Explanations, What It Means To Be A Single Parent And Some Breaking News   Just when I felt this blog was dying on it's feet like a punch-drunk boxer who has taken one KO too many from somewhere has come a mysterious life force. I did think that there was no more to say and I was outstaying my welcome. However I was lucky enough to babysit for two young nieces over Xmas and it was like a trip back into my past. Firstly though I've been 'told off' (again) for using the odd so-called inappropriate/'offensive' word (even when asterisked) so I have to imagine this blog is being read by a child from Victorian times. It's not so good for free expression but never mind. Also I never meant my previous blog to be a feeling-sorry-for-myself-I'm-so-poor riff but it's been a revelation that coming off benefits/tax credits you instantly become quite a bit poorer. I'm in a job that's just classified 'full time' (i.e. 30 hours a week) so I know I could try and get an evening job and might have to. I wouldn't want anyone's sympathy – just hope I'm telling it like it is!   My close family live the other side of the country these days and I try and visit for a few days maybe 3 times a year. I look forward to it even more as I now have 2 nieces (plus step-niece) – they are aged 10 months, 23 months and 4 years. I found myself volunteering to babysit the youngest and eldest so my brother and his girlfriend could have a break and go with my Dad to pick up my sister from a train station. It had nothing to do with an opportunity to watch the great Barcelona on their TV. Due to connection problems they would run late so I would have 3 ½ hours with the kids. In one of my jobs I can be surrounded by teenagers (which is great); in the other it's primary school kids. But to be with a baby and a pre-schooler was something I'd not experienced for years.   Straight into the deep end as it was teatime. They had a dodgy looking shepherd's pie. The older one wanted to watch TV next door (Barca weren't on for a couple of hours) – I didn't have a problem with that. I manoeuvred the baby into her high chair (you forget how little things like this take skill and patience) and then, in no rush, fed her small mouthfuls of the mush. She ate lots of it, which made me feel good. There was a yoghurt nearby for afters that she'd spotted while on the main course but I'd quickly hidden it. I realised it's little tactics and tricks like this which make quite a difference. After we put some music on (nothing too crap) and got loads of toys on the floor. All this time you adopt a kind of half-language that infects your mannerisms and movements – all in the name of communication. The baby had a bottle of juice nearby at all times that she could drink when she wanted it. Also there was a dummy. This had a use. The baby wanted to put everything into her mouth. My uncertainty was what was safe? So instead of a small building block I'd substitute her dummy. We carried on like this leaving a trail of toys over the floors like the scene of an ancient massacre. I also found that lots of talking to the older girl (even in another half-language) meant she was happy with everything going on. She was fine about the switchover to the football after a Spongepants Bob episode although this would then be the source of the only moment of tension. The baby had fallen asleep in my arms (enough to bring a tear to your glass eye) and I was engrossed in the footy. All of a sudden the girl switched the telly off at the mains. She wanted my attention so she could go to bed! So I had to lay the baby down and explain to her to tell me (and to wait until half-time) while at the same time try and get the footy back on (not an easy task). Not long after the posse arrived and I had mixed feelings.   So what did I learn about all this? It was satisfying and fun to babysit for a few hours – you need to be a bit resourceful, you got to problem solve, you can be a bit stupid, you get the buzz when everyone's happy. But I realised for any length of time it would start to become a bit draining, some 'drama' or 'crisis' would happen, you'd want to do something for yourself. This is what it means to be a single parent. Often liberating and joyful, but equally knackering and frustrating. But I'll be volunteering next time.   Finally some breaking news. My son seems to be given the old heave-ho from the shared flat after a New Years Eve party too many. In order to not cause offence I can't say what I'd like to. I hope it'll be a blessing in disguise. The search for a new place will start, too early to panic. He knows that to move back here will probably mean the end of his job (too far away). His Mum can provide emergency accommodation. At least it gives me my next blog!