter? You need a poo. Of course you do. Ok yes mummy will come with you and help. 

What’s that Popeye? You need to go? You’re tired. Of course you are. I know how hard you work. No it’s fine. NO! DO NOT TRY TO WIPE IT YOURSELF! I’ve got to go too, love you, bye *click*.

And all of a sudden I’m standing there in the bathroom staring at a toddlers poo-ey bum wondering what the hell we just spoke about.

And realising how bloody excellent pre kids phonecalls were. 

Muchos love, 

Olive

Quiche mum and the tartlettes- my first night out

Those of you who follow me on Facebook will know that Tuesday 17th of May will now and forevermore be known as THE day I went OUT OUT.

Yes me the navy wife-hermit-usually knocked-up-Olive went outside. After bedtime. With eyeshadow on. 

Those of you with sprogs will totally realise the gravitas of this. I was nervous like I had a job interview. My palms were sweaty. In the end I spent half an hour deciding that all my clothes are horrible and wore something I also wear to “tots n tunes”.

Popeye describes me as a “co-op quiche mum”. Meaning that we don’t eat organic, I do not bake, and we do iPad and CBeebies. And when me and the other mums meet up for a “bring a plate” type gathering, I swing into the co-op at the end of the road, leave the kids in the car (shock horror) and dash in for a quiche and bottle of wine. This has become my signature offering at such events. 

Anyway I was at top of my Quiche Mum game on Tuesday. I had my slash neck t shirt I wear ALL the time on, I wiped the baby sick off as we left and had really pushed the boat out by digging out my good bum jeans. You know the ones. We all have a paid of good bum jeans.


We got there. I went in a taxi! I was all wide eyed and heart thumping. (This was partially because of the glass or two of wine I’d had mid wardrobe crisis). Popeye said I looked like I was going to throw up. I possibly was.

We got there! We went to a bar called Drift in Southsea. I have no idea whether it was a good bar or not.

All I know was there there wasn’t a ball pit or soft play area in sight. There were no crayons on the tables and there was no sign for the nearest changing area. Just a sign pointing to the beer garden. The beer garden for crying out loud. 

Cue harp music and cherubs flying about

There were a few points that shook me I admit, but I overcame them navy wife style:

  1. Skinny gorgeous sailorettes wearing basically no clothes. I had no idea that wearing underwear as outer wear was a thing now. Next time I’m rocking up in my nursing bra and support knickers. Pretty fly. I over came *this* by reminding myself I am fucking awesome. And I’d rather have boobs and a bum and clothes on when I’m out and so would Popeye.
  2. I did not know any music. I overcame *this* by drinking spiced rum and dancing with Popeye like a LOON. I have the rhythm in me after all #childofthe90s
  3. I have apparently become deaf since entering motherhood. It was so loud. I overcame this by laughing when people said stuff  and hoping for the best as no one was listening to each other anyway.

We danced, I drank, it was over far far too soon. I forgot how going out with sailors is more a marathon than a sprint. Or a sprinting marathon. Whatever, all I know is I had a good time even if I had a few false starts.

By this point in the evening I had shirked my Tee and revealed my basics vest from primark

I had a great time. Popeye said he hasn’t seen me like that in years, in a good way I hope. In the end all the sailors moved on and we got a taxi back to our car and got lost on the M27/A27. I do not remember this. I was apparently giving Popeye, what I can only assume, were A* directions home, that he obviously was not following. 

Well that’s all for today. Hope you guys get to go out with your sailors and meet all their co-workers. There are very few jobs where you regularly go out on the piss with people you have to see the next day. Like a weekly Christmas Party. 

Muchos love X

P.s Popeye came up with the the title for this post whilst we were out before I’d  properly met anyone. He made me promise I’d use it. I will let you figure out who the tartlettes were.

(Although annoyingly they turned out to be really lovely and fun. Of course. ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿปโš“๏ธ๐Ÿ’—)

๏ปฟI’m a Finalist! 2 of 2

Now that I’ve had the weekend to think about my nomination for Best Lifestyle Blog I’m about 60-80% sure that there’s been some kind of cock up and I will soon receive an email to say “sozzles Olive old girl but actually you’re not up for Best Lifestyle Blog because, let’s face it, your life has no style.”

Seriously. I’ve had a nosey at the other blogs in my category and I’m up against some heavy hitters. They all have HUGE Twitter followings and seem v v professional and clean and cool and trendy and stuff.

Half my blogs have typos and are many are written whilst a semi naked toddler sings “let it gooooo let it goooo” at me whilst perched precariously on an IKEA  value lime green potty. The other half of my posts are written inbetween nappy changes, nose wipes and breastfeeds. I have no uber hip blogster office, no cool blogger friends to have coffee mornings with and I don’t even have my iPad to write posts on anymore because Sweetpea nicked it to fuel her Peppa Pig YouTube clip habit. 

My life has no style! 

I don’t blog about clothes or fashion because I either have no idea of what’s in fashion, or I see teenagers on the street and think they are dressing like I did back in the 90’s (black velvet ribbon chokers and trouser skirts anyone? Since when did that become cool again???)

I am generally wearing the same outfit for 2-3 days and if you ever bump into me there’s a 95% probability I will have baby puke on my left shoulder.

I don’t even brush my hair some days I just tie it up and hope for the best. 

I can’t remember the last time my feet had heels on. I can’t remember the last time I wore an underwired bra and not a nursing bra. There is no such thing as matching knickers and bra sets in my house. Heck there’s no such thing as matching socks in my house.

My life has no style. 

My blog posts don’t have nice stylish photos on them. They either are from the fruits of a 30 second Google search or are the result of a quick snap with my iPhone. I do not look good in these photos. I haven’t got the time or the talent, I wish I did.

Popeye said to me he hopes that if there’s a “Bloggers Biography” or the MAD blog Award team need to use my photo for anything that they use this one, from my post Safety and the Navy Wife – because I look fucking mental.


My life has NO STYLE!

I can’t blog about “normal life” of what I’ve done with my hubby at the weekend because I never sodding see him. 

I’m much more likely to be blogging about sniffing his dirty T-shirt or crying over his snotty tissues, drinking too much wine and eating cereal for dinner or how to kick a full packed kitbag off the bed with minimum effort, in a childish attempt to stop him deploying again than blogging about anything chic or classy. 

Argh! My life has no style! Zilch! Zip! Nada! Zero! Squat! 

Calm down Olive, just pause for a second and think.

I guess I am blogging about a way of life. 

A navy way of life, a military way of life. A way thousands of families are living day in day out, right under everyone else’s noses. 

I guess that that is the lifestyle angle. Hmm, food for thought, no?

My life may not have style per se but, thanks to the Royal Navy, my life sure does have a lot it life in it. 

I guess. 

Tots100

I just want to say a HUGE MASHOOSIVE HONKING THANKYOU to all my supporters, followers and friends for coming with me on this adventure. 

Please, if you haven’t yet just quickly throw a vote my way, and if you have time share this post or one of your other faves, it means the world to me.

You can vote for me as Best Life(without any) style Blog by clicking right here and filling out a little form.

Muchos love, Olive X 

Why I wish I was still a weekend warrior

I’ve been having a long hard think about which side of the fence has greener grass. Or which side of the bridge if we are going Billy Goats Gruff here.

For the first couple of years of our marriage I was what is known as a Weekend Warrior. A wife, girlfriend or other type of partner who only sees their sailor at weekends, not through the week. On weekdays your Popeye sleeps on the ship, and you sleep (starfish) in your bed.

  
At the time I thought it was a bit rubbish to be honest, so when I was four or five months pregnant with Sweetpea we upped sticks and moved to Southampton, away from all my family and friends, so Popeye could come home every night so I wouldn’t be essentially a single parent. I say “we” but Popeye was deployed so I had to organise the whole move alone, alarm bells should’ve been ringing!

I’m beginning to regret it.

I’m beginning to regret it now we have two babies under the age of two. Double the crying, double the nappies and usually half the parenting.

Popeye is away far far more than we thought he would be. And unlike my Weekend Warrior days I’m now not used to hacking it alone Monday to Friday. Instead some weeks he’s here to help, other weeks I have nothing. There’s no consistency and the main reason we did this, so he wouldn’t miss girls growing up, seems null and void now because he’s missing it anyway!

And I’m sinking. 

I’m in a city where I’ve got no roots, I’ve made some utterly fab amazing friends who are to be honest, keeping me going right now. They come round and help and listen to me moan and then go home to their partners flabbergasted, about how the fuck I am managing and not losing my mind. 

Except that I am sinking. 

I can’t help but feel that if I was away from here and back with family that support me I’d be able to plan my life a bit, feel a bit more in control because no matter what the bloody tin can is doing, alongside, at sea, Popeye on a course, in Portsmouth, Plymouth, wherever, my life and my routine would be the same Monday to Friday. 

I wouldn’t keep feeling like I was having the rug pulled out from under me at a day or twos notice.

I’d have regular dependable help with the Sprogs. I’m pretty much on my todd here with the girls and childcare costs are becoming a strain on us. Being back in good old Scummerset would mean I got more emotional and practical support. 

I’d love to be able to pop round and see my sister or my mum instead of doing FaceTime after bedtime. 

If I revert back to Weekend Warrior the girls could grow up in the countryside like I did, cows moos not police sirens would be the early sounds Sproglet will name, unlike her big sister who knows the difference between the police and the fire brigades sirens. She’s 21 months. 

  
But am I just seeing it all through rose tinted glasses? Was it really that good back then or was that just because I was a navy wife and not a navy wife and a mum then?!

I just feel that we moved here for Popeye and he’s not even bloody here so if I move back it would be for me and the girls. 

He’s basically deploying for a year anyway!!!!

Being a navy wife away from your family is hard. I’m constantly reevaluating my life here to see if this is the best deal for me and my girls. 

And the thing is that this changes on whether Popeye is home or not. I wish I could be in Somerset during deployment and near the ship the rest of the time!

Back OFF-I’m a military WAG, not single!

For the vast majority of a deployment you are of course pretty much on your own. On your todd. Uno. Table for one. Just little old Olive trying to get by. 

But of course, that’s not really true is it? You are taken. You are wanted by a man. Hell- hes so bowled over by you that he’s terrified you won’t be there when he gets back and so sends you more romantic stuff in six months than most other girlfriends or wives get in five years. In short it’s tough but he’s worth it!

And if you’re anything like me, you want to scream it from the roof tops.

IM NOT SINGLE! For the love of God stop giving me that “poor dear- she’ll probably end up a spinster” kind of look! Im in LOVE ok? And it’s not even unrequited! It’s very much requited! (Side note- is that a word?)

I think it when I get a sympathetic nod from the checkout lady at tesco, when I’m buying my ready meal for one, tub of Ben and Jerrys and bottle of wine (standard).

  

I think it when I go out (I should say when I used to go out-now I’m all mamma’d up a late night is being out past 7pm and fills me with irrational anxiety) – and people either chat you up or say I don’t have to pay for rounds because, you know it’s not fair because I’m alone.

Or when blokes say “what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him”. Well actually dick cheese it would hurt him. And me. And us. And no slimeball guy in a bar who talks to me like that is ever going to compete with Popeye. So run along little Weasel and try it with a women made of weaker stuff. Quickly before I punch you. 

I want to say it when I see other Mums and Dads at the park or wherever and see the Dads not even interacting with their kids- “do you know  how freakin lucky you are to have that time?! And you’re just pissing it away! If Popeye was here he would be showing you up mate.” 

So I have come up with a few ideas. I may even dragons den one. Deb Meaden would be onside I’m sure.

Ok, how about a “I’m not single I’m neck deep in deployment shit you couldnt handle” neon flashing badge? One that’s invisible until you get *the look* then you fire that baby up? Ka-POW!

Or…how about a speaker hidden discreetly in a bra that shouts loudly “phone call from YOUR HUSBAND incoming, I repeat YOUR HUSBAND is phoning you –now!!!”. This would also be useful for a phone ninja who is in a noisey place or who can’t hear very well. 

Ooh ok, how’s about this- some kind of hat with a flag on the top that you can flip up that simply says “TAKEN- back off loser!” 

I’m not completely against all that “my hearts out at sea”, or “My sailor, my hero” stuff but it’s not really my cup of tea. See this post to see my POV on that. 

Sometimes you need to be heard a little more clearly, with a little less soppiness, and a lot less fashion sense. 

Muchos love x