Miss Comic Relief lost her second tooth this week. She is now sporting a big gap on the bottom of her mouth and she loves pushing her tongue through it. It's going to take me some time to get used to it. The next two teeth are the ones that make the most difference to the face. I am so used to how Miss Trouble Pants looks with her massive beaver teeth (poor child!) that it's always a surprise to look at old photographs.

Miss Comic Relief has picture perfect symmetrical teeth. She always has. They are small and perfectly formed, even at top and bottom. Miss Trouble Pants on the other hand started off with an extra baby tooth that made her teeth look misaligned, and they seemed larger to begin with. Now that her adult teeth are coming in (she has 7 of them) they are already fighting for space. In fact - at the age of 8 she's already seen an orthodontist, as referred by the dentist. They are planning to realign her bottom jaw when she's 10, as her overbite is 10mm.

But this isn't about her, it's about that magical creature who - for some unfathomable reason - wants to collect those little chunks of enamel with fragments of dried blood still caught in the stem of the tooth.

All I remember from my own childhood was that the tooth fairy would come during the night and switch the tooth for a coin. I can't even remember the going rate. I figured that this would be acceptable for my own children.

But apparently not.

My mother-in-law and various other sources had already furnished my girls with books about the tooth fairy. For one thing - these books contradict each other. Is there one tooth fairy, or many? And for a second - one of the books (which also came with its own little velvet bag for holding the tooth) tells the story of a relationship by letters between the child and fairy.

That book mentions that the fairies use the teeth to build their cities - which grosses me out in some ways. I know that they'd make nice white stones, but still - they are teeth! Or perhaps it's something like this -->

The idea of the tooth fairy brigade getting around with tooth encrusted jewellery really opens up a new fear - is there a black market for teeth? Are we likely to be mugged in an inky dark alley at some point?

A fairy with a baseball bat could be a very scary proposition.

Or am I projecting totally irrational and human characteristics on a mythical creature?

Back to the story. Miss Trouble Pants was 2 years old when she was given that book. So wisely - I took the small velvet bag and put it somewhere safe. I return it to that safe place after each use.

Do you think I could find the damn thing when Miss Comic Relief's first tooth fell out? Not a chance.

I found an alternate bag for her to use - a small bag that some earrings had come in. In fact, it's a far better bag than the velvet one, since that lasted precisely 3 teeth before it completely fell apart anyway.

And then came the next big task. The letter to the tooth fairy.

Because of the book, Miss Trouble Pants likes to write letters to the tooth fairy and she receive them in return. Tiny weeny little letters that I print out and cut to size. One day she asked for a photo, and that was an extra challenge. I googled high and low to find an image of  the tooth fairy that wasn't comical or sexual (amazingly, that was incredibly difficult!). Finally I found one and printed it out, covered it in contact, and popped it in with the letter.

Miss Comic Relief went straight in at the jugular. She wanted a photo of the tooth fairy too.

Now here is the difficult part. Do we make it the same tooth fairy? Or do they have their own unique tooth fairies? I wasn't sure I could come up with a second image that matched the first one.

In the end, I didn't try and match it. I found a photo that looked sweet and used that. We decided that the tooth fairies would be different ones so that this would be a totally new experience, new territory.

So here, without further ado, is the photo of our newest tooth fairy (lifted from somewhere on the internet).

She was very well received by Miss Comic Relief. 

But what is she wearing around her neck? God I hope it's not teeth!

Half term holiday is a time of gay abandon, fun filled days and freedom.

Or should be.

In reality, our half term holiday was a week long agony of torrential rain which trapped us in a tiny house with two sick children who got on each other's nerves so much that we had to separate them. From me.

So we were delighted at the chance to get out of the house on Friday to go into Southbank and see a play aimed at children called "The scribe who wouldn't scribble" which my friend had organised for her two kids and mine.

The rain didn't care that we had planned a day out. Or maybe it did care - and took pleasure in beating down even harder. Whatever devious plot the stratus has in mind, it certainly succeeded in starting our day off with the feeling of damp squibs, and we only needed to go one street to meet our friends and get drenched.

The plan was to have lunch at their house and then catch the train at 20 past one. It was a good plan. We arrived at their house at quarter to twelve, and lunch was nearly ready. Things were organised, running on schedule and the children were in high spirits.

At least - three of them were. The fourth - the youngest - was having a "moment". She was tired from all the late nights of a holiday and being demanding. She kept shouting orders at her mother who wisely decided to ignore her.

Lunch was moderately uneventful, save for the random and constant screams of the youngest, as she kept up the tirade and demanded to be hand fed, like some kind of goat.

Despite her attempts at diversion, we were ready to leave the house well before time - the walk to the station would take about 10 minutes, plus some time to buy tickets. The children were all coated up and dashing about the house in a state of hyper over excitement.

Then disaster struck. The three eldest ran into the downstairs toilet and locked the door. And then the door stayed locked. Resolutely, immovably, totally locked.

So there we were - standing in the hallway, talking through the louvre doors that lead to the tiny under-stair bathroom which is disguised as a cupboard. They are half width doors that lock in the centre with a slide latch. And all their 8 year old (and one "almost" 6 year old) might cannot move the slide latch at all. 

With their overloaded excitement gland on pure tickle, they had tried to run back out the doors without unlatching them. The full weight of three girls moving at high speed from a standing start with about half a foot's worth of acceleration has forced the doors semi open while still locked, bending the slide latch in the middle into a permanent state of lockedness.

With the latch opening attempts an obvious failure, the next step is to pass a screwdriver in and see if they can unscrew one side of the latch. The only problem with this is that the only place I can get the screwdriver in is at the top of the door, and none of them are tall enough to reach that. So I have to drop a potentially lethal weapon in on top of three girls who are probably silly (and curious) enough to all be looking up.

The screwdriver drop goes smoothly, and the unscrewing begins. And then it stops.

"It's not the right kind of screwdriver. We need one without the crossy bit."

I look to my friend, M - and she heads off to rummage in the shed again, finally coming back with the right kind. Another dangerous screwdriver handover happens without injury, and my daughter - Miss Trouble Pants is the denominated unscrewer.

It's not to be however. The screws are too painted over and stiff for an eight year old to get loose. We finally give up. The only avenue left is busting the door down.

We get them to turn their backs on the door as we attempt to pull the doors far enough open from the top to make a gap in the middle big enough to wedge our hands into, then pull it forward until the wood splinters. I am expecting great shards of wood to fly out into all concerned, pinking metal fixtures with lethal force.

While it pinches our hands, there are no other injuries - the doors pull open bending the latch further until it finally parts company with the housing and the doors are open.

The girls are free!

And our train? Amazingly - NOT missed!

We dashed to the station and made the train, then got to the theatre with plenty of time to spare.

There was a slight moment of confusion as the play started off in Hebrew - we hadn't realised the jewish connection. But while the main story revolved around three jewish letters - Samehk, Pe and Resh and their message to the errant scribe, the Hebrew language part was shortlived and they sang and acted in English. It was very good and raised some questions from the girls about what they'd seen. The letters were not the most interesting part of it - they were more intrigued by the different headgear worn in the audience. 

Unfortunately I was woefully equipped to reply with anything more detailed than "it's part of their culture and religion", I promised to look into it with them.

We thought a cafe would be a good idea after the play, but the rain - it came down. And it kept coming. The walkway near where we were was all uncovered, so we decided that an exploratory trek along the front would just end up sodden, and might not even provide coffee.

So we dashed for the station and piled back on a train.

This is where it gets fun.

My girls are typical girls. They fight, they squabble, they misbehave, they disobey. Like any other kid. But on this trip home, they were angels. Picture this - I am standing on one side of the aisle chatting with my two angels, while my friend M is on the other side - physically trying to restrain both of hers. The youngest is sitting still, but making a load moaning noise at frequent intervals like some crazy snooze button on the alarm. The oldest is trying her best to get away, and is shouting "I don't want to!" and "Let me go".

They do this to her the WHOLE way home.

It was like travelling with the beasts of Bodmin. There are two of them - who knew? You do, now.

And M - my dear friend - looked like she was ready to unravel as we got off. The promised cafe had to wait, since she would not and could not reward her little beasts for that little performance.

But she and I have a coffee in the pipes. We deserve it. SHE most of all, deserves it. Actually, I think vodka might be what she needs! Not for her - for them!

And so that was half term. Thank God school has gone back!

Photo credit: Telemudcat

Right now, the house is silent and calm, as Mr Boxer Shorts is out with the girls on a shopping trip. Shopping for moi.

That is a complete and total first. Normally, he forgets. Normally - I let him forget. I do that in order to allow him to show me that he can do it without me needling him. That he can demonstrate his love for me, and surprise me.

Strangely, it's never worked.

As I turn 40 in 4 days time (deep breath, exhale, relax... you can do this) I made sure that this year he would not be allowed to forget. And so he hasn't

The last time he took the girls shopping for me it was actually on the day of my birthday, and he went up the high street with them before lunch. There isn't a lot up our high street. If you're not in the mood for coffee shops or charity shops, that leaves you with two jewellers, one sports shop, a book shop and one very expensive luxury electrical goods shop (this one sounds promising!)

I knew that the resulting box was too small for a stereo, but the beaming faces told me whatever was in there was specially picked by them.

Sometimes, don't you wish that your other half would steer your kids towards something you'll like?

To this day, I have a small tree made out of wire, with blue rocks for leaves, growing out of a slab of granite.

It doesn't just collect dust, it sucks it in, and requires immersion to get it out!

But it still has pride of place on my dresser, because my three year old thought it was beautiful and thought I would too. So of course I do.

Today, to buy something for my 40th birthday, my husband has taken them to the Glades in Bromely. The magic ingredients of one attitudinally maladjusted 8 year old, one 5 (nearly 6) year old with a cold, and the normal saturday crowds of a shopping centre are bound result in him spending 10 minutes rushing into the nearest shop and bullying them into buying something from there, and then spending 40 minutes in a cafe drinking hot chocolate to make it look like they were shopping for a respectful length of time.

And that nearest shop - it's going to be a jeweller.

Because - when it comes down to it - it always ends up being jewellery. It's such an easy fall back. I should have realised this way back in the day, when he turned all my shirts blue and gave me a bracelet as an apology.

It's not like I haven't tried to drop hints about what I'd like. I saw an apron in the kitchen shop that I really liked. I told Miss Trouble Pants as we walked past (twice), and then I told Mr Boxer Shorts that I'd told Miss Trouble Pants. So in my mind - there is at least 1 person who should know that I'd like an apron. Except that the kitchen shop in question? It's in our high street. Not the Glades.

I know what you're thinking - "An apron?? Why on earth do you want an apron? You're willing to turn down jewellery in preference to an apron to wear in the kitchen when you're cooking fish fingers?"

Well, yeah. Sorta! I started wearing a freebie apron I was given, because it gives me something to wipe my hands on, and otherwise I end up walking around the house with a dishcloth over my shoulder. And then I saw this apron that looked really funky - I just liked the idea.

And truthfully - I don't do cheap jewellery. I don't want huge amounts of money being spent by the children on my presents. I don't wear a lot of jewellery as it is, and yet I have a large amount of necklaces living in my jewellery box. They don't get worn for years. I have my troll bead bracelet that I wear every day, and my chain with the piccolo and star pendant. Sometimes I switch that for a chain with a heart locket. Sometimes I take it off and forget to put it back on for a week.

So jewellery is not really me. Unless it's more beads for my troll bracelet. Or a leather version of the bracelet that I could use instead of my silver chain because I think they look quite good.

But that's neither here not there. Whatever bling my children have bought me, it's the most beautiful bling in the world, and I'll wear it all day.

Because they've given it with love.

And probably very sticky hot chocolatey fingers.

I had the immeasurably pleasurable experience today of accompanying 32 seven and eight year olds on a school excursion to examine rocks and soil.

I say immeasurable, because there really is no scale that can accurately rate the level of enjoyment versus panic that a trip like this can induce.

Miss Trouble Pants always wants me to go on the school trip with her. She's still young enough to think I am cool. I know that won't always be the case, but I revel in it while it's offered.

The instructions for the day were to wear old jeans or trousers that can get dirty, with the school shirt and jumper on top. Wellington boots were to be brought along too.

As a parent helper, I presumed that the same requirements were going to prevail (with the exclusion of the school uniform part, that might be a bit kinky) so I dressed down accordingly, and turned up at the school gate. There were three classes going to the same place, and the parents for each class gathered in the staff room to wait for the buses. 

Our bus arrived nice and early - first one on the scene, and promptly broke down outside the school. With one bus in front of the school, there was now no room for any other buses to get through and so the other classes had to walk down to the main road to get onto theirs.

We waited for ours to get started. Then we waited for it to get fixed. And then we waited for a new one to come. From Millwall. 

The staffroom was stifling - we'd all dressed for outside in the freezing drizzle, so eventually we all had to strip down to the lowest layer with our piles of outer swathing on the floor. In all, we ended up waiting an hour. But an hour in a boiling staffroom was heaven compared to a room with 32 stir crazy children who were expecting fun and excitement.

Eventually we were on the bus and on our way.

As the mother of two girls, I am very naive in the way of boys. To me, normal boy behaviour seems to be misbehaving. I never quite know whether a game is normal boy fun, or a fight. Like that game where boys try and kick another boy's legs out from under him. Now to me - that's being naughty! But apparently to boy mothers it's perfectly acceptable.

So I am the tyrant mother who is always bossing the kids about. The nagging one. I think they hate me. They also ignore me, so there isn't too much harm done. I get the feeling that I am not supposed to slap them about either. How unfair is that? There are some kids that could really do with a good slap up the backside of the head!

Luckily buses these days have seatbelts, because that limits the scope of misbehaviour! It doesn't do anything for the noise though.

Because we were an hour late, we had to rush through the first few things, which was analysing rocks for their qualities. As there wasn't a huge amount of scope for getting dirty, some of the boys under my care had to resort to rubbing the rocks on their faces to try and get some filth on. This is something my girls would never think of! It's almost as if they had a reputation of dirt to protect!

The centre had a good playground to let the kids burn a few engery bars down. The boys ran off in the direction of a football, and the girls played some intricate game of it in the corner.

I hid in the opposite corner, sucking down coffee from my flask. It was blissful for about 5 minutes - until the first casualty of the day. And guess who - of course, my daughter is face down in the woodchips, having fallen off a log face first.

She's spitting out dirt - must be taking the topic of the trip very seriously! But underneath the muck there are no grazes and no blood, so the only real injury is to pride.

The next part of the day is painting with dirt. Yep - dirt mixed up with water to make mud. They all drew three trees with pencil, then use brushes to paint the dirt over the top. They painted with chalky, sandy, and loamy dirts, which make three distinctly different shades of brown. I was quite impressed with the results. 

Then came the muddy part of the day - a walk up to the local church with is built from flint and sandstone. It wasn't as muddy as I feared it might be fortunately! Because we were so late we had to skip a few other mucky activities, including "mud rolling" in order to leave in time to make it back to school.

Just before we board the bus to come back to school the kids run around like crazy for 5 minutes. That's all it takes for the second casualty of the day to occur. And it's my daughter again. I was washing my hands when someone came to tell me she'd fallen over, and I laughed and casually finished drying before I went out to check on her. But then I looked out the open door and saw then entire class including all the adults crowding around her as she lay prone on the ashphalt. Shit! I abandoned the drying and ran out feeling guilty.

She was fine though, she had a graze and probably a bruise on her butt, but it was probably mostly shock at the time. Her legs slipped out from under her and she'd hit the ground hard just below her hip. Her pride however was ever further dented, and she just wanted to sit with me on the bus on the way home. She was crying as we got on because her teacher pairs them off rather than letting them choose their own seat mates.

He's a very smart man though - he manipulated the kids in front so that she had no partner, and then apologised that to her that she'd have to sit with an adult. Which was me. 

So we got to sit together and chat all the way home without her being embarrassed.

There won't be too many more moments where I can take an active part in her school life - let alone her want me to be there, so I love the chances I get.

And I am glad we missed out on the mud rolling.

* Picture credit: It's the cover of a book called "The School Trip" by Nick Butterworth and Mick Inkpen, both of whom have been perennial favourites of my girls!

Tonight was the Sunday night bath, which is a weekly ritual that the girls love. Having grown up with a brother, I am relieved for the sake of the general household aroma that mine are both girls, and therefore likely to continue to enjoy cleanliness even as they reach the teen years.

But baths tend to take up a lot of time because the girls love to play. They still have bath toys. Or more correctly - toys that happen to now live in the bath. They'd squeal and laugh and spell out words for hours if I let them. They get out looking like a pair of little pink prunes, and the bathroom is soaked. 

During the week there are days where we can safely skip a bath, especially when we're coming in late from drama or ballet or any of the other myriad of extra curricular activities we stack our afternoons with.

Sunday on the other hand, is the night before the week begins again. So there is no skipping to be done. Everything needs to be squeaky clean and ready for school. It's the night I stack all the skivvies in the drawer, line up the grey tights, fold the trousers, hang the blouses, iron the tunics and polish the shoes.

And of so course it's also hair wash night, which makes the whole bath thing that bit more involved.

Miss Comic Relief has long thin fine hair. It's not a problem to wash and comb, although keeping it tidy is another thing altogether. But Miss Trouble Pants has long thick wavy hair. It takes ages to work all the shampoo through in the first place, and three times longer to get it out again. It has to be conditioned after shampooing if I'm going to have even one hope in hades of getting a comb through it afterwards.

So the way it works is like this - I wash and rinse their hair first, then smother it in conditioner and pin it up so that it really soaks through. Then I let them play in the bath for a while.

But this week I am not really very on the ball. I've had a cold since monday, when the gods of snot decreed that I should runneth over, and I've been battling the sore throat, cough and sinus headaches all week. It's not actually a bad cold. I just feel crappy. I feel crabby. And I act it too.

I am so crabby that the joyous sounds of my happy children playing and laughing grate on my nerves, and I hide out in my office while they bathe. I'm only in the next room, but the sound is somewhat muted and more bearable. All that pleasure and delight. Ergh. 

I wait until they've reached perfect prune density, then I go back to rinse off the conditioner and get them out of the bath.

I am greeted by a strange sight. As Miss Trouble Pants stands up - a foam "t" sticking to her backside - I notice a strange red rash. It's like a red blob made up of tiny dots just above her bum cheeks. Like dots of blood under the skin. 

I am going in for a closer look, my eyebrows narrowing as I squint at it. I can see that it's a concentrated patch of dark spots.

"What have you done to your back?" I ask, although I already fear that the rash is one of those terrifying varieties that doesn't go away when you press a glass against it, and I am visualising the sodden trip to the A&E in our crappy that had broken down earlier that day.

I don't expect giggling from both girls, and a small blue hippo to be presented as exhibit A.

It's the suction cap that holds the netting bag of bath toys to the tiled wall. Comprehension dawns in a rush, and I realise that what my daughter has on her back.

It's a hickie.

A hickie from the sucking kisses of a plastic hippo!

There are more on Miss Comic Relief's back, although they were not as successfully done, so don't have the really scary look of meningitis. They still stand out on her very pale skin.

Still, at least the hippo didn't invite her up for coffee!