Maternal Tales from the South Coast

Can you believe it? My two year Blogoversary.

2011-02-09T19:43:00.009Z

It has just occurred me that today is my two-year blogoversary.

I know, I know. To think that I almost let it pass by unnoticed.

And yes, I hardly write these days and I'm a crap blogger friend, so what's there to celebrate you may ask?

Well, any excuse for a glass of champagne...

And simply because I love to trade off my former glories (have you see my 'new' Facebook phot0?), I am going to celebrate by leaving you with my top ten favourite posts. I was going to make it five, but I just had a quick scroll back through the archives and they're just too good, I tell you.

And it's my blog so I can say that.

Go on, have a read. I used to be funny once...

The one where my child got a baked bean stuck up her nose.
The one where I said 'congratulations' to a woman who wasn't pregnant.
The one where I farted during a massage (sorry I mean the one where a 'friend' farted).
The one where I ate some poo.
The one where my friends named their child Helga. Except they didn't.
The one where my child learnt about the cruelty of death whilst watching the Grand National.
The one where we dropped poo in the car.
The one where I realised sheep have it much easier than us during childbirth.
The one where I found a grey pubic hair.
The one where I stepped on dog poo. Only I thought it was dog poo.

Now where did I leave that bottle of champagne?

Almost Wordless Wednesday (Almost on time)...

2011-01-20T20:23:00.002Z

Six years of growing...

Gone in less than a minute...

A little bit of Silliness

2010-12-19T14:29:00.003Z

It may be snowing outside.

I may still be in my pyjamas at 2.30 in the afternoon.

(Having not done one tiny piece of Christmas shopping).

And my husband may even be stuck in Poland and might possibly not make it home in time for Christmas.

But I'm not phased by any of it.

Oh no. Not I.

Because I have two children to keep me entertained. Believe me, this has gone on since the early hours...

Happy Birthday big girl

2010-11-18T12:14:00.005Z

To THE most beautiful girl in the world...

(Cut me some slack - I am her Mother).

Happy Birthday little one.

Four years ago today we met for the very first time.

It was just before three o'clock in the morning, 12 days after you were due to arrive and I have to say, it was about bloody time. Not least because we were moving house two weeks later.

I'm sorry if the first noises you heard from me weren't exactly comforting, but you did have rather large shoulders, even then, and gutteral screams were all I could manage. It wasn't your fault sweetie. I think it was more likely the resulting stitches which caused the agony.

When I look at you now I truly do think you're the most beautiful creature in the whole world. You AND your sister of course *cough*. She'd never forgive me.

But four years ago I couldn't have said the same thing. I can't lie. Your face was more than a little squashed, rather angry, and a funny shade of purple. And that rather unsavoury goo you were covered with? Well, let's just say, it did occur to me at the time how lucky I was that I wasn't a lion or a sheep or else I would have had to lick you clean.

*shudder*

But a lot can happen in four years.

And I'm pleased to say that you've had a few baths since then.

It's been a good year being three hasn't it? In fact I know the tantrum you threw last night was only because you were sad to say goodbye to three, wasn't it?

But four is good. At least that's what your sister says. I don't think I can remember that far back.

She says that you'll learn to ride your bike this year because that's what she did. And maybe, just maybe, you'll learn to write your name too. Your mastery of the letter E is certainly coming along nicely.

I can't wait to see what this year holds for you. You're beautiful Edie. You really are. And I'm not just saying that because I'm your Mummy. Your Daddy says it too.

Happy Birthday beautiful.

Toys for a cold and rainy day

2010-11-08T14:30:00.010Z

My mission for the weekend was to work my way through the ridiculous pile of toys delivered to me by the increasingly amazing and generous ToysRUs.

And just for once I was grateful for storm clouds and freezing temperatures because neither of my girls wanted to leave the house. So if you're looking for something to entertain the troops on a cold and windy day, then look no further.

Now I want you to know that I am always, always honest with my reviews, something which the Hello Kitty Rotator Creator and Skechers Shape-Ups discovered to their dismay. So when I tell you that the following toys were AMAZING, then hopefully you'll know that they really, really were just that. AMAZING.

Sticky Mosaics Unicorns & Ponies.

Why were they amazing? Well if you're a Mother like me who treats five minutes to yourself as a rare and beautiful thing, then this scores maximum points. For near-on two hours*, three girls between the ages of three and six were kept entertained without the need for constant parental intervention.

It was bliss.

For all of us.

I can't say I'll be hanging their, erm 'artwork' on my sitting room wall just yet, but as an exercise in starting and finishing something creative with no mess involved, it was 100% effective.

Similarly, the Sprayza Art Studio, Blendy Pens Medium Art Set and Reeves Painting by Numbers provided a few more hours of entertainment with something creative produced as a result. All four products reviewed come highly recommended by my little, but dedicated band of reviewers.

*And just in case you're interested to know how I spent all that free time, I made a mosaic unicorn myself of course. Well, it looked like such fun!

Pumpkin Designs

2010-10-30T19:03:00.004+01:00

Sometimes, just sometimes I like to blow my own trumpet...

And I'd be even more impressed with myself if they hadn't taken 4 hours!

Hello Kitty's a big NO NO

2010-10-17T19:42:00.010+01:00

Today I give you our review of the Hello Kitty Rotator Creator.

Positives.

Anything with Hello Kitty in the title is bound to be a hit in this house. (For the review Edie was wearing her Hello Kitty knickers).

The cup and stirrer were pink. Always good.

Negatives.

Everything else.

All too numerous and depressing to re-live.

Needless to say I shall be crying over my plaster-splattered carpet and brand-new trousers for a while yet.

But maybe that's just me. Let my children tell you exactly what they thought too. They're always good for a giggle.

So thanks ToyRUs. We love you. We really do. We're just struggling to love the Rotator Creator. Maybe we just need to give it some time...

Did you like the Baby Alive doll??? Ask the kids...

2010-10-02T14:24:00.008+01:00

Since becoming an official ToysRUs 'Toyologist', back in August, I have received an impressive three toy boxes containing a rather hefty amount of toys, especially tailored for my two daughters aged three and six.

I have a lot to thank ToysRUs for.

So how do I thank them?

By completing a grand total of ZERO toy reviews, that's how. I'm sorry ToysRUs, I fear I may have crumbled under the weight of responsibility, not to mention, rather large toy boxes.

However, today I couldn't keep the toys under wraps any longer and the two girls chose their favourite toy out of the 18 for our first review.

Baby Alive Changing Time Baby.

As it says on the box 'I pee and poop'.

Imagine our excitement.

It's been a while since we've seen baby poo in this house.

In fact, not since the incident with the dog.

And then of course there was the, erm, rather large one.

And then the little incident in the car.

And that other incident where I was clearing up chocolate chip cookies. You remember the one.

But don't let me hog the limelight. It's the girls' toy after all. Just click on the video below and let them tell you what they thought.

And just to conclude, after 27 friggin' takes, it may be 'Baby Alive', but Mummy not quite so.

How to deliver an award-winning speech in 10 easy steps

2010-09-17T10:19:00.004+01:00

Sorry, did I say award 'winning'?

My mistake.

I meant award 'giving'.

Just a subtle difference.

*cough*

Unfortunately.

I am speaking, of course, of presenting the award for the Funniest Blog at the MADs, the extravaganza that everyone is talking about, which took place last Monday at Butlins in Bognor Regis. I'll try not to delay this post with all the details of just how amazing and wonderful Butlins is because I already did that last year at the launch of the Ocean Hotel. And if you're still sniggering at the thought of me singing Butlins' praises, then click HERE and read my post. I guarantee you'll be sniggering no more.

Anyhooo, this post is not about Butlins, as great as it is, or about Sally Whittle, organiser of the MADs, as great as she is, but about me, as great as I am.

Ahem.

So without further ado, I hereby present you with my guide to preparing, writing and delivering THE presentation speech.

Agree three months in advance to present the award.
Think nothing more of it.
Be told, one month in advance that you will need to deliver a speech as well as the award.
Mildly panic, laugh nervously and then think nothing more of it.
With two days to go decide that you're going to ad-lib, free-flow, wing it and of course, be a resounding success.
With one day to go decide that it might be a better idea to at least jot down some notes.
With 12 hours to go, majorly panic, write a speech long enough for ten award ceremonies and go and make a cup of tea while you work out which bits to edit out.
With six hours to go, contact professional speech-writing friend who asks you to e-mail speech over.
With five-and-a-half hours to go, have said speech completely ripped to pieces with comments such as 'it's dull, flat and completely un-funny'.
With four hours to go, google a few parenting jokes, pack your Mum's red dress and hope for the best.

So there you go. And it all seemed so effortless at the time didn't it? Who knew?

Thank you to everyone who laughed at my jokes. Your cheques are in the post.

And of course, a huge congratulations to Slightly South of Sanity who actually won the award, rather than just presented it, meaning that she is much funnier than me and you ought to check out her blog rather than mine.

Until next time x

Laughing out loud - it's good for you

2010-09-10T11:40:00.014+01:00

This morning I laughed out loud.

In a coffee shop.

People may even have turned to look.

Part of me wanted to share with them exactly what had made me laugh so loudly, because, d'you know what? It was such a wonderful feeling. Laughing out loud. That sudden, taken by surprise exhalation. No wonder there's such a thing as laughter therapy. The amount of endorphins I must have released would be enough to keep the whole of Brighton happy for a year.

I wanted to stand up and read the article to all those who would listen*. I wanted them to laugh as well. I wanted us all to laugh together. But I didn't think that the middle-aged lady sipping her Chai Tea Latté (I'd been in the queue behind her when she'd ordered) would appreciate Frank Skinner's take on Wayne Rooney's dalliance with a prostitute. But then again, I may have been wrong. It was extremely funny.

So instead I re-read the article, needing to replicate that feeling. The laugh out loud didn't come, obviously, seeing as I had completely taken away any element of surprise, but I smiled nonetheless, happy with the knowledge that I had, albeit for a milisecond, felt on top of the world.

And it got me thinking about what I've been missing this past year because you may or may not have noticed that I have been the world's worst blogger. Not only has my output been shameful, but I've also read a whole lot less than I used to. And I miss it. I miss the poignant posts, the heartfelt ones, the beautifully written ones and the engaging ones, but most of all I miss the funny ones. I miss the ones that make me laugh out loud and spit my PG Tips or my Sauvignon Blanc, depending on the time of the day, all over my keyboard.

However, and this post does have a point...somewhere, I aim to change all that. I aim to laugh every day and if that means blogging more and reading more, then so be it. And by way of celebration, I will be attending the MADs on Monday. And, get this, I will also be presenting an award. Guess what for? The funniest blog. I do so love it when a post comes together.

If you're also going to the MADs, do please come and say hello. I look forward to laughing out loud with you.

*And in fact I wanted to share the article with you too, but The Times wanted to charge me £1 a month to subscribe and I just couldn't do it. So you'll just have to take my word for it. Or go out and buy The Times.

A little bit on prejudice and crawly creatures

2010-07-12T10:55:00.004+01:00

Prejudice - "A preconceived belief, opinion or judgement made without recourse to reason...most commonly used to refer to a preconceived judgement towards a people or a person because of race, social class, gender, ethnicity, age, disability, political beliefs, sexual orientation or other personal characteristics..." Wikipedia.

We all know that prejudices have existed since, well, rather a long way back. I mean, who knew that the Good Samaritan would have been, so, erm, 'good'? He sent shockwaves right through the New Testament, so much so that five-year-old children are still making plays about him now.

What concerns me though is that 2000 years later, we are no nearer to a lack of judgement, tolerance or grace in our everyday lives.

Do let me give you a little example.

On Saturday my husband and I took the two children to a birthday party. It was in a soft-play area where children not associated with the party were also allowed to play.

As we watched Renée and Edie frolicking with an older girl, my husband, who, it should be known, is the world's biggest snob (when asked whether he would have been attracted to me had I been christened Sharon or Tracey* rather than Emily, he simply smiled and said "well it would have been a lot harder"), turned to me and whispered,

"Ew, look at that girl. She's all dirty. And I bet she's got nits as well."

It has to be said, I may have laughed. But I may also have said something along the lines of,

"You can't say that. Don't be such a bloody snob. She's no more likely to have nits in her hair than any other child here."

And that, I thought, was that.

Except, of course, it wasn't.

Cut to the very next morning and Renée just so happens to scratch her head...

Rather too many times for me not to go a foraging in her hair. And what do I find? A whole host of tiny little blood-sucking parasites.

I think my husband was rather too smug for my liking.

You see, the problem with bloody prejudice is that on occasion our original assumption turns out to be correct, thus reinforcing whatever prejudices we may have had.

I give up. At least on the bit where I try to persuade my husband to stop being such a snob.

But having spent all day yesterday picking the little suckers out of both my children's hair, I may just give up on the Mothering front too.

*Absolutely no offence meant if your name just so happens to be Sharon or Tracey. But don't expect my husband ever to fancy you.

Death

2010-06-23T20:54:00.005+01:00

My Granny died today.

I'm not sure how else to start a post like this, except that way.

She died. She fell down the stairs, broke her hip and wasn't found for more than 24 hours, by which time her kidneys had been damaged due to dehydration. When the doctors operated on her, she was too weak to make it through.

She was 85.

When I told Renée, she was sad because she said it meant Nanny wouldn't get her letter from the Queen, not that the Queen even sends letters anymore, but Renée seemed to think she did.

No, she won't get her letter from the Queen.

Renée also said that there'll be no more sticky jellybeans covered in fluff and hair from her pocket. She's right. There'll be no more of those.

I feel bereft. It was a struggle to put the girls to bed. A struggle to hold it together before I could allow myself to cry, alone.

But that's what I'm doing now. I'm crying big fat tears and it's ok. I don't think she'd mind. I think she'd like it that I cared enough.

I knew one day she'd be gone. It's normally just a matter of time, isn't it? I just didn't think it would be today. I didn't want it to be today, or any day for that matter. You never want the people you love to die do you?

And what happens now? I have no more grandparents left which means we've all moved one level further up the tree of life. And so it continues. Life and death. Death and life.

Nanny, we love you. Enjoy the peace and happiness that I know is waiting for you.

A comment without a reply is like a blog post without a comment...

2010-05-11T06:40:00.005+01:00

Can I just scream?

Aaaarghhhhhhhhhhh.

Thank you.

Damn blogger, damn the Thai Internet connection and damn this friggin' concrete bench that I have been sitting on for the past two hours. My bottom now has no feeling in it, whatsoever, and in fact, it probably never will have, ever again.

I wanted to write a post about comments and about how important they are to a blog and about how, since I've had my little blogging break, I have totally neglected replying to anyone's wonderful comments and about the constant daily guilt I have felt as a result.

I wanted to say, well the guilt has been lifted.

I am now totally guilt free.

Because as of now, I have replied to every last comment I have received since I stopped replying to comments which just so happens to be four months, 11 posts and 318 comments ago.

That's what I wanted to say.

That's what I was planning on saying.

But I'm just going to stop and re-group instead. Take a breath. Because I have typed and re-typed the same long reply eight times (yes EIGHT) and each time I have lost the connection, and thus the comment too. And it is driving me crazy. And my bottom is numb.

And I need a drink.

And I can't keep typing it again because I may just go insane.

So please, bear with me.

While I go back and attempt to reply to every last comment that has been un-answered (and I promise, on pain of death, I will do), tell me something.

Tell me about comments.

Do you reply to every single comment you receive? Do you feel guilty if you don't? Do you go back and check if someone has replied to your comment?

In the past, I have always replied - I like to - I like to feel that people feel heard and listened to. And I'm sorry if I haven't made you feel like that recently. I have been reading them. I just haven't had the energy to reply. But I do now. I just don't have the frigging technology.

Typical!

And if you have commented on my previous posts and haven't yet had a reply, then please do go back and check...I need it to have been worthwhile!

Thank you.

History and Happiness

2010-05-09T05:01:00.007+01:00

Seventeen years ago I fell in love.

Completely and utterly.

I knew my life would never be the same again.

And I was right.

I was 19 years old.

But it was nothing to do with a man. Or even a boy. Well, ok maybe it was just a little bit, but for the purposes of this post, it wasn't.

It was a country.

Thailand.

I loved it. I loved the people, the food, the climate, the hapiness that it gave to me so easily.

In those days I think I had a permanent smile etched on my face.

And sometimes when I'm sad and exhausted and overwhelmed by my present day life, I like to remember those times. I like to think that maybe one day I can feel like that again. If only for a moment.

So, it was only natural, given the past few months, that I would want to come back.

So here I am again. Seventeen years after I first arrived and 15 years since I was last here. Looking for just a little bit of that happiness.

And do you know what?

I think I've found it.

Back then I fancied myself as a bit of a philosopher. Still do, but shhhhhh, don't tell anyone. At 19 you can get away with it. At almost 36, you can't.

So if I say I wrote the following when I was 19, maybe you can forgive me, just a little bit.

You will always love the place where you learnt about life
Because you'll never believe anywhere else can offer you such riches
And understanding life being one of the world's greatest riches.

But what you have to understand is that you can never stop learning.
So don't be fooled into thinking that there's only one place for you.
The key to understanding is that you can never understand everything.

So expect everyhting, but wait for nothing.

Because if you wait it will never come.

Thailand, I still love you. Thank you for making me feel happy again. I owe you one.

The Gallery - Portrait

2010-04-28T12:41:00.008+01:00

The thing about the blogosphere is that it moves so quickly. I never officially decided to take a break from it, but a week of not blogging turned into a couple, which turned into a month which turned into a couple of those too. And before I knew it, I hadn't posted for what seemed like forever. And not only had I missed out on all sorts of memes, tags and awards, I'd also failed to contribute to a single one of Ms Sticky Fingers' Galleries. However, when I saw that this week was entitled Portraits, I decided that I couldn't abstain any longer.

So without further ado, I hereby include my two (sorry - couldn't just include one of my children) entries.

My children - Portaits.

Little Miss Renée - aged 5.

Little Miss Edie - aged 3.

Is blogging bad for your relationship?

2010-04-25T21:07:00.002+01:00

Well is it?

I need to know what you think.

I need to know that I'm not the only one out there who, and I quote a very famous blogger here, is prone to say,

"Not tonight darling, I'm just in the middle of tweaking my avatar".

I read a very funny article recently on Fuel My Blog which stated that the number of blogging-related problems has risen by more than 3000% over the last three years.

But aside from mental health problems brought on by paying attention to visitor counters or hurty fingers for people who can't touch type (both of which were quoted as symptoms), the real problems that I'm talking about are those which concern relationships, specifically marital ones.

Now it's no secret that I've been a bit down in the dumps recently (don't panic - I won't bore you with all that again), besides my husband would never forgive me if I told the world that we've been having marital problems. But, you know what, we have.

So there. I said it.

But what I want to know, is if it has anything to do with blogging.

As the Fuel My Blog article recommends,

"Involve your partner with the process. For instance, get them to make you a cup of tea while you're blogging and say 'thank you' nicely."

Now, all jokes aside, how many of us have spent an entire evening (or erm, evenings) in front of the computer reading about other peoples' lives while ignoring that very person who we've chosen to spend our own lives with? And how many times have we preferred to stay in and blog rather than go out and, erm not blog?

Are our other halves happy that we've found something to keep us occupied and supportive in our writing, or are they hurt and upset that they don't have quality time with us anymore and exasperated that we prefer our virtual friends to our real ones?

I'm not saying that blogging is solely responsible for the friction within my marriage. I mean the fact that we've seen each other for ten days out of the past 64 could have something to do with it. But seriously, as much as I love blogging and all the things that it's brought me, wasn't life just a little bit simpler before I discovered it?

I'm not sure. I'm still thinking about it.

A little bit of Chocolate and Love

2010-04-22T10:40:00.006+01:00

So we all know I've been a bit miserable of late. A bit uninspired. And more than a bit prone to curling up on the sofa and sobbing until I've bored myself stupid with the sound of my own patheticness.

But, fear not. I'm planning on putting an end to it very soon.

Besides, there's only so many times you can pretend that your watery eyes and swollen lids are because your contact lenses are playing up before someone starts to suspect the real reason you look like you've seen better days.

Sooooooo, imagine my complete and utter unadulterated delight when I opened an e-mail from Fuel My Blog a few weeks ago, asking whether I'd be interested in reviewing the 'highest quality chocolate that money can buy'.

Now I may be miserable, but I certainly am not stupid.

It had my name written all over it.

Because

(a) I need to get back to blogging.
(b) I NEED some chocolate.
(c) I AM chocolate queen.

I mean, who else decides to eat chocolate every day for nine months during their pregnancy because they've read one article which states that chocolate makes for happy babies? And who else is sent eight Mars Delights in the post by their Mother and eats them all in one sitting? And as my husband says, only you can eat chocolate for breakfast, lunch and supper and not feel bad about it. Well ok, you AND your Father.

What can I say? There's a sweet tooth gene deep in my DNA.

So, having established my credentials and having let you in on a little bit of the background, you can imagine just how I was feeling when that parcel dropped through the door.

Desperate?

Just a little bit.

Did it matter that it was two days after Easter and I had already had my year's fill of the brown stuff?

Maybe. But I refuse to be weighed down by irrelevancies.

The fact remains...I tore that package open like I'd been starved of chocolate for a year. Two years. More even. I could smell it through the fibres of plastic wrapping and jiffy bubble wrap.

All those evenings of crying myself to sleep would be undone in an instant. The moment that chocolate passed my lips, happiness would be mine.

I could feel it.

I emptied the bars onto the floor in front of me.

One, two, three, four, five bars of chocolate.

But hold on.

Organic dark chocolate.

Organic extra dark chocolate.

Organic extra dark chocolate with natural orange oil.

RAW chocolate.

Another organic extra dark chocolate.

I peered inside the package. Nothing else remained. I tipped it upside down for good measure and shook. Hard.

FOR FUCK'S SAKE. WHERE'S THE MILK CHOCOLATE?

I may be the chocolate queen, but I'm the chocolate queen who doesn't like dark chocolate.

At all.

Ever.

The disappointment was palpable.

I could have cried. I think maybe I did. Organic dark chocolate bars may even have been thrown across the room. And then I went into the kitchen and found solace in the form of my Lindt rabbit.

So what's left to say? Well, I did of course attempt to eat it. Tastes change over the years. Or so they say. Unfortunately, not in my case.

I still hate dark chocolate.

Organic or not.

Chocolate and Love or Terry's All Gold.

'Tis the same to me.

But all is not lost, Chocolate and Love. You see, I had the ladies over. Ladies who love dark chocolate. I couldn't let it go to waste now could I?

And this is what they said.

Waxy, smooth, good without being too much, but not as good as Hotel Chocolat.

So 'not great, great then'? I asked. 'Well that's a shame', I said, 'because I have all these bars and they'll only be thrown in the bin.'

Needless to say, when the ladies who love dark chocolate left for the night, there were no bars remaining.

Which is just as well. Because I had my Lindt rabbit for company.

Birth of an Elephant

2010-02-24T10:52:00.002Z

I feel unable to write at the moment. My head is filled with so many things, all impossible to share. So instead of writing I thought I'd post a video instead - and maybe my poor neglected blog won't feel sorry for itself any longer.

I saw this amazing video today and it moved me to tears. It's the birth of an elephant. And apart from the obvious miracle that is life and creation, what really moved me was the Mother elephant herself.

Just watch. You'll see what I mean.

365 days later...

2010-02-09T19:31:00.008Z

Who would have thought a year ago, when I started writing this blog that I'd still be here now?

Not me, that's for sure.

I'm almost proud of myself.

Ok, I am proud of myself.

Especially when you consider the following.

Most blogs only make it to two months before tossing in the towel. Over a million blogs have only one post and were abandoned after just one day. 1.63 million made it for 126 days and 132,000 blogs were abandoned after one year.

Like I said, I'm proud of myself.

And my blog.

I love you blog.

Thanks for being there.

And thankyou to everyone who had ever read and left a comment.

I will be forever grateful.

Here's to the next 365 days.

How to extract a baked bean from a nostril

2010-02-02T19:49:00.010Z

Isn't it funny what makes you happy?

They say it's the little things.

They could be right.

I've been feeling miserable you see. A bit sad. A bit overwhelmed by all sorts of things.

And to be honest, a bit annoyed that Edie's cot sold for a measly £19.99 to someone who then declared that it wasn't even for her and that she was intending to sell it on (for a higher price) when all I really wanted was for it to go to a good home.

C'est la vie I suppose.

But today my spirits have been lifted by something rather small.

Tiny even.

A baked bean.

And d'you know what? I don't even like baked beans.

But there you go. Sometimes your greatest nemesis provides you with your grandest triumph.

Sooooooooo.

Tonight's supper...

Lasagne, brussel sprouts, baked beans.

I know. It's an odd combination, but there you go. Edie loves brussel sprouts, Renée loves baked beans and they're both indifferent to lasagne, but every now and then it's worth a try.

Five minutes into the meal...

Sudden screaming.

"Mummy...Edie's got a baked bean stuck up her nose."

Oops.

In another life I would have had visions of hospitals, doctors, tweezers, stress.

But not in this life.

Oh no.

Because I am 'Mother-who-knows-how-to-extract-baked-bean-from-nostril-even-if-it's-jammed-really high-up'.

You see, sometimes I listen to friends.

Ahem, sometimes not.

Turns out that when Veronica told me what to do when you get a bead stuck up a child's nostril, I happened to be listening.

And if you're reading this and you don't know, then read on...and concentrate. Because this is what I did.

I closed the, erm, baked bean-free nostril with one hand, opened Edie's mouth with the other and blew.

Hard.

A big, sudden puff.

And d'you know what happened?

The baked bean shot across the room like a bullet.

Unbelievable.

I CAN NOT tell you how chuffed I was.

This might give you some idea.

I did a lap of honour around the sitting room, waving my arms like an albatross as I went.

And now I'm smiling a big, big smile.

Like I said, it's the small things that make a difference.

And PS - if you've commented on my previous few posts I apologise for not having replied. I promise I will...asap x

Cot - farewell my friend

2010-01-25T11:44:00.004Z

If there is ever a seminal moment in a child's life, it's the transition from babies cot to big grown-up bed.

This normally occurs somewhere around the child's second birthday, which means that the child has no memory of the move, making it more of a seminal moment in a parent's life, as they lament the end of the baby years.

Which is exactly what I'm doing at the moment.

And I'm emotional.

For Edie, this transition has been, somewhat fraught, not to mention rather slow, starting more than a year ago and ending last night with the listing of it on e-bay.

I almost cried.

Edie may have already turned three, but she has show no signs of wanting to make the transition into her big girls bed, if 'Mummy, cot'. *wail, sob, sob, wail* 'Mummy, cot, pleeeeeease', is anything to go by.

Silly, maybe, but it has been more than just a place to sleep. For a child such as Edie, who lists her best friends as 'pillow' and 'thumb', 'cot' has been her little sanctuary, a place that she has always welcomed, never ever resisted and on numerous occasions, has had to be forcibly removed from.

But the time has come. She is now as long as the cot itself and, I hate to admit it, almost as wide.

It is, however, still in her room, and until e-bay works its magic, there it shall remain, a reminder of happier times. And I say that because last night at 2 o'clock in the morning, I sat cradling a crying child who had, unfortunately, thumped to the floor from her newly-slept in bed. The presence of 'cot' was not welcome, causing, as it did, even more tears.

Little Edie, we will never forget your cot. I was even tempted to write a poem, 'an ode to cot', but having sat here for the last half an hour trying to work out what rhymes with cot other than bot bot, I realise that I am, erm, not a poet.

So little cherub, this will have to do.

You were a baby.
And now you're not.
Hello bed.
Goodbye cot.

Your game is up

2010-01-20T12:30:00.004Z

Over the weekend we had a French relative staying with us. I say 'relative' because I'm not sure what she was (other than being a person, obviously). What I mean is that I'm not sure whether she's a niece, a cousin, a second cousin even. My husband's side of the family is so big that it's almost irrelevant, as it is for this post.

What is important though, is that she works for a jeweller who makes big and beautiful rings and had come over to London to supply some of them to a very famous pop star to wear for her next video.

When she arrived at our house, having already deposited the chosen rings in London, she was armed with an array of jewellery which would have made even the fussiest of princesses happy.

As you can imagine, the girls were beside themselves with excitement, dressing up with the rings, trying each one on and posing for photographs heavily laden with jewellery.

Renée, especially, thought that this cousin and her rings were the best things ever. In fact, over the course of the weekend I had more than a few,

"Mummy, I want to be just like Clementine when I'm older."

It was kind of cute.

And when Clementine went back to Paris and left a ring brochure for each of the girls as a present, Renée was in no doubt as to what she wanted to do with it.

"Mummy, can I take it in to 'Show and Tell' please? Mummy, can I? Please?"

I didn't see why not.

"Of course you can darling."

Later that day Renée was met from school by my husband and the first thing he said as he entered the house was this,

"Apparently 'Show and Tell' went really well. Everyone loved the rings and they were looking at the brochure for so long that no one else had time to show anything. Even the teacher loved it."

I felt myself swell with happiness, imagining my little girl, the one that hasn't been that happy at school recently, so proud to show off the ring brochure in front of her friends.

"It was amazing Mummy. The book was passed round to everyone in the class and they all loved the rings."

"Yes, Papa just told me darling. I'm so glad it went well for you."

And that, I thought, was that.

Except it wasn't.

Later that afternoon, as Renée was sitting on the sofa, still turning the pages and looking through the brochure with wide eyes, while her friend Katherine, who had popped over to play, was starting to show signs of boredom, I decided to intervene.

"Darling, don't you think that maybe you've looked at that brochure a bit too much now? Katherine might be bored with it, especially since she's already seen it today at 'Show and Tell'.

Katherine looked at me, puzzled.

"But we didn't have 'Show and Tell' today."

I looked at Renée's crestfallen face as she realised that the game was up.

I was amazed.

Isn't it funny that at 5 years old, she's able to spin such a yarn that even her own Mother believes her. Or is a Mother the first one to believe?

I'm not sure whether to be impressed by her story-telling skills or annoyed that she lied to me.

Crikey, it's only slightly worrying for the future.

Blogging for Haiti

2010-01-19T12:36:00.006Z

I would make a useless journalist. I just can't keep up with the news. I love writing, but I can only do it when I have a spare moment and not when I have a house full of guests. Which is why I am now a week late in joining the campaign 'Blogging for Haiti'. I even thought (for one milisecond I admit) that it was too late to write this post seeing as I'll be the last one doing it.

HOWEVER.

It is never too late.

The earthquake may have struck Haiti on Tuesday 12th January, killing over 200,000 people, but the deaths are still continuing. There is now a huge concern for the spread of disease in a country where HIV, tuberculosis and malaria are rampant.

So, I may be late in posting this, but it is still just as necessary to raise awareness.

The amazing English Mum has rallied all the bloggers into giving their support in hope that we can raise enough money to pay for a Shelter Box - see left).

Each box contains -

A ten-person tent with privacy partitions that allow its occupants to divide the space as they see fit.
A range of other survival equipment including thermal blankets and insulated ground sheets, essential in areas where temperatures plummet at nightfall.
Life-saving means of water purification. Water supplies often become contaminated after a major disaster, as infrastructure and sanitation systems are destroyed. This presents a secondary but no less dangerous threat to survivors than the initial disaster itself.
A basic tool kit containing a hammer, axe, saw, trenching shovel, hoe head, pliers and wire cutters. These items enable people to improve their immediate environment, by chopping firewood or digging a latrine, for example. Then, when it is possible, to start repairing or rebuilding the home they were forced to leave.
A wood burning or multi-fuel stove that can burn anything from diesel to old paint. This provides the heart of the new home where water is boiled, food is cooked and families congregate. In addition, there are pans, utensils, bowls, mugs and water storage containers.
A children's pack containing drawing books, crayons and pens. For children who have lost most, if not all, of their posessions, these small gifts are treasured.

Initially the aim was to raise £500 (just enough to pay for one Shelter Box). However, the blogging for Haiti campaign has been so successful that the total now stands at an amazing £3000, which means that 6 boxes have been bought.

If you haven't donated already, then please, please click on the following.

Just Giving Page for the Haiti Disaster

Remember, it's never too late.

Is your husband big enough for you?

2010-01-14T13:54:00.004Z

My poor husband.

A look of anguish fills his face as he ponders the future, knowing that all is not as he thought it was.

He is depressed.

Today, however, it has nothing to do with health, or money, or work, or family. Ok, well it might have a little to do with each and every one of the above, but for the purpose of this post, it has nothing to do with them.

Today my husband has measured himself.

And before all you ladies start squealing with excitement, I'm talking about his height of course.

But this is no laughing matter, I can assure you.

For today my husband has realised that he is 5 foot 11, when, for the whole of his fully-grown, adult life, he believed himself to be a statuesque 6 foot 1.

Where on earth those missing two inches have gone is anybody's guess. Admittedly, the poor love is French and does get a tad confused with feet and inches.

But the plain truth prevails.

He is 5 foot 11.

For we have measured. And measured again, just to be sure.

So why is he so depressed? What is it about a man's height, or a woman's weight or dress size for that matter, that becomes such an obsession? Why do we lie, or kid ourselves or exaggerate or stand up loud and proud and tell the world that our baby is so huge that their vital statistics can't even be plotted on a graph?

Does a man have to be big to be a man, or a woman skinny to be a woman?

Of course not.

So what is it then?

Just as I'm sitting here pondering the answer, it lands directly in my lap.

A text message from my husband.

"My ears are burning. Are you writing about me? I don't mind as long as at the end you say that I'm big enough and tall enough for all your needs."

So there's the answer. It's as simple as that. All men want is to be big enough for their women.

Bless.

And, for the record, husband, 5 foot 11 is enough for me.

A case of rose-coloured spectacles?

2010-01-11T10:51:00.004Z

I was having a phone conversation with my Mother a while ago whilst at the same time trying to fend off various requests from one or other of my children. The conversation stopped, started, stopped and re-started a number of times while I listened to Renée tell me that Edie had pulled her hair, Edie ask me if she could have something to eat, Renée tell me that Edie had now bitten her and Edie ask me to wipe her bottom.

These days, it's extremely rare that I manage to have a phonecall without any interruptions, at least during the day. The important ones, the ones where it really won't do to have a screaming child in the background have to be left until the evening, by which time I'm completely exhausted and can think of nothing I'd like less than to be chatting on the phone. Needless to say, I don't make many phonecalls.

But during this conversation with my mother, she happened to say, something along the lines of,

"These days children really are the centre of attention aren't they?"

I bristled a little I think.

"What do you mean Mum?" I asked.

"Well when you and your brother were younger, it never used to be like that at all. Your Father and I had our own lives."

And before you start imagining me as a young child being herded around by an endless supply of Nannys, I can assure you that that couldn't be further from the truth. My Mother was at home with the two of us, trying her best to keep us entertained, just as I try my my little ones.

I pressed her on it a bit more, interested to uncover her secret to perfect parenting. Annoyingly, though, she couldn't recall the elusive elixir, only that things had been different.

But it did get me thinking.

Yes, my children are the centre of my world. But do I have any other choice? I mean, do I, if I choose to be a Stay-at-Home-Mother? They're five and three. Can I really expect them to entertain each other while I get on and lead an independent life in another room? Do I even want to? Well, yes, actually, sometimes I do, but that's probably because I've been couped up with them for rather too long, thanks to the snow.

But seriously, we've all heard the old expression 'children should be seen and not heard'. Now I can't imagine that that applies to anyone these days, but it must have done once.

Have children changed so much? Have the adults? Do we indulge our children with too much attention? Or perhaps, as I'm sure is the case with my Mother, she likes to put on her rose-coloured spectacles. I'll give you a quick example. We never had snotty noses as children. Oh yes, and childbirth didn't hurt at all.

See what I mean?

So maybe in a few years, I'll look back, put on my rose-coloured spectacles too and forget just how hard it was.

Here's hoping.

In the meantime, I just have a couple of bottoms that need wiping...

Apart from my own, obviously.

Favourite Photo Meme - 'the way we were'

2010-01-07T11:05:00.007Z

I've been tagged by the gorgeous That Girl at 40 Not Out and the equally gorgeous Brighton Mum in the Favourite Photo Meme, started by the no less gorgeous Tara over at Sticky Fingers. So without further ado, here is my contribution.

Us, 'the way we were', before the two little monkeys came along. Would love to include some photos of said monkeys, but, they never appear on the blog.

Oh go on then, just one...

Aren't they just the cutest?

I hereby pass this meme on to the following five people...

Mamma Po at Island Mum of 2

Tasha at WAHM-BAM

Rebel Mother at the newly-named Rebel Mother (formerly Another Day in the Madhouse)

Jo Beaufoix

Sally at Who's The Mummy

Lady Mama

Good luck ladies. Can't wait to see your photos!

Do you shave or do you wax or do you even care?

2010-01-05T11:22:00.005Z

I'd like to say that I'm not normally so shallow as to sit and ponder life's more mundane matters.

So here goes.

I'm not normally so shallow.

However, on occasion, even the deepest thinkers among us *cough*, enjoy chewing the cud about something as superficial as, erm, shaving our legs.

You see, it's not just me. I noticed a tweet the other day from @porridgebrain (aka Josie from Sleep is for the Weak) where she realised it was too cold to shave her legs because all she was doing was shaving off the top layer of her goosebumps.

Ouch.

I know exactly where you're coming from Josie. As I'm sure do most of us.

Except those who wax our legs, or just leave them to grow, heaven forbid.

But whatever our, er, under-trouser state of affairs, it's a topic which affects us all - even the husbands I'm sure, as they're spiked in the night by a bristly brillo pad masquerading as a leg.

But that of course leads to the eternal question.

Do you shave or do you wax, or do you even care?

So this is the thing. Before I had children I would enjoy my monthly wax, knowing that for three whole weeks, at least, my legs would be as smooth as, well, my just-waxed legs. I wanted to say as smooth as a baby's bottom, obviously, but at that moment in time I (a) hadn't ever touched a baby's bottom and (b) they were never really that smooth anyway.

And then I had my first child and after a few weeks of disposable knickers, rubber rings and the inevitable hirsute state of my legs, I decided that I'd better try to smarten myself up just a little.

So I booked a waxing appointment. And then I remembered that I now had a tiny baby who couldn't just be left at home. Hmmmmm. But that needn't be a burden, I thought - she sleeps in the pushchair most of the time - I'll just phone the salon and ask them for a ground floor room so I can leave the pushchair in the corner without waking her up.

Easy as pie.

Except, apparently, it wasn't.

"Oh no, we don't allow babies here," they informed me rather too matter-of-factly. "Health and safety you see."

"But she'll be asleep in the pushchair. She won't even move. I'll park her as far away from the hot wax as possible."

"No. I'm sorry, it against our Health and Safety policy."

"Please?"

"No".

So that was that. After 15 years, my monthly waxing sessions had come to an abrupt halt. I could have carried on at some point, of course, or even mixed-up some home-made concoction, but I didn't trust myself with a baby and hot wax (maybe they had a point) and besides, apart from it being much easier to shave, the moment you've picked up that razor, all the years of waxing benefits are undone in an instant.

And that's a fact.

However, like all good stories, of which this is one (obviously), there is a happy ending. Just bear with me for one more moment.

So, I was lying in the bath the other night, lamenting the fact that even with my 5-year-old Wilkinson Sword Lady Protector (in pink), my legs never seem to be smooth for more than two whole hours, when I spied my husband's Gillette Fusion Power Phenom thingy best a man can get, etc, etc, and I thought why not?

Why not indeed? Why should my legs be inferior to his cheeks?

So, of course, I tried.

And d'you know what?

OMFG.

That's all I'm saying.

Amazing.

Why had I never thought of it before?

I now have legs which are indeed as smooth as a baby's bottom and my husband has cheeks as prickly as a hedgehog's bottom and he can't quite work out why.

Hee hee.

--------------------------------------------------

Before I go just a quick, but huge apology to all my wonderful blogging friends who I haven't visited in a while. I've been struggling somewhat to keep my bah humbug attitude in check and have opted to completely ignore both Christmas and the New Year, at least in terms of writing about it, hoping that if I keep my head down I will be able to emerge in January to bright sunshine.

Snow anyone?

"Mummy, why is Cinderella marrying a woman?"

2009-12-30T21:56:00.009Z

'Mummy, why is Cinderella marrying a woman?'
'But I thought she had a wicked stepmother and that her Father was dead.'
'Who is Buttons anyway?'
'But they're supposed to be ugly sisters, not ugly brothers.'

Hmm, yes, quite.

Remind me next time we go to a Pantomime not to read the 'real' story ten times in a row just so they know it well before they go. It only leads to confusion. Especially when you're five and three.

But despite a few, erm, storyline setbacks, our trip to see Cinderella at the Pavilion Theatre in Worthing starring Todd Carty as Buttons was perhaps the biggest treat the girls have ever had. (I know, I know. We obviously lead an insular life devoid of any form of excitement whatsoever).

But seriously, in a world of television, DVD and even cinema, to actually experience singing, dancing and real-life audience interaction was so novel that for most of the performance all they could do was sit, wide-eyed in amazement.

Strangely though, and I still can't quite work out why, because I really, really wanted to enjoy it, I found it all a bit tiresome. Was it the stage-school over-acting of the leading lady? Or the long drawn-out dance scenes which seemed a tad irrelevant? Or the fact that our seats were so far from the stage that my, ahem, less than 20/20 vision couldn't appreciate the full magnificence of the stage and all its theatrics?

Like I said, I'm not really sure.

To be honest, I spent more time staring in wonder at the two girls staring in wonder at all that was going on in front of them, than I did staring at the performance itself. Their little faces were transfixed, their eyes enormous and unblinking, their hands siumltaneously gripping their red velvet seats and at the same time pointing to the villain. For five-year-old Renée, the chance to shout out 'He's behind you' was taken at every available opportunity, to such an extent that by the end of the night she could hardly speak. And when a real pony was conjured by one wave of the fairy Godmother's magic wand, I thought Renée would hyperventilate with happiness.

'Was it really magic Mummy? Did the Fairy Godmother really do that?'

For me, it was this child-like delight which was the highlight of the evening. Just to see my two little girls laughing, giggling and screaming with outrage was enough to make me want to take them back again and again.

And when the announcement came just as the curtains had finally drawn to a close that Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs would be shown next year, it was a look of delight that filled their little faces.

'Mummy, can we come next year, pleeeeeeeeeeeeease?'

'Yes little ones, of course we can.'

I'll just have to do my very best to get seats nearer the front. Perhaps then we'll all be able to enjoy it.

This post is for The Great Panto Review 2009 hosted by the amazing Linda Jones from Have a Lovely Time. Thanks so much to Worthing Theatres for the tickets. Cinderella runs until Sunday 3rd January and tickets are priced between £12 for concessions to £36 for a family. Further details can be found on their website.

Please consider donating to NACCPO (National Alliance of Childhood cancer Parent Organisations) which is a very worthy charity supported by the Great Panto Review.

The one where I am never invited round for wine and mince pies ever again

2009-12-22T21:20:00.005Z

I think I may have foot in mouth disease.

Or some such ridiculous ailment which causes me to regret almost everything that comes out of my mouth the instant it is uttered.

After last week's debacle I thought I may be on the road to recovery.

But no. Apparently not.

Let me explain.

You see I'm not really a Christmassy sort of person. I think I may be in denial about the whole event. Two days away you say? Still plenty of time to buy presents surely...

In fact, when I was 19, instead of spending Christmas with my family I ran away to Thailand for a month and sat on a beach on my own. My brother put a photo of me in my place at the table and laid a party hat on top of it.

It runs deep you see. And I still don't think I've been quite forgiven.

Before I became a mother I had this image that I would tell my children the truth about Father Christmas. Why would I want to lie to them? I mean, how awful would it be for them to love and trust their mother only for them to find out that the man with the white beard and red outfit never even existed and that I'd known all along?

But then when I became a mother it all changed.

Of course it did.

But then everything does, doesn't it?

So now I help them choose what biscuits to leave by the fireplace and share their excitement when they wake up in the morning to find that two out of the three have been eaten, whilst subtley wiping crumbs from the corner of my mouth. And I read them stories about The Night Before Christmas and skip the pages where the little girl doubts that Father Christmas exists. I mean, I wouldn't want to put any funny thoughts into their head, would I?

I love their little faces and the hopes and dreams that fill them.

As every mother does.

Ahem.

Cut to this afternoon where I'm sharing wine and mince pies with a friend.

Her eight-year-old daughter approaches us.

"Are you excited about Christmas?" I ask.

She nods.

"My favourite part was always getting the stocking from Father Christmas", I continued.

"Do you think Father Christmas will still bring me presents even though I'm grown-up?" She asked with a wry smile (or so I thought).

"Of course", I replied. "Father Christmas brought me presents until I was 18, even though I knew he didn't exist.

Her eyes grew wider than I even thought possible.

"You mean he really doesn't exist?"

Oh fuckity fuck............

THE seminal moment in a child's life, ruined by yours truly.

I think I shall go back to hating Christmas again. Or failing that, stick my head under the bed covers and not come out until January 1st.

Now there's a thought...

Be careful what you say...

2009-12-16T11:26:00.007Z

It's a well-known fact that you must never tell children what you really think. Or in fact, you must never reveal the full truth about so many things, whether it be that Father Christmas couldn't possibly deliver presents to so many children in such a short space of time, or that the scribble they have so expertly penned isn't quite as artistic as your loud exclamations made it seem.

Our job as parents is to protect our children from the harsh realities of life. When the saucepan lid is dropped on our un-slippered feet, the piercing protestation which we would once have uttered with great applomb, suddenly becomes,

'SHEE...UGAR',

for fear of inappropriate repetition at precisely the wrong moment.

But on occasion, all our good intentions become unravelled in a millisecond. And I'm not talking about the moment that our beloved toddler shouts 'BUGGER' when they drop their rattle in the supermarket. These moments are pure genius and are to be cherished, I can assure you.

This one, however, is not.

For the past couple of weeks Renée has been uncharacteristically quiet. And for a child whose most common ailment is a touch of verbal diarrhoea, this has come as something of a shock, if not a welcome relief.

I initially put it down to a combination of a cold and end-of-term fatigue. But on closer investigation it seemed that something else entirely was responsible.

"Mummy, I used to have two best friends", she muttered quietly a couple of days ago.

"That's right darling, you did." I was absentmindedly stirring the pasta and it took a while to register.

"Did? You mean you don't any more?"

She looked down at her feet and wiped away something invisible on her dress.

"Now I've only got one."

"What do you mean darling?" I stopped stirring the pasta, knelt down in front of her and raised her chin a little, just enough for her to look at me.

What I saw almost broke my heart.

A quivering bottom lip, red-rimmed eyes already beginning to fill with tears and a tiny five-year-old totally distraught at the injustice of life.

It transpires that one of Renée's best friends, Miss A, has told Renée that she doesn't want to be her friend any more, that she doesn't like her and that if she does anything wrong, Miss A willl go straight to the teacher and tell on her.

Now I know it's commonplace for friends to fall out with each other, especially when they're so young (I mean, Hell, it even happens when we're adults), but when you have a sobbing little girl in your arms, all your motherly instincts go into overdrive and you'll say anything to make it better.

Of course, what I should have said was this.

"Try not to be sad darling. I'm sure she doesn't mean it. Find someone else to play with and she'll want to be your friend again soon."

What I said instead was this.

"Well that's just typical isn't it? Well, I never liked Miss A. She's very mean. In fact, she's horrible and I never could see why you liked her. And I definitely won't be inviting her round to this house again. You have plenty of other friends who I like and we'll invite them round instead. Miss A is mean and horrible and I don't like her."

The good thing is, it made Renée feel much better and her tears soon went away.

The bad thing is, I hadn't really thought much further than that. That is, until I picked Renée up from school the following day.

"How was school darling?" I asked.

"It was ok", she replied. "I told Miss A that you didn't like her, you thought she was horrible and that she's not invited to our house ever again. She said she was going to tell her Mummy".

Ooops.

Now I'm not quite sure why I didn't think she'd repeat it, but we all live and learn. I certainly won't be making that mistake again.

Now all that's left for me to do is to patch up yet another friendship.

I'm sorry I pull your hair - I do love you really

2009-12-09T12:28:00.013Z

This post was inspired by Josie from Sleep is for the Weak and her amazing Writing Workshops. If you haven't already taken part then do pay her a visit.

Not only is she a fantastic writer, but she's also an amazing person and I urge to to read each and every post she writes.

So here we go. Writing prompt number 4. Put yourself in somebody else's shoes...

To my big sister Renée,

You know when I tell you that I don't love you and then I hit you? Well, you know I don't mean it really? And I don't mean to bite you either, or pull your hair. You know I love you really, don't you? Sometimes I think I love you even more than Mummy. But then Mummy gives me sweeties and I think that maybe I love Mummy more.

But I think you're my best friend. Am I your best friend too? I hope I am because I feel happy when I'm with you. Mummy says that best friends make you feel happy and share things with you. And you share everything with me, even your olives and grapefruit and broccoli which you pass to me when Mummy isn't looking. That's when I know you must be my best friend.

And when you're not there I feel I bit sad. Mummy tries to cheer me up and read me stories, but it doesn't feel the same because she always has lots of other things to do and she gets cross when I want her to read the same book over and over again. You never get cross with me. And I miss you when you're at school. I try not to miss you too much because I'm a big girl and I can do big girl things on my own, but you can do everything just a bit better than me.

You can reach the light in the bathroom so when I need to do a pee pee I don't have to sit in the dark. I don't like being in the dark. Except when we're lying in bed together under the covers pretending to be monsters. I like the dark then. Because I know you're there with me. And I know that if the monsters do come, you'll make sure they won't hurt me. Because you're my big sister and I know that you love me.

Sometimes I wish you didn't have to go to school and we could stay at home every day and play monsters like we used to. But I know that when I'm an even bigger girl, like you, then I'll go to your school too. Sometimes when Mummy takes you into the playground in the morning, I want to come as well. But Mummy won't let me and it makes me cross. And when Mummy tries to stop me from following you I think maybe I don't love Mummy at all.

Every day I wait for you to come home and I try to be patient. Really I do. But when you come home with a friend it makes me a little bit sad because I want you to play with me and not them. I try to be grown-up and play the games that you play but I don't know my alphabet yet and I don't understand it when you start counting in big numbers. And when you don't want to play Mummies and Babies it makes me cross because we always used to play that together before you went to big school. And then I think if I pull your hair and bite you you'll know how cross I am and maybe you'll want to play with me again.

I'm sorry if it makes you cry. And I'm sorry if it leaves a red mark on your arm. But I just want to be with you. I want you to be my best friend forever. Thank you for loving me even when I hurt you. When I'm big and grown-up like you, maybe I can look after you too.

I love you.

Your little sister, Edie.

What does it mean to be a friend?

2009-12-07T13:29:00.009Z

The other day I was apologising to a friend for having to cancel our much-anticipated, long-overdue get-together. The children were ill, hubby was away working and well, it just wasn't going to happen.

The thing is, she wasn't surprised.

"Oh, you're always cancelling", she said. "I never expect you to keep a date these days".

I should have been affronted, possibly even hurt. But I wasn't. Because it's true and she's right. I am always cancelling. I do always let people down. And despite endeavouring to make more of an effort every time it happens, I still don't seem to be able to do anything about it. I promised one friend I'd make plans to see them, ooh, about a year ago. I keep meaning to call another friend who's had a baby, but can't quite find the right moment. The list is, unfortunately, endless.

My friend went on, obviously having already spent time thinking about the likes of me.

"Pearl Lowe once said that you can only ever have two out of the three - friends, family and work. I'm still trying to challenge that and have all three."

"Crikey", I thought, "I'm struggling to have one..."

But it did make me think. Can we really have all three? Once children enter the equation, isn't it too much to ask for? Why do I always let people down? Why can't I keep a date? Is it just me?

And then it got me thinking about friendship and what it all means anyway. What does being a friend mean? Does it mean always being there for someone when they need you (not entirely practical when they're curled up on the sofa in an emotional mess needing a hug and you're a two-hour drive away wiping bottoms and changing nappies)? Or does it mean having had shared experiences? Knowing someone inside out? Enjoying their company? Or loving someone despite all their faults?

I'll tell you why I'm asking.

A very good friend of mine, (not the one above with a penchance for quoting Pearl Lowe) - Edie's godmother in fact, has recently decided that she doesn't want to be friends with me anymore. I know, I know. She's obviously completely crazy.

When I pressed her on her reasons why, she said,

"You're just a crap friend and you've cancelled the last four times we were meant to meet for what I can only see as a better offer".

A better offer? Well, possibly if you count having ill children, an absent husband and complete and utter exhaustion as better offers, then she may have a point.

I apologised, told her how sorry I was, offered to drive the hour and a half it takes to get to her house once my husband was around so he can pick up the children from nursery and school, but no. It seems I've let her down once too often.

I am, obviously, gutted, but given my circumstances, I really don't know how to redess the balance.

Here's the sob story.

My husband works away more often than he is at home. I never know when he's going to be away until a few days before. I have two small children who are 100% dependant on me. I have no family in the vicinity who can help out with childcare even in an emergency. What this means in terms of friendship is that even the best laid plans have to be cancelled if the children need me.

Does this make me a 'crap' friend?

I like to think it doesn't. And that when I do see friends I'm genuinely pleased to see them. I'm happy if they're doing well, caring if they're not. I'll offer advice, cake, cups of tea, just an ear. I'm interested to hear what they're doing. But I can't be there all the time. And that is no indication of how good a friend they are.

That's just the way it is.

And I'm sorry if that's not enough.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And just as a quick endnote - apologies to those of you who have commented on my previous two posts - I have been ridiculously busy at home and haven't had time to reply. But, I will do.

See - I'm a crap blogging friend as well.

*Sigh*

I will make more of an effort. Just as soon as my children have grown-up and left home...

Gorillas in the rain

2009-11-30T10:49:00.005Z

How appropriate that my monumental 100th post should be where I write about the BMB get-together and about all the wonderful bloggers who I met yesterday at London Zoo.

How inappropriate that the weather is so hideously shit that it seems to have zapped all my energy and inspiration and I don't feel like writing about it at all. In fact, all I want to do is sit and eat Marmite on toast, chain drink cups of tea and be particulalrly morose.

So I'll keep it short.

Thank you to Susanna at A Modern Mother for organising the event, to London Zoo for hosting it and to SuperSavvyMe for sponsoring it. The girls were particularly pleased with their Dora the Explorer goody bags!

It was really, really good to speak to those of you I could...

Nixdminx, Wahm-Bam, MTFF, Cafebébé, Potty Mummy, Alpha Mummy, a20Somethingmum, TheRubbishDiet, That Girl, OMGMummy, Surprised Zoe, Glowstars, Perfectly Happy Mum, SandyCalico, Clareybabble, Zooarchaeologist, VioletPosy, Bambino Goodies and Soph4Soph.

...and if I missed you, then I apologise - I couldn't escape the pull of seeing Gorillas in the rain, or at least the pull of two pairs of damp little hands dragging me out of the door.

Here's to the next get-together, my next 100 posts and some bloody sunshine.

A bit of colour

2009-11-27T09:21:00.014Z

This week has been horrible, for one reason or another. Now I don't have to tell you just how much I love my children because you hear it all the time, but even I am beginning to get a little child-weary. If I told you that today is the fourth day that Renée is off sick from school, then things might become a little clearer. And what with a gale-force wind outside making it almost impossible to even open the front door, then you can imagine just how wonderful it's been at home.

NOT. At all.

So in light of this I'm going to try to cheer myself up a little by introducing some colour to this post.

And I've also completely changed the subject because I'm already bored of moaning.

So this is it.

One canvas.

Five paints.

One paintbrush.

Eleven children.

And lots of wipes.

A little something we did at Edie's third birthday party last week. If you're ever stuck for ideas for what to do at parties, then this gets my vote every time. Not only is it a really fun thing for the children to do, but it's also fantastic reminder of who your child's friends were once upon a birthday.

Oh yeah, and it looks beautiful on their bedroom walls.

Now children please get better for the BMB meet-up at London Zoo on Sunday!

To have a sick child...

2009-11-23T10:21:00.011Z

Before I became a Mother I used to cry at programmes like Animal Hospital or Vets in Practice as I imagined my poor cat Chloe in some dire emergency that required me having to choose between her life and death. Back then, as I welcomed the black ball of fur into my bed and gazed into her beautiful green eyes, listening to her calming purr, any harm to Chloe was the absolute worst thing that could ever have happened. And even when my Mother warned me that once I had children poor Chloe the cat would be relegated from my affections, I found it hard to believe.

Unfortunately for Chloe, my Mother was right. Thirteen years on and Chloe still demands attention, but with every child produced she has gone one further down the pecking order.

These days I no longer cry at Vets in Practice. Understandably, it's always the children's sob stories that make me well up. That and Extreme Makeover, Home Edition, of course. Oh yeah, and I did go through rather a lot of tissues when I took the girls to see Disney's 'UP' in 3-D, although that could have been to do with the odd focus required for the 3-D glasses and nothing to do with the perfect marriage and love the old couple had. No nothing to do with that whatsoever. *Sob sob*.

Anyway, that is not the point of this post. The point of this post relates in part to the bit where I cry at children suffering hardship.

When you become a parent the need to protect your child is overwhelming. It hits you with such a force that you'd be forgiven for thinking that you were suffering from some middle ear infection and needed to spend a few days lying flat in bed. I first felt it when Renée was a day old and the paediatrician at the hospital had come to perform a heel-prick test. Never one to hold back her emotions, even as a newborn, baby Renée sobbed and shook until my heart was literally broken into a thousand tiny pieces. Or at least that's how it felt. And while I held her writhing little body, I remember looking at her hysterical face, purple with rage and discomfort and thinking that I would do anything to take her pain away. As corny as it sounds, at that very moment, I knew I would give my life for hers.

Fortunately it was just a heel-prick test and we both recovered from the trauma.

Six months later, she returned to spend a few nights in hospital. It was nothing major, as it turned out, just a small kidney infection, but it had involved her turning blue and convulsing, me on my own, calling NHS Direct who in turn called an ambulance and the two of us taking a trip to children's A&E in complete panic.

At the time, Brighton's Children's hospital was a decrepit old buidling held together by bits of string and lots of Blu Tack. The care for the children was good, but for the parents of the children, not so good. As I was still breastfeeding at the time I needed to stay near Renée at night. Unfortunately all they could offer us was a cot for Renée and a tatty old upright chair for me. For three nights I slept next to her cot on two chairs pushed together. I probably would have opted for the floor, but it didn't look all that clean.

It was a truly horrific time. My husband was away working and I was a new Mother, all on my own. As I held Renée's limp and bruised hand and tried to stop her from pulling out the tubes up her nose and the drip in her arm, I felt overwhelmed with the responsibilty of being a parent. A parent of an ill child. Not surprisingly, I cried. I cried quite a lot as it happens.

Luckily, Renée recovered. As did Edie a couple of years later when she spent New Year's Eve in the very same hospital at just six weeks old with Bronchiolitis.

My little ones have been lucky. Unfortunately, not every child is as lucky and when I received an e-mail from Emily at Brits in Bosnia asking for bloggers to post about the single that the X-Factor finalists have produced which is raising funds for Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital, I wanted to help. Unless you've spent a night in hospital with a sick child you can't imagine how truly horrendous it is. And you also can't imagine just how much care is needed to provide round-the-clock assistance for every child.

If you click on this link then you'll be able to see a story about a very, very ill child who Great Ormond Street Hospital have helped save.

And if you click on this link then you'll be able to see the video that is hoping to raise funds for the hospital.

And finally, if you click on this link then you can help donate funds by purchasing the single itself.

And now all that's left for me to do is to go and hug my children and thank every power that be that they are happy and healthy.

Happy Birthday my darling girl

2009-11-18T12:27:00.006Z

Today my darling Edie has turned three, although the poor mite is hardly aware of the fact since we were in such a rush for nursery this morning, we didn't have time to open any presents (which is just as well because there weren't any). A fact not helped by nursery woman asking her what presents she had received...

"Cards", Edie replied.

"Cars"? nursery woman asked quizically.

"Cards", I repeated. "Er we're saving presents for later".

"Did you have cake for breakfast"? nursery woman blundered on.

"No, cake's for later too", I insisted.

And that's how I left it as I then dashed off to the supermarket to buy cake and presents.

Edie will never know.

And Edie, my darling, if you ever read this post in years to come and think that Mummy didn't love you, then please continue reading and you'll know for certain that that's not the case.

Little Edie, you are the most divine creature anyone has ever met. You are stunningly beautiful (of course everyone says that you look just like me...cough)! But not only that...you are truly captivating. Katharine's Mummy, Veronica, says that you're the only other child, aside from her own, who she feels unconditional love for, which is just as well because I have noticed you hit her quite a few times.

But, you see, that's the thing. Despite the fact that you, er hit and er, kick and pull hair and bite and generally try to do a very good job of turning people against you, it just doesn't work. Everybody loves you, Edie, not least your Mummy and your Papa and your big sister Renée.

Happy Birthday little one. You are now officially very grown-up. And don't forget, very grown-up girlies don't need to bite any more, or hit, or throw tantrums for that matter. Only two year-olds do that...

Babysitter found - thanks to the blogosphere!

2009-11-16T10:38:00.006Z

Ok, so I can't keep you hanging on any longer...

We found a babysitter.

And we did go to the party.

Whoop, whoop, air punch, dancing around the room, etc, etc. But not so loudly this time as my head is still feeling rather fragile. And yes I know it's not even the morning after, but that should give you some indication of the fun we had because despite not making it to the stage of table dancing with bottles of vodka, I did sit and munch my way through rather a lot of Chorizo in red wine, which I defy anyone not to completely adore (unless of course you're vegetarian, or you hate chorizo or, er, red wine).

Anyway, I just need to share this story with you because following the t-shirt episode, it's yet another example of how truly, truly amazing the blogosphere is.

So, if you didn't read Friday night's post, the long and short of it is that I had a huge rant about the bloody babysitter who refused to come when I told her that her boyfriend wasn't invited too.
When I woke up on Saturday morning, still without a babysitter for that evening, I read through the deluge of comments I had received - and thank you to everyone who supported me in saying that the babysitter had been in the wrong. Stragely enough my own Mother had taken rather a lot of persuasion to come round to my way of thinking and had recounted numerous occasions where boyfriends had turned up to assist babysitters when I was younger. But maybe that's just a sad indication of how times have changed. When it comes to the safety of your children, these days, cautious can never be wrong.

Anyway, amongst the comments was a bona fide offer of babysitting from a fellow blogger. Now it's not quite as random as it sounds since Karen is a friend of mine. However, it's been rather a few years since we've actually met up and thanks to Facebook we 'found' each other again. As I also publish my blog on Facebook she just so happened to come across it, read it from the very beginning and send me a lovely message saying how much she'd enjoyed it, (bless her)!!

In fact, she was so taken with the idea of blogging that the very next day she started a blog of her own - one which charts her life as a Mother of four children aged between 16 and 22, all of whom still live at home.

So not only is she a complete saint for putting up with all of them, but she's also a genuinely lovely person to have offered her services...

...of which we accepted. It wasn't exactly my preferred method of meeting up after a few years, but sometimes, just sometimes, it feels right.

So that is that.

Thanks to Karen, we went to the party. Go and check out her blog - Brighton Mum/Teenage Angst. It's a fantastic read. Thank you so much Karen - you're the best. And so is the blogosphere.

Bloody babysitter

2009-11-13T20:58:00.007Z

I am cross. I am enraged, incensed, infuriated, livid and not in the least bit happy.

Ok, so it's not actually that bad because I hardly ever get that cross about anything. But if I did...if I was that sort of person, then I would be furious.

But I'm not.

I'm just mildly annoyed really.

Let me explain.

I'm going out tomorrow night.

Brief interlude here as I do a 'whoop whoop', quickly followed a lap of victory around the house.

So a friend is having a birthday party.

It starts at 7pm.

Children are invited.

Except, d'you know what? I quite fancy leaving mine at home. It may sound strange, but sometimes, just sometimes I want to be Emily. I want to stand and talk to people without being called Mummy in adult company. And I want to eat something, anything, without first having to offer it to a child. And I want to have a conversation without having to look over someone's shoulder in case Edie is falling down a flight of stairs or opening front doors or drawing on walls. And I want to take a big, deep breath and know if I hear a child whining, for once it won't be my own. And I want to dance on the table holding a bottle of vodka without fear of embarrassing my children. Ok, maybe not the last one, but hey, you never know!

Anyway, that's my little fantasy. And besides, hubby is around...and as you know, he's never around. So guess what? We've decided to go to the party together and book a babysitter.

Yay. Pause for another air punch.

Except here's the rub.

Claire from up the road can't do it because, well, she's a teenager and I think she may have a life. Kate from nursery can't do it because, erm, she has 'other plans'. Jae from nursery can't do it because she's already babysitting.

But it's all ok. Lucy from nursery can do it.

Phew. That's settled then. I think I may even have spent all day yesterday boasting (to all those who would listen) that we had secured a babysitter and we were going out.

Rookie mistake.

Because this evening Lucy texted me.

'Is it ok if I bring my other half?'

Erm, no not really. You've never actually babysat for us before. I can hardly even remember what you look like because you're from the girl's old nursery and it has been a while, and we have never met your 'other half'. Now, I'm not particularly thrilled at the prospect of paying you £6 per hour to sit and canoodle (or heaven forbid even more) on the sofa with your boyfriend. I mean, seriously, what happens when 5-year-old child wakes up wanting a glass of water only to discover babies aren't made by eating brocoli and rolling dice.

But of course I didn't say that. I thought a quick 'Sorry, but hubby not keen on the idea because we don't know your other half. But we won't be back late so I'm sure you'll have time to see him afterwards. Hope that ok.', would suffice.

Apparently not. Because this is what I received back.

'Im not sure then coz its nice 2 ave company'.

Well maybe if she hadn't written a fucking illiterate text message I might not have become so bloody angry.

'No problem, Lucy', I wrote, 'We'll find someone else. Hope you have a lovely evening with your boyfriend'.

That's me angry you see.

Except, now I can't find anyone else....

Damn it. Damn Lucy and the horse she rode in on.

I will go to the ball....

Now tell me something. Was I wrong? Should I have allowed Lucy to bring her boyfriend? Tell me I was right or I may have to cry...

So I am a Princess after all...kind of.

2009-11-09T11:39:00.012Z

It's always interesting to view life through a child's eyes. For instance, when I asked Edie, back in July, what Mummy did for a job, she answered 'cauliflower'. She also said that I wasn't very good at 'eating paper' and when asked how old she thought I was she answered 'Don't know. Three?'. Like I said, it is, erm, interesting to see life from the point of view of a child.

So when I was tagged by MuddynoSugar at How I like My Coffee in the Picture Perfect Meme, I was eager, if not a tad anxious, to see how my children would draw me.

But I needn't have worried. I mean, look, I'm a Princess!

By Renée, aged 5.

But, um, she didn't stop there. Unfortunately, I am no longer a Princess, but what I can only presume is a slightly mad woman with a cat, or is it a blackbird?

By Renée, aged 5.

And, well, the pretence of being a Princess has unfortunately worn off good and proper in Edie's attempt. I can kind of detect a head and two legs though...

By Edie, aged 2.

And in an attempt to rescue my dignity, a family portrait. Note, that Mummy is, er, rather large and Papa, is, er, not...

By Renée, aged 5.

Can we make a difference?

2009-11-05T10:22:00.007Z

There are various reasons why people blog. Some say it's a way of honing their writing skills, while others find it a place to let off steam in an anonymous environment. Most bloggers love the community feel of the blogosphere and have made genuine friendships across cyberspace. But perhaps the most important aspect of blogging is the feeling that you can actually make a difference, whether it be empathising with someone experiencing the same difficulties as you, or in this case, on a much wider scale.

No one will ever be able to forget Madeleine McCann, least of all her parents. It's now been two-and-a-half years since the almost 4 year old disappeared from her appartment bedroom in Portugal. And no one is any nearer to discovering what actually happened to the little girl.

I watched this video and I cried. There's nothing new in it. I've seen all the footage before, but nonetheless I still cried. As a mother of two little girls, I can't possibly even imagine the devastation that Maddie's disappearance has caused to her family.

My heart truly breaks for the McCann family. Please, somebody, somewhere, help find her.

Top Ten Children's Film Characters

2009-11-03T13:14:00.006Z

Ok, so I have a huge backlog of Memes that I really need to address and since we've been away in Norfolk for the past few days, a huge backlog of just about everything. But we'll start with the memes...or least one of them.

The wonderful Linda over at You've Got Your Hands Full (who incidentally I am not in the least bit jealous of - cough - despite the fact that she's just spent a week cruising around the Caribbean) tagged me in a list of the Top Ten Movie Characters. Now seeing as it's me and I like to change things just a little bit, I thought I'd make a list of the Top Ten Children's characters instead. Besides, this is a 'Mummy' blog after all, so children are fairly relevant.

Here goes.

Mathilda (played by Natalie Portman) in Leon. I just love this girl. She's amazing - beautiful, sassy, clever and cool. I wish I was her (if you forget the part about her parents and brother being killed and being pursued by a number of hitmen). We even made Renée's middle name Matilda after her. Now that's dedication!
Ray Boyd (played by Jonathan Lipnicki) in Jerry Maguire. He is just the cutest, cleverest little boy ever. I want one like him.
Gertie (played by Drew Barrymore) in ET. Gorgeous. And I think we're the same age, so when I first watched the film I wanted to be her too (or at least I wanted to be her friend).
Velvet (played by Elizabeth Taylor) in National Velvet. When I was little my ultimate ambition was to be the first woman to win the Grand National. Unfortunately I grew too tall to be a jockey, but there will always be a place for Velvet in my heart.
Bugsy (played by Scott Baio) in Bugsy Malone. Actually any of the characters in this film could be on the list, seeing as they're all children. Who can forget Tallulah or Blousy Brown? But Bugsy is still my favourite. What a dish.
Annie (played by Aileen Quinn) in Annie. I don't know if it's the fact that she's just a gutsy orphan or that I never stopped singing 'The Sun'll come out tomorrow', but either way, she's on the list.
Kevin (played by Macauley Culkin) in Home Alone. Too cute. Too clever. Back then.
(The youngest) Jamal Malik (played by Ayush Mahed Khedekar) in Slumdog Millionaire. Anyone who sinks neck-high into poo in pursuit of his hero is worthy of a mention. And besides, he is rather cute.
Anna (played by Charlotte Burke) in Paperhouse. Cult film. Cult character. I'm not normally drawn to horror films, but purely for the acting alone she has to be on the list.
Billy (played by Jamie Bell) in Billy Elliot. A boy in a leotard can't escape a mention.

Just missing out were Melinda Sordino from Speak, Lyra Belacqua from His Dark Materials and Flora from The Piano.

As always, the rules of a meme are to pass it on. So I tag the following people - Laura @ Are We Nearly There Yet Mummy, Jo Beaufoix, Emily @ Brits in Bosnia, Tim @ Bringing Up Charlie and Josie @ Sleep is for the Weak. Feel free to carry on with the meme even if I haven't tagged you, or leave a comment if you think I've missed out anyone glaringly obvious.

THE T-Shirt

2009-10-29T11:11:00.006Z

There's no place quite like the Blogosphere is there? (Well, apart from the Caribbean, or Thailand or anywhere else with a bit of sun really). But you get my drift.

Just over a week ago I posted a picture of something my five-year-old daughter had written. Amongst the comments I received was a suggestion from English Mum, that it would look great as a T-Shirt, closely followed by another coment from Brighton Mum explaining the best way to do it. And while I sat back and wondered whether I had either the energy or the inclination to get off my rather lazy behind and actually do something about it, I received another e-mail. This time, it wasn't just a suggestion, but an offer.

'I can put it onto a t-shirt for you. Would you like me to?'

Erm, now let me just think about that for one milisecond.

'Yes please.'

And that's all it took. Seriously. And to think I was considering attempting to do it myself.

So, without further ado, here is THE T-Shirt.

How amazing is it? And how kind and wonderful is the person who did it for me? And all of this because of a little something called the Blogosphere.

Thank you kind people. I think I'll be sticking around for a while yet.

Yes, even more awards

2009-10-27T18:11:00.018Z

So apparently I'm not Scary enough. I didn't win the 'Scary Mommy' competition and in light of that I am now miserable.

My husband has tried to cheer me up, in his typically dismissive fashion,

'Well did you really want to be scary anyway?'

'Well, no. But that's not the point. I wanted a Flip Camera'.

So in an attempt to lessen the blow, I am going to have to pull out all the awards I've been harbouring and haven't yet got round to posting....Bear with me...we could be here a while.

First up is the 'Queen of All Things Awesome' award which has been bestowed upon me by Very Bored Housewife. Thank you lovely lady. I think this will look rather wonderful on my sidebar.

The rules, as ever, are to pass it on to five other blogs which I feel are just as worthy. So, step up wonderful people, this award is just for you.

Forty Not Out

Muddling Along Mummy

And Then there were three...

All Grown Up...still feeling like a kid
Lady Mama

Next up is the, now infamous, Zombie Chicken award, given to me by The Wife of Bold and That Girl. Thank you my darlings. The rules for this one are as follows...

"The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the zombie chicken – excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all."

I hereby pass this on to the following five blogs.

My Life The Soap Opera and Other Ramblings

Some Mothers Do Ave Em
The Potty Diaries

I Know I need to stop Talking
It's a Small World After All

Next up, it's the 'I Love Your Blog' award which has been given to me by Baking Mad Mama and Linda at You've Got Your Hands Full. Well, I love all the blogs I read, but I don't think I've passed on awards to these lovely people before, so here goes, the award is for you.

Living With Kids
Selina Kingston Is Forty
Fragments Treasures Memory
Not Such a Yummy Mummy
Very Bored Housewife

The 'I Love your Blog As much as cake' award was offered to all the readers of Clareybabbling and Life with a Little Dude, so hey, what's another one while I'm here? Thanks ladies. I hereby pass this on to the following blogs. All as yummy as cake...

Baking Mad Mama
Our Little Love Nest
Brighton Mum - Teenage Angst
Insomniac Mummy
Babyrambles

Your Blog is Bloody Brilliant was given to me by 20-Something Mum. Thanks sweetie pie - and yes, it was great to meet you too. The following blogs are Bloody Brilliant too...

Not Wrong, Just Different

Lost In Translation

Grit's Day
Life With a Little Dude

You've Got Your Hands Full

The penultimate award is the 'Kreativ Blogger' given to me by the wonderful Whistlejacket at Babyrambles. Thanks honey - I'm totally chuffed to have been given this...because, well since the Pom Pom and Purse-making episodes I was hoping someone might have noticed my creative side! However, the following blogs deserve this award much more than me...go and check them out for yourselves.

Violet Posy
Country In the Town
Clareybabbling
A Place of My Own
A Woman of No Importance

And Finally, I am very honoured to have received the Circle of Friends award from the ever wonderful That Girl at Forty Not Out. It's actually a huge struggle to pass it on because I genuinely feel as though I am friends with all of my fellow bloggers and I wish I could pass it on to everyone. But the following people have been here for me from the very beginning.

Island Mum of 2
WAHM-BAM!
Metropolitan Mum

Another Day In the Madhouse

Perfectly Happy Mum

Sleep is for the Weak

And that concludes the award post which has taken me four whole days to compile!

Am I a Scary Mummy?

2009-10-22T21:19:00.005+01:00

There's a blogger from across the pond who goes by the name of Scary Mommy. Between you and me I think she's a little pussycat, but shhhhh....don't tell her I said that.

Anyhoooo, she's running a competition to see if she can find the Scariest Mommy or (Mummy) out there.

So, never one to shy away from a challenge, especially one as fabulous as this, I have decided to throw down the gauntlet...

But, firstly, you may ask, what defines 'Scary'?

Well, Scary Mommy herself defines it as...

....a mother who doesn’t leave the house wearing lipstick at all times.

So, yep, that'll be me then. Don't actually own any lipstick. I know, I know. It always seems just a little 'too much'.

...a mother who loves her kids to death, but will admit to feeling totally overwhelmed and exhausted by the gig.

Hello??? My middle name is exhaustion.

...a mother who doesn’t really care what other people think.

If I cared, I'm sure I would never have told you about the grey pubic hairs.

...a mother who thinks that all mothers win when we admit our weaknesses.

Did I mention that weakness was my other middle name?

So, there you go. Having established, that yes, I am the Scariest of scary mothers, how do I go about winning this thing?

Well, I have to submit a post by today (nothing like leaving it a little on the late side - further evidence that I am indeed very Scary), proving that very thing - that I am SCARY with a capital 'S'.

Now regular readers of this blog will have already read this one (well I did only write it three weeks ago). If I say the word 'massage', does that ring any bells? If not, then read on.

So here goes. Is this Scary enough for you, Scary Mommy?

SCARIEST POST EVER

And apparently Scary Mommy will take into account, when choosing the winner, the comments left at the end of the post...so please lovely readers of my blog...am I not the Scariest of Scary Mummies???

x

Don't kill animals

2009-10-20T18:53:00.002+01:00

Renée, my five-year old loves animals. When she grows up she wants to be a vet or a farmer, or a marine biologist or a zookeeper. Anything, in fact that means she will get to spend her days with animals. This evening, just before bed she asked me how to spell 'become', 'extinct' and 'future'. I had no idea what she was doing, but called out the spellings anyway.

What she had written almost brought tears to my eyes. So I just thought I'd share it with you.

She's Not my Daughter

2009-10-16T12:30:00.002+01:00

There was once a time when I was an embarrassment to my husband. I know - surely not you cry? Not me. Not me of the effortless 'I just got out of bed and look gorgeous image'. Yes, I know - I do like to make myself laugh on a Friday morning.

But, yes. Me. Me dressed in an ill-fitting, so-huge-you-look-like-a-blamange-in-a-duvet ski suit who isn't able to (a) walk a step without tripping up in ski boots or (b) carry those stupid skis that won't stay together even if they're glued, let alone rest nonchalantly on my shoulder and allow me to look at least a little bit cool.

It was truly hideous. Did I ever say I hate Skiing? Well I do.

Husband, on the other hand, is not only French, but was born and brought up in the Alps. He is, I say through gritted teeth, the epitome of French cool. Remember that ski scene in James Bond - The World Is Not Enough or the one in Bridget Jones - The Edge of Reason? Well, he filmed them.

How we ever ended up together is anyone's guess.

But we did. And there we were, pre-children, pre-marriage, hanging out in Courchevel 1850 being cool. Well he was. I was just waddling after him trying not to slip up in those pesky ski boots.

And that's when it happened. The moment when I realised he was embarrassed by me.

'Oh hello (insert appropriate French name - I fear I may have blocked it out). So good to see you. It's been such a long time. No, no. I'm just here for the weekend. Oh right yes. This? This is my, er....friend, Emily'.

I grimaced.

Friend? Huh. Bloomin' cheek. I think the word you're looking for, husband-to-be, is girlfriend. Fiancée even. Future wife possibly. Partner. Love of my life. Anything. But not your bloody friend like we've just met and I've been hanging around like a bad smell.

So I think I may have not spoken to him for a while.

But it's fine. I'm over it. Really I am. Ahem.

Anyway, me dressed up as Bridget Jones isn't really the point of the story, but it's good to be reminded...

Because a couple of days ago I took my darling Renée, her of the 'I may only be 5, but I can swim and cycle and climb and run and generally do all the things my Papa can do just as easily', to the swimming pool. And do you know what? Part of me thinks it can't be true. But I'm going to confess anyway. I think I may have been a little bit embarrassed.

As I sat on the side of the pool, with the other Mothers (all of them who's children seemed to float, rather than sink), my heart fell. Why was she sinking? She's normally really good (of course she is, she's my daughter). But, seriously she is. She loves swimmng. And if she didn't, well she'd have no choice anyway because she's been going once a week since she was 4 months old and I dread to think how much money we would have wasted otherwise.

Now I'm still not sure what actually happened, other than the fact that she had temporarily forgotten how to swim, but when another Mother asked me which one my child was, rather than saying

'That one there. The one that's coughing and spluttering and sinking, and heaven forbid, possibly drowning',

I chose to be rather evasive, and instead muttered something along the lines of,

'Oh she's somewhere there. I can't really see her. They all look the same with their hats on, don't they?'

I am an awful mother.

Renéee I love you.

Husband you are forgiven. I finally understand.

Pregnancy Lows - where do I start?

2009-10-12T19:02:00.002+01:00

When Peggy over at A Mother'Secrets asked for new posts on the subject of Pregnancy Lows, I have to admit to taking a huge breath in. I mean, seriously Peggy, how many posts can I submit? If it's not morning sickness, or bleeding, or the fear of miscarriage, then it's heartburn, leg cramps, sleepless nights, exhaustion, scary diagnosis during scans. The list of things to complain about during pregnancy really does go on and on and on.

I have a feeling that if you enjoyed your pregnancy, then you're one of the lucky few.

I hated being pregnant. In my case, it was nine months (or nearer ten as both mine were almost two weeks overdue) of pain and torture. I've already written about pregnancy weight and how depressed I felt at putting on five stone, but that wasn't all. During my first pregnancy, particularly, I suffered constant daily pain in the form of Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction, or SPD, where too much of the hormone 'relaxin' is released. What happens as a result of this is that the ligaments literally 'soften' in preparation for childbirth and the front part of the pelvis comes apart.

What that meant on a practical level was that it was excrutiatingly painful for me to open my legs. And no jokes here, please. That couldn't have been further from my mind. Save from sitting down and not moving, there wasn't much I was able to do. Every activity caused me pain, from walking and climbing stairs to turning over in bed at night and getting in and out of the car and bath.

Although anyone can suffer from SPD, I always felt like I was predisposed to it. It may be a joint and ligament problem, but the root cause is hormonal. And for me, that came as no surprise. A few years earlier I had been diagnosed with a pituitary tumour (something which Liz from Living with Kids has also experienced). The pituitary gland, which is situated at the front of your brain, controls all the hormones in your body. Although benign, the tumour had begun to press on my optic nerve and following a course of drugs, had failed to shrink. So eventually it was removed by breaking through my skull and literally sucking it out through my nose.

The results, thankfully, were great - so much so that I was actually able to get pregnant in the first place. However, I couldn't help but think that, as a result, my hormone production was slightly up the spout. Could my body have produced an excess of relaxin which in turn softened my ligaments just a little too much? Who knows. What I do know, though, is that whatever the cause, I spent the whole of my first pregnancy in hideous pain.

During my second pregnancy, at only two and a half months in, before I even had a bump to show for it, I was hit with the same agonising pain. I remember leaving the house one day, walking a few steps down the road and being stopped in my tracks. The pain was so bad I couldn't continue on my walk. I turned around, hobbled home and sat on the sofa and cried. To think that I had seven months of constant pain ahead of me was almost too much to bear.

But, just a few days later, I happened upon an article in a local magazine about an osteopath who specialised in pregnancy-related problems, including SPD. I made an appointment straight away. Unbelievably, I had managed to find someone who made possible all that was impossible during my first pregnancy. Thanks to him, not only was I able to move around relatively pain-free (which is just as well since by that time I had a toddler to look after), but I only put on three stone rather than five.

It's unfortunate that I hadn't had the benefit of his expertise during my first pregnancy, but I have to be thankful that I had it all. My first pregnancy was hideous, my second bearable. But, when I look at my two little monkeys, I wouldn't change it for the world. What's nine months of pain when you have an amazing little creature at the end of it all? Having said that, I won't be going through it again in the near future, if I can help it.

Babies are gorgeous. Pregnancy sucks...

Love for my stepdaughter

2009-10-09T14:34:00.003+01:00

Not many of you know this, but as well as being Mother to my two little monkeys, I am also a step-mother to an almost 18-year-old. I haven't ever mentioned her on this blog because, well (a) I've never asked her permission (erm, still haven't actually, so Als - please don't hold this against me) and (b) she doesn't live with us, so on a day-to-day basis my role as step mother isn't a hugely active one. However, I've just read a thread for a discussion on British Mummy Bloggers about being a step parent, and I thought 'well yes, I guess that does apply to me', so in light of that, and the fact that she's coming to stay for the weekend, I thought I'd share with you a little bit about Alex.

I first met Alex when she was five years old, the age that Renée, my eldest is now. Her father and I had just worked together on our maiden job (filming a team climbing Mont Blanc) and we were collecting her from Lyon airport where she'd been staying with her grandparents, to bring her back home to Bath, where she still lives now. Although her father and I weren't 'together' at that point, I was already developing a little crush on him and was therefore anxious that his daughter would like me. (And before you start thinking of me as a hideous homewrecker, her parents had already split-up before we met...just thought I'd clear that up)!

'Can I brush your hair?' she asked me as we sat down at the cafe. 'Tu est tres jolie'. (And for those of you who don't speak French, she told me that I was very pretty). I knew we'd get along...(She also told me that I had hairy arms, but hey, I forgive her. She was five at the time).

And now she's almost 18 and I still find her just as enchanting as she was 13 years ago. I'd like to say that we've had our 'moments', but actually I can't remember a time when we haven't got on. She's been a teenager and slammed doors and wanted to wear clothes that weren't exactly appropriate for either the weather or her age, but I don't think we've ever argued about a thing.

Alex, correct me if I'm wrong. My memory isn't what it used to be! And besides, I still have manflu so my judgement could be somewhat clouded. But seriously, I love you and I care so much about you and despite the fact that you're now taller than me and have bigger boobs (yes, for those of you that know me I know that's not saying much - be kind), I will always feel protective of you.

Alex, my darling, you are amazing. You are everything I could ever hope for my daughters to be. You are so beautiful and bright and clever and funny and kind and kind of cool too. If I was your age, I'd want you to be my friend. I want to hang out with you and laugh and share all the things that you share with your friends. I look at you and know that you could do anything you ever wanted to do with your life. You have that special thing about you. You impress me. Thank you for being such a wonderful person, a fantastic stepdaughter and an amazing big sister.

This morning, your little sister, Edie, was in a bad mood...a two-year-old bad mood which involved a total refusal to cooperate in any way. She didn't want to get out of bed, she cried and made herself rigid when I attempted to put her clothes on, she ran away and hid when I told her that it was time to go to nursery. I thought 'Crikey, this is going to be a looooooong day', but then I remembered you were coming to stay for the weekend and I knew that the moment I told her, she would change her mood around.

And she did.

'Alex is coming to stay Edie', I told her. 'She'll be here tomorrow morning when you wake up'.

She stopped crying at once. She smiled. She even did a little dance. And in that one moment, I was so grateful for you, even though you weren't here, and I just wanted to let you know how much your sisters adore you, as we all do.

Thank you for always loving them and never once feeling resentful that they came along. You are a truly special person.

And by the way, don't think that you'll be sleeping in tomorrow morning because Renée has already told me that the first thing she's going to do when she wakes up is to jump on your bed.

You have been warned.

I feel like sulking

2009-10-07T21:51:00.005+01:00

I hate this weather. I really do. Not only have I had to trade in my flip flops for Winter boots (which I incidentally discovered, following a rather wet sock yesterday morning, have a hole in), but I also feel totally unmotivated to do anything other than sit in front of a computer googling hot countries and last minute getaways.

Oh yes, and eat chocolate biscuits.

And my husband is away so I can even eat chocolate biscuits for supper if I want to.

So that's what I'm doing.

I'm eating chocolate biscuits and feeling crap cos I'm eating chocolate biscuits.

And I think I have manflu coming on too, judging by the amount of Strepsils I have consumed in a single day and the very inconvenient moments at which my nose has chosen to run (whilst Tesco delivery man was asking if I was happy with the substitutions made and at a children's birthday party this afternoon whilst speaking to other mothers). In neither situation did I have a tissue at the ready.

So there you go. I'm ill and tired and can't think of one funny thing to write.

And to add insult to injury my husband has been sending me photos of what he's currently 'working' on.

Maybe I wouldn't be feeling so bad if he hadn't reminded me what my life used to be like before I became a Mother.

Hmph. I'm off to sulk.

And just in case you were concerned, no animals were harmed during the taking of this photo. He's a cameraman. And we used to work together.

Grey hairs in all the wrong places

2009-10-03T18:45:00.003+01:00

I found my first grey hair when I was eight years old. Seriously. I discovered it during a Maths lesson. I remember it well because Maths lessons generally saw me sitting at the back of the class, desperately looking around for something else to do other than concentrate on what was laid out in front of me. At the time, I found twiddling my hair to be far more pleasurable.

And so it was in the midst of one of these twiddles that I happened upon the hair, glistening in all its glory amongst the brown ones.

I was shocked, but almost peversely delighted at this very grown-up discovery. I couldn't contain my excitement and felt I had to tell the teacher. I remember the fact that she thought it was paint.

But it wasn't.

And then slowly I discovered more.

And more.

But not all when I was eight. Don't worry. It did take a few years.

And then when I was in my early 20's I decided to experiment with highlights and before I knew it, someone had referred to me as blonde. I looked in the mirror and realised that they were right. But hey, at least it covered the grey.

And then a couple of years ago I discovered a grey eyebrow. I was incredulous. A grey eyebrow at 33? I pulled it out.

And thought nothing more of it.

That was until, I made an even more shocking discovery only a few days ago. One which I decided to share with my husband as we were lying in bed.

"I found grey pubic hairs you know", I told him.

He looked at me, eyes widening, a frown forming. I think I may even have detected distaste.

Crikey, I thought. It's not that shocking, is it? I mean, I do have a fair few on my head, a couple in my eyebrows, and well, isn't that just the natural progression?

I felt rather affronted at his reaction.

That was until I heard his response.

"Who do they belong to?"

I almost wet myself laughing.

For crying out loud husband. Who do you think they belong to? The postman?

They're mine you fool.

I think he cottoned on in the end...

Why a massage is never really that relaxing

2009-09-28T12:14:00.005+01:00

I've been feeling rubbish recently. Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish. Tooth ache, back ache, arm ache, foot ache, stomach ache. You name it. If there's an ache to be had, then I've had it. I'm not sure if it's the fact that Summer is almost over and my body is, therefore, grieving, or the fact that my husband is off on a work trip for 30 days in just three days time (more on that over the next month I'm sure). But whatever it is, I seem to have been sent into a downward spiral and I could really do with a pick-me up.

A couple of days ago, in the midst of my general moaning and wailing, I remembered that I actually had, in my possession, a voucher for an hour's full-body massage, bought for me by my lovely husabnd, four whole months ago as a birthday present.

Now I'm not quite sure why I hadn't yet got round to relinquishing the voucher, apart from the fact that...

I NEVER BLOODY HAVE A SPARE SECOND.

Can you tell my toothache hasn't quite subsided? (I actually have an emergency appointment booked in one hour's time, so please bear with me).

But desperate times and all that....

So off I limped whilst husband stayed at home to look after the mini terrorists.

The thing is, however much a massage is needed, or coveted, it's never really that relaxing is it?

I mean, as soon as you've settled down on the couch, hoping beyond hope that the therapist, poor love, won't adjust the blanket that you've carefully positioned to hide the over-stretched, definitely-seen-better-days g-string that you were determined to remember not to wear, but forgot anyway and the 'I've-had-two-children' wobbly bits, so inexpertly held-together by said g-string, do you then remember that you've also forgotten to shave your legs, or any other part of your body for that matter and each time she runs her hands up and down your legs, you flinch because not only are you worried for her safety (the bristles are fairly sharp), but it isn't all that comfortable for you either.

Of course, I'm not saying that this was what happened (ahem)...just that that's what normally happens in a massage. Isn't it?

And then after you've got over the embarrassment of wobbly bits and needle-like leg hairs, the temperature of the room, which you assured the therapist, only a moment ago was 'just right', suddenly becomes a bit too cold and all you can think about is that freezing draft of air that's making your feet feel as though they might just drop off.

But then when the therapist asks if everything's 'alright?', you still say 'yes', because, well, something else becomes even more distracting, like the fact that she's pumelling the one spot you didn't want her to touch and she's doing it with such aplomb that you swear she knows you're in pain and she's secretly paying you back for the leg hairs and you want to tell her to stop, but you're embarrassed because you told her you liked it 'firm', when at this precise moment, you'd like it anything but firm.

But then she moves from the now extremely tender point you didn't want her to touch and it's actually beginning to feel ok, possibly even rather relaxing. And the sound of the waves and the flickering of the candles and the smell of the lavender aren't even remotely annoying and you have a feeling that you might even drift off to sleep...

Until...

Oh no. Surely not. Please no. But you can feel it coming. Your heartrate quickens in panic. And your butt cheeks become so desperately tense in an attempt to stop the one thing that you were dreading.

A fart.

Yes, I said it. A fart. And it's coming. And you know if it does you might as well put your clothes straight back on and walk out because the embarrassment will be too much for your poor shame-faced self to handle. But she seems to be pumelling in just the wrong place and you so desperately try to hold it in, but all your attempts are futile. Of course it serves you right for having had that take away curry the night before, but you didn't think about the consequences as you were tucking into your chicken masala and onion bhaji.

Times freezes...

But there isn't any noise.

Phew.

Maybe it didn't happen after all.

But then you realise, with horror, that it did.

And you realise that if you know it did, then she knows it did too.

But she's continuing to massage and some tiny part of your brain thinks that maybe you should say something. It's not so much a case of there being an elephant in the room, more like there's an elephant in the room and he's just left a huge pile of dung in the corner.

Like I said, this wasn't my massage. Heaven forbid...

And any attempts to rescue your dignity are further scuppered when you're asked to turn over and you fear that one look at your poor, 'I-once-breast-fed-my-children-for-quite-a-long-time' boobs will put the therapist off having children for life.

And then the hour is finished. And part of you wishes that it could have gone on just a wee while longer, but part of you is ready to dash home just as quickly as your poor bristly legs can carry you.

And that's all I'm saying on the subject of massages.

I think I will just have to look for a pick-me up elsewhere. In the meantime, I'm just off to the dentist.

Sleep deprivation? Not on your nelly...

2009-09-22T23:19:00.003+01:00

When you're a blogging kinda gal, you get close to those around you - so when Josie from Sleep is for the Weak announced that she would be hosting a 'Sleep Deprivation' carnival, I wanted to help her out. The ony problem was, apart from laying awake all night trying to think about what to write for her (which she assured me didn't count as 'authentic' sleep deprivation), I really didn't know what I would write.

You see, the thing is, although I'm a Mother of two small children, I don't really suffer from sleep deprivation, as such. Yes, my favourite thing to say when people ask me how I am is 'exhausted', but that's more about the fact that I've been up fiddling around with the computer all night, rather than the fact that my children haven't been sleeping.

You see, they sleep rather well. Amazingly almost.

This morning I had to wake Renée up at 8 o'clock so she had time for breakfast before school. And Edie followed shortly after. They had both been in bed since 6.30 the night before.

And they hadn't woken up.

At all.

Seriously.

When I tell people about my children's sleeping, they often think I'm lying, or else, they tell me that I'm extremely lucky.

Lying. Why would I? When my child does a poo at a smart garden party and I manage to step in it, I tell you. When I am in tears because I think my (then) unborn child has a cleft lip, then I tell you. Why would I lie about their sleeping? It would be much more fun to tell you that they've both been up all night and I'm currently dying of exhaustion (and I'm sure it would elicit far more sympathy too). But that wouldn't be the truth.

But am I lucky? Well, yes, of course I am. BUT, that luck didn't just happen. I like to think that I made it.

There was once a time when I was dying of exhaustion, believe me. After giving birth to Edie, I was miserable. I was over the moon to have two beautiful children, but in truth, it was so much more work that I could ever have imagined. I loved having one child. I loved everything about it. I loved gazing at my adorable newborn and imagining that I was the only person ever to have such feelings of happiness. I slept when she slept, revelled in my new role as natural mother and truly thought I had found my vocation in life. So when Edie came along, I thought it would be even easier.

I was wrong.

Not only did she not sleep.

At all.

Ever.

But she fed like a demon and I never seemed to have enough milk for her.

I remember when she was a tiny baby, she'd be awake all day and then I'd pray for her to sleep at night. Just an hour. Anything. But she wouldn't. Instead she'd toss and turn in her moses basket, fidget next to me, cry and fuss on top of me. And I'd cry too. So much. And just when she'd finally drop off to sleep, I'd catch a faint whiff of her tiny newborn nappy and I'd know that she'd have to be woken up for a change.

It was soul destroying.

When she would eventually find the knowhow to drop off to sleep, her big sister would wake up, full of joy and full of the energy of a two-year old.

In those early days of having two children I reckon I had two hours sleep a night and never was that in one go.

Like I said, I was miserable.

But instead of driving myself insane, which I could easily have done, I decided that I absolutely, definitely had to do something about it.

My husband works away from home a great deal and therefore, although I'm married, I often feel like a single Mother. And that means that the children are my responsibility, 24 hours a day. If the children don't sleep, then I don't sleep. And if they stay up all night, as my French in-laws would have them do, then I would never have a moment to myself. As much as I adore my children, I don't find that a very welcoming prospect.

So what did I do?

Controlled crying is what.

You've probably heard of it. And if you have then you either find it a barbaric thought, or you swear by it. I fall into the latter category, as does Really Rachel who wrote a post about it too.

I'm not sure you need boring with the finer details. I think Really Rachel gives a good account.

All I can say is - it took three nights. That's all. Edie was about seven or eight months old. Not yet able to pull herself up and rattle the sides of the cot or shout 'Mama' (as Renée had done a couple of years earlier). It was hideous, obviously, to hear my darling child cry and wail. But it was more hideous, for both of us, to get no sleep.

They are now five and almost three and they both sleep like a dream.

I don't wake up in the morning feeling like I've drunk five bottles of wine (chance would be a fine thing). And they don't spend the day getting cranky or whiny.

They love their sleep.

And so do I.

Night night my friends....

Award Overload

2009-09-18T14:36:00.015+01:00

Right lovely people, brace yourselves for an award overload. There are rules and lists that come with these, but please, please don't ask me to do them. I'll be here for two days instead of just one! And besides, by the time you read to the end, you probably would have fallen asleep anyway.

Ok, first award. It's the Zombie Chicken given to me by Really Rachel. Thank you lovely lady. This is my favourite award (which, ahem...I think I have already, but I can't ignore the passing on bit). So here's the bit that goes with it...

"The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the zombie chicken – excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all."

And here are the very worthy recipients...

Another Day in the Madhouse
The Potty Diaries
A Mothers' Secrets
The World from My Window
The Wife of Bold
In the Gutter
Frogs and Sprogs
Metropolitan Mum

The second award is the Over the Top Award given to me by Muddling Along Mummy. Now despite it being called 'over the top', I am assured that this is meant in a 'your blog is fabulous darling' way, so thank you kind lady, I shall pass it on to some more 'over the top' blogs...

Not Supermum
Lady Mama
The Audacity of an Optimistic Pessimist
Brits in Bosnia
And 1 More Means 4
New Mummy

The third award was given to me by the wondrous Amy at And 1 More Means 4. Thanks honey. It's the Great Read Award (ahem, cough...have it already), but must still pass it on. So without further ado, here are some more Great Reads...

Being a Mummy
Mummy Do That
Clareybabbling
Most/Least
Not Wrong, Just Different
Not Waving, but Drowning
You've got your Hands Full

Now it won't surprise you to learn that the 'hardly a wallflower' Rebel Mother at Another Day in the Madhouse has given me this award. It's the Bloody Brilliant award and will sit very nicely next to my other, rather rude award in my sidebar. Thanks sweetie pie. Oh yes, I almost forgot - some worthy recipients...

Babyrambles
Reasons to Be Cheerful 1, 2, 3...
Snaffles Mummy
Muddling Along Mummy
A Mother's Ramblings
Insomniac Mummy
Life with a Little Dude

Ok, last one I promise.... This is the I Love Your Blog given to me by Snaffles Mummy. Thank you, thank you ever so much. I love my blog too!!! Hee hee... And the final list - I hereby pass it on to some more blogs which I love, love, love.

Brighton Mum/Teenage Angst
Really Rachel
Diary of a Surprise Mum
West of the Pennines
Café Bébé
Magnumlady's Blog
Working Mum on the Verge

And if I haven't given you an award today, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It might be because I've already given you one or because you already have them, or just because my brain is frazzled and I've lost track of who I've given what to. Please don't take it personally!

And if you did get an award, then please let me give you this little bit of advice - DO NOT hang on to it for as long as me, or else you'll spend the best part of a day putting the post together! I can not tell how long this has taken me to compile.

Ahem. Hubby is not happy!

It's the small things...

2009-09-15T15:25:00.006+01:00

So I'm sitting here tapping away at the computer, annoyed, frustrated and generally extremely pissed off because the car has chosen to break down on the one morning that I really need it.

And then Edie runs in, shouting,

'Mummy, Mummy. Look at me. Look what I can do. Mummy look.'

I glance up, struggling to muster a smile, all thoughts elsewhere, but I manage it, for Edie's sake.

Judging by the tone of her voice and the excitement with which she's demanding my attention, it will be something new and wondrous.

Instead she lies on her back and kicks her legs in the air like an upside down tortoise.

'That's fantastic Edie', I say, not wanting to burst her bubble.

She stands up and leaves the room with pride etched all over her face.

And now I'm smiling.

I tell you, when you're a parent, it's the small things that make you feel all glowy.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the meantime, New Mummy is hosting the bi-weekly British Mummy Blogging Carnival. Click HERE to have a peek. There are 42 posts.!!!! Yes...42. Could take you all night to read them...

I don't care - As long as it's healthy

2009-09-11T19:50:00.005+01:00

So what's one of the first things people ask you when you tell them that you're pregnant? (Well, yes, apart from How did that happen? and Was it an accident?)

One of the most common questions is:

Are you going to find out the sex of the baby?

Well I, for one, who can't keep a secret, hates not knowing everything and is a tad impatient, absolutely had to find out.

With our first child, it wasn't quite so simple. The baby just wasn't letting us know and despite running up and down the hospital stairs, munching on a bar of chocolate and going to the loo in an attempt to get the baby to change position, it refused to move its hands away from its privates.

'It' turned out to be a 'she'. We called her Renée.

When I then became pregnant with my second, people seemed to be keener than ever, on our behalf, to find out the sex.

You must want a boy?
Don't you?

Erm, no not really. A girl would be just as good (if not better)!

But yes, again we wanted to know the sex. I wanted Renée to know if she would be having a brother or sister more than anything. I wanted her to bond with the baby before it arrived.

It just so happened that my husband was away for the 20-week scan, the anomaly scan, the scan where they can tell you the sex of the baby. He was working in New Zealand...just about as far away as was possible. But it didn't matter. He'd been there for the 12-week scan and I was planning on texting him the news just as soon as I heard. He was waiting. As were friends, grandparents on both side, brothers and sisters. Everyone wanted to know.

I'd left Renée with a friend whilst I went for the scan. The last thing I wanted was a wriggly, impatient toddler to deal with. But as I sat there in the waiting room I wanted someone to share the moment with. I was excited and I wanted her to be excited too.

The sonographer called me into the room and after a bit of chit-chat, they squirted the cold jelly on my tummy and showed me my baby's heartbeat on the screen.

I held my breath.

"I'd like to know the sex, if possible" I said.

I didn't want to jump ahead, but I couldn't contain myself.

"All in good time", the sonographer replied, smiling at me.

I looked at the screen and saw the clenched fists and jerky legs of my baby, the large head and the long spine and I knew that I could never be disappointed, whatever the sex.

I looked back at the sonographer again, smiling as I did so. She didn't look at me this time. Instead she left the room and returned with what looked like another sonographer. They pointed at the screen, looked at each other, spoke in medical terms I didn't understand, looked over at me and then at the screen again. And then she came over to me.

"We think your baby has a cleft lip, or a cleft palate - we can't be sure. Are you familiar with what that is?"

I nodded my head, but I couldn't speak. I thought about the pictures of babies and small children I'd seen in the newspaper supplements - "Donate £1 and help give these children a better life". They all had cleft lips - where both sides of their faces hadn't fused properly and the lips are left unjoined right up to the nose.

I wanted to cry. I wanted my husband, my toddler, anyone.

"Are you alright?" the sonographer asked.

I nodded again.

"Oh, and she's a girl by the way."

I was lead back out to the waiting room. How different everything looked now. In the space of five short minutes the whole room had changed. There were people who I had chatted with before, still sitting, waiting for their turn. They smiled at me.

I just stood there shaking. A baby girl. With a cleft lip. I knew it wasn't the end of the world. I knew it could be fixed easily with surgery. But still. I wanted my perfect baby to be blemish-free. Renée was beautiful. I didn't want Edie, because that was her name now, living in the shadow of her elder sister. I didn't want her to be the ugly one. I felt protective of her already. Protective and just a little bit sad.

I was lead into another room and offered tea with lots of sugar. I hate sugar in tea, but they made me drink it 'for the shock'.

Three doctors stared back at me.

"Lots can be done you know. Surgery these days is fantastic. Don't you worry. We'll put you in touch with the right people. You'll hardly see a scar."

I don't remember saying much. But I do remember leaving the hospital, standing on the street corner and crying. And then I remember wanting to hear my Mother's voice. So I called her.

"Mum, it's me."

"Darling! Is it a boy or a girl? We're all dying to hear."

I burst into tears again.

And then I texted my husband in New Zealand.

"Can I call you? I need to speak to you."

I got a text back.

"It's the middle of the night. Just tell me. Is it a girl or a boy?"

I texted back.

"It's a girl. And she has a cleft lip".

He called. And I cried. And he cried too.

Ten days later, when he returned from New Zealand, I had another scan. This time the specialist was called in. He wasn't sure whether she had a cleft lip or not.

"Possibly not" were his words.

We weren't sure.

I spent the next four months trying to be brave.

And then I went into labour. And I warned the midwifes that she might have a cleft lip. I didn't want them to be shocked and not know how to tell me.

It was my first question when she came out.

"Does she have a cleft lip?"

Turns out she didn't.

Unbelievable.

Girl or boy. I don't care. As long as they're healthy. And that's the truth.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This post will be featured on A Mother's Secrets, the new website from Peggy at Perfectly Happy Mum. Do click on the links to read other Parenting posts.

My 5 of the best

2009-09-10T12:39:00.006+01:00

Today the lovely people over at Fuel My Blog have awarded me the very prestigious Blog of the Day Award. To mark the occasion, I have decided to give you my five of the best.

Forgive me if you're a loyal follower and have read these already. You know you want to read them again...

Pregnant? Wondering what to name your child? Well good luck. Just please don't choose the name Helga... What's in a Name?

Ever said 'Congratulations' to a woman who wasn't pregnant? Oh the shame. Forgive Me. I know not what I say

Now why do sheep give birth so easily, whilst we're at it for days? I tell you, I'm almost jealous. Childbirth and Sheep Farms

You've scoffed yourself stupid for nine months. And then the baby arrives. And then you realise that it wasn't just the bump after all. Pregnancy Weight - it's just so depressing

Ok, so I couldn't give you my five of the best without including at least one poo story. But don't worry, it's not the graphic image that will stay in your mind forever, nor the one where I ate the stuff. Nope, this right here is my favourite poo story of the lot. Poo Stories RIP

Enjoy the read. I'm just off to break open the champagne x

Get in shape without setting foot in a gym? Erm, not quite...

2009-09-08T12:03:00.018+01:00

It is a truth universally known that I piled on the pounds during my pregnancies. I won't bore you with the finer details. Suffice to say that it did take me rather a long time to shift the weight, hampered somewhat by the fact that I am also a tad lazy. Not lazy, as in I like to slob in front of the TV every night, but lazy as in I never go to the gym. Never ever. In fact, I don't even have membership to a gym. I mean, seriously, there's no point in fooling myself. I'd just never go.

So when I received an e-mail asking me if I'd be interested in reviewing some trainers, I smiled. A smile that said 'If only you knew what I was really like'.

But then I looked a little closer at the e-mail.

Trainers that help you get in shape without setting foot in a gym.

Now they sounded like my kind of trainers. I read on. The Skechers Shape Ups, it claimed, were designed to :

Promote Weight Loss

Strengthen the back

Firm calf and buttock muscles

Reduce cellulite and tone your thighs

Increase cardiovascular health

Improve posture

Reduce stress on knee and ankle joints

Ok, so I had been in France and I had been forced to eat rather too much French cheese and saucisson and I could have done with shifting a few pounds. And besides, Skechers were responsible for making my all-time favorite flip-flops which I had worn constantly for about five Summers until they had died a death and left me devastated in the process.

It was a no-brainer. I agreed to review them.

So when they arrived in the post, I was more than eager to put them on and start off-setting the thick layers of peanut butter that I had smeared all over my toast that morning.

But, alas, before putting them on it was recommended that I watch an instructional DVD. Now let me just paint a quick picture for you. This is mid-Summer holidays. I have two children. Under no circumstances am I allowed to watch anything on television other than Peppa Pig and Dora the Explorer without encountering so much resistance that I know it's futile to continue. And besides, an instructional DVD for a pair of trainers? Oh purlease. I may be verging on the lazy side, but I have worn a pair of trainers before.

So I tossed the DVD aside and slipped my feet straight into the superior quality uppers of durable leather and breathable mesh. Well you would, wouldn't you?

Big mistake.

I almost toppled over there and then.

If only I'd watched the DVD, I would have heard the words of wisdom...

Take a moment to find your centre of balance.

But fret not. I managed to steady myself against the wall and as I did so I realised I could almost touch the ceiling. These trainers were huge. It felt like I was standing in five-inch heels, without the elegance or sophistication that heels bring, unfortunately. In fact, it felt like someone had tied two bricks to the bottom of my feet...extremely soft and comfortable bricks, but bricks nonetheless. And what's more, they made me about six foot tall. Now in the brochure that accompanies the DVD (which I quickly sat down and read just in case I was missing something important like 'under no circumstances should you put these on your feet if you are over five foot tall'), it states that;

With proper use, your body will appear taller.

The thing is, I don't really want to be taller. I'm quite happy being 5ft 8 already (ok, ok 5ft 7 and a half). No, but seriously, I'm above average height for a woman and my feet are definitely larger than average too. And trainers in particular have a way of making my feet feel like boats. And the Sketchers Shape-Ups, well they may be the QE2 of boats, but they're still boats.

However, I am a fair kinda gal and an open-minded one at that (no one mention poo please, this is a serious trainer review), so I regained my balance (not quite as easy as it sounds) and strode straight out of the front door to put them through their paces. Four hours later I returned home on what turned out to be the hottest day of the year (just my luck) and released my poor, sweaty, sorry feet. They were in agony. As were my legs, my buttocks and even my back.

When I did eventually watch the DVD (much later when the girls had gone to bed), I learnt that...

Shape-Ups will probably feel awkward at first.

Hmmm. Well, they're not wrong there. And it goes on to recommend that...

You should start by wearing them for short periods of time (ie 15 to 20 minutes).

Ok, so it serves me right for not having paid attention to the instructional DVD, but even if I had, it does state that...

Consistent use may result in soreness during the first few weeks of use. As your muscles strengthen, aches 'should' subside.

So how long is 'a few weeks'? Aches 'should' subside? What if they don't? Do I really have the time or inclination to wear a pair of trainers which are 'awkward' feeling and cause me pain for a few weeks, on the off-chance that my buttocks might be firmer? Anyway, who said I wanted firmer buttocks? My husband has never complained.

And then I watched the DVD again, just to make sure I hadn't missed anything. And do you know what they suggested? A series of exercises entitled Kick Back, Rock & Roll, Roll & Rock & Roll and The Lean. Exercises? But I thought they were supposed to tone up without exercising. Or was that without going to the gym? But isn't that the same thing? I mean, people who don't want to go to the gym (me), hardly want to stand with their palms pressed against a wall whilst they bend their knees and stretch out their leg muscles in repetitions of 5, do they?

Ok, so this is the thing. There's no denying that they look good - when I first saw them in the box I was impressed and there's also no denying that they're comfortable - the four separate cushioned linings see to that, but they're just strange-feeling. Kind of un-natural. And in fact, the brochure says that Skechers Shape Ups teach you to walk in a different way. But that's the problem. I don't want to walk in a different way. This is England. If I start swinging my hips and pretending to be on a catwalk then, apart from feeling like a prize plonker, I'll probably be beaten-up. And I'd really rather not be.

Soooooooooo. That's my review. Well, they did say in the e-mail that they wanted an honest review. And as one of my esteemed readers told me only a few days ago, my blog is one of the most honest ones she's ever read.

So there you go. You can't say fairer than that.

I'm sorry lovely people at Skechers. But seriously, my feet are still hurting...

A Few Thankyous

2009-09-06T20:03:00.018+01:00

Ok, so I've been saving some of these up a while, but it's getting silly now and I'm just going to post them before, well before I decide to go to bed...because that's the only other option I have tonight and it's looking very tempting.

Thank you to the amazingly wonderful and talented David McMahon who writes Authorblog. If you haven't ever visited him then do pop over because his blog is enthralling and to use to the words of Rebel Mother, he's also really rather dishy. Anyway, back in May I was a nominee for 'Post of the Day' - for Responsibilities and Head Wounds. I may not have won, but just a nomination is cause for celebration in my eyes (have you seen how many followers he has?). So thankyou David....it's an honour.

Way back in June Pippa at A Mother's Ramblings gave me this award, which although I already have, doesn't stop me from passing it on to five other 'Lovely Blogs'. Now this award has been around for a while and I think most of you have it already so I'm going to choose five blogs which are fairly new to me, and thus possibly don't have it? Forgive me if that's not the case.

Chic Mama
Lost in Translation
2 Brits, 2 Yanks and a Dog
Hot Cross Mum
The Life of the 20-Something Mum

Next up, this award was given to me by Josie at Sleep is For the Weak. So I'm passing it on to five other blogs that I deem to be a great read. If you haven't read them yet, then what are you waiting for?

Flower Fairies and Fairy Cakes
40 Not Out
Single Parent Dad
NixdMinx
Baby Baby

Almost finally, this award is my favourite of the day. Given to me by Kathryn at Life in Italy it is explained as follows...

"The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the zombie chicken – excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all."

So here are my five worthy recipients...

Sleep is for the Weak
Notes From Inside my Head
Home Mum of 2
WAHM-BAM
Who's The Mummy

And finally, Joanne Mallon at Parentdish has awarded me something special (Best Blog Pic of a Ginormous Poo). There's no award picture as such, but if you missed the original post which inspired the award then click here. You won't be disappointed.

A huge, huge Thank You to everyone for the awards.

Now I really am off to bed.

Look at the size of that (sorry)!!

2009-09-02T10:24:00.005+01:00

I once visited a friend who was in the middle of potty training her two-year-old son. Renée was just a baby and was still in nappies and up until that moment I had never had any cause to see a toddler's poo.

That was until the toddler, having proudly deposited a very-fine looking specimen, carried the potty over and showed it to me.

I almost keeled over there and then. It was huge. More than huge. It was enormous. It wasn't a toddler poo at all. It belonged to a grown adult. And as I looked at the size of the little boy and the size of what he had just produced, I couldn't help but stand in awe.

Cut to this weekend in Gloucestershire. Visting some good friends and keen followers of this blog. Well they say keen. I think they may have read one post, a very long time ago. But I won't hold it against them...

Anyway, we'd only just returned from France and I don't think Edie's, ahem, motions, had made it back to British time and it had been a few days since she had, well...you know...

And then it came.

And at the insistence of Edie, hubby disappeared upstairs to help with the wiping, as you do with a two-year-old.

When he returned, he was beaming from ear to ear.

"You will never believe the size of Edie's poo. You just won't believe it."

I was slightly dismayed. I hadn't been there to witness it. Call me strange. Call me odd. Call me whatever you want, but I am her Mother and I had wanted to stand in awe at my daughter's achievements too.

Hubby clocked my crestfallen face.

"It's ok darling. I just took a photo of it for you."

A man after my own heart.

So here it is. And I'm sorry if it offends you. I have to say I thought long and hard (hee hee) about whether or not to post this, but the four of us adults did spend rather a lot of time tittering over the photo and I know you will too (secretly perhaps).

I just have one last thing to say. Thank God she's out of nappies...

In the meantime, there are 3 blogging carnivals happening as I type. I'm a bit late with this one, but Sparx over at Notes from Inside my Head has been hosting a Poo Carnival (yes that's right - a Poo Carnival - you see I'm not the only one obsessed). Steffi from Mummy Do That is hosting a Bi-Lingual Carnival and ClareyBabble is hosting the bi-weekly British Mummy Blogging Carnival. So do pop over and have a read. There are some hilarious, insightful and downright silly posts for you to peruse. Enjoy.

And one final thing. Thank you so much if you've commented on my previous two posts. I'm not ignoring you - I just haven't had much access to a computer. I'm now back at home properly and I promise to reply to all your comments as soon as I find the time to type...

Bilingual children? Erm, not quite

2009-08-25T09:45:00.006+01:00

We're still in France and I have ten minutes Internet time, so I thought I'd quickly post about something which has been eating away at me for a while.

My children are crap at French.

Now that may sound harsh coming from their own Mother, especially one, who entering a room full of French people will navigate towards the tiny spattering of English she can hear in the corner, rather than bravely confront the realities of her rusty second language. But then I'm not French, at least not if we don't count the 16 percent handed down to me from a long-dead great-great grandfather.

But my daughters are half French. Fifty-fifty. Neither one thing nor the other. Both things together. Except to listen to them speaking French you'd be forgiven for thinking that they may once have spent the weekend there. Once, a very long time ago.

When I first met my husband and we decided to get married, I couldn't help but be secretly pleased that, amongst other benefits of marrying a French man, my children would be bilingual. They'd be beautiful, sun-kissed, curly-haired, cherub-faced French speakers who would automatically be top-of-the-class in one subject without actually having to work at it. I was thrilled.

Ha. Who was I trying to kid? They speak about as much French as I do Thai, and probably not even as much as that, because at least I know how to say "I'm completely drunk already" and "I have small tits but a big penis". Although on second thoughts I'm glad my children haven't reached this level of expertise in French, but you get my gist.

Once, when I was a student, I shared a house with a boy called Jean-Michel Wu. Now given that name you can probably guess his ancestry, but I'll make it easy for you anyway. He was half-French and half-Chinese. But did he speak either of those languages? Abbsolutely not. The only language he spoke was English and that was with cockney variations. But Jean-Michel Wu's linguistic capabilities were nothing to do with me. What I do remember thinking, though, is what a wasted opportunity it was and how his parents should have made more of an effort with him as a child and if I were ever to marry a non-English speaker, I would never make that mistake. You see, even all those years ago, I had my sights set on someone other than an English man. Poor hubby never stood a chance.

So where has it all gone wrong? Why aren't my two children telling each other to "ferme ta gueule" whilst sipping their citron pressés and munching their croissants?

Well, first thing's first (and this is where I hand over the blame) - I think it helps if it comes from the Mother. If it was I who was French rather than my husband, then they might have stood more of a fighting chance. When Renée was a baby, I did try to speak to her in French, singing nursery rhymes and teaching her parts of the body, but it all became a bit much when I'd call after her in the playground.

"Renée, doucement. Viens ici", only for the proper French mothers (and there were some) to see me as a fraud and for the English mothers to see me as pretentious.

It wasn't that I gave up or even gave two hoots about what the other mothers truly thought. It's just that after speaking to various people about the best way to bring up bilingual children, it was generally agreed that the most successful cases were when one parent spoke exclusively one language and the other parent exclusively the second language. Given this, it was obvious that it should be my husband speaking French and not me.

So he did. For a while. Until he had to go away for a job which would sometimes last three weeks. And in those early days of learning languages, three weeks was a long time. Long enough to forget what had been learnt and to frustrate Papa when he came home.

It wasn't easy.

So apart from reading bedtime stories in French, I also decided to invest in French lessons for Renée once a week. But aside from learning to count up to 20, being proficient with her colours and animals and knowing the words to 'Frère Jacques', she is still far from being bilingual.

My husband insists that they'll pick it up, simply because they're half-French and it's in their blood. But that didn't help Jean-Michel Wu did it?

For the sake of my daughters, I haven't and won't give up on their French. Edie will be starting her weekly lessons in the Autumn and as I sit here typing this I can hear them watching a French cartoon in the next room and it lifts my spirits;

"Papa...the film is fini".

It seems all is not lost.

What's the perfect present?

2009-08-20T08:06:00.006+01:00

In the aftermath of Renée's birthday party we have been left with an overwhelming pile of presents, some which we have yet to open (and yes I know I only have myself to blame because I did invite the whole class), but it really does seem rather a lot for a 5 year old. There are books, colouring books, colouring pens, paints, a computer(!), a paint your own tea set, a make your own bag, purse and cupcake set in felt, fairy wings, water bombs, a bug kaleidescope, make your own bouncy ball set, an enormous array of High School Musical 'stuff', a jigsaw, play dough, a make your own jewellery set. The list goes on. There is really nothing left that she needs (not that she actually 'needs' anything on the list, but you know what I mean).

Slightly digressing, but still on the point, my husband is in France at the moment. He's been working, but has now managed to meet up with his parents who we are off to visit tomorrow. And yesterday I received a text from hubby asking what Renée wanted for her birthday because the grandparents were off to buy a present. After much thought I texted back a really helpful 'There's nothing she needs. Can you think of anything? You decide'.

But during that lengthy thought process which resulted in absolutely nothing, it got me wondering what the perfect present would be. Last year as a 4th birthday present my aunt sent her a 'Grow Your own Butterfly kit'. I actually wrote a post about it, entitling it the Most Memorable Present ever given. Unfortunately I ended up offending the giver of the gift because I think I may have written something along the lines of;

Never buy a child a butterfly rearing kit for their birthday. Seriously. It may seem like a good idea when it's all prettily packaged in the shop, but once you've opened it, it's like a time bomb waiting to go off (or fly away in this instance).

In fact, I wrote exactly that because I've just cut and pasted it. The truth is, it was probably the best present she's ever received - at least it's the one that she's liked the most and a year later she still talks about how she raised a butterfly all by herself. But there's the rub...It wasn't all by herself at all. Oh no. It required rather a lot of parental intervention. And call me lazy (don't worry - you can, I am, and on top of that I also have a two-year-old who likes to disrupt), but my favorite presents are ones where there is no parental intervention at all. Take the bug Kaleidescope for example. It has a viewing window complete with breathing holes at one end where you can drop in any manner of bug and view it in detail through the kaleidescope. So far we've had a worm, a woodlouse, an ant and a snail under examination. And what's even more exciting is that I haven't had to do anything. It has kept Renée amused in the garden for hours and I haven't had to help her or attend to the present even for a second.

BUT. It's not all about me. Is it??

No. (Unfortunately not)!! It's about Renée. And after 3 whole hours in the garden with the bug kaleidescope, she wanted to do something else. What she came to me with filled me with horror. Make your own purse kit. Included in the kit is a needle...

So that'll be parental intervention then.

I looked at the instructions and gulped. A lot. Now if you remember, I'm not exactly a 'crafty' type of person - how could you forget the pom pom??? So to sit down and make a purse with all fiddly buttons and different stitches wasn't exactly my kind of present. But I am nothng if not a loving Mother and I will do anything to put a smile on my child's face. So I put my fears aside and embraced the challenge head on. And do you know what?

I really rather enjoyed it.

Just take a look at this. And don't tell me I don't spoil you with photos.

Have you ever seen blanket stich as good as this? Nope. Didn't think so...

So there you go. It seems that all I need to do is make a little bit of effort and everyone is happy. Next up, it's the make your own bag and cupcake set.

As an aside, we're off to France this afternoon to visit grandparents. I will try, try, try to post and comment, but if I don't, please wait for me. I'll be back...

What's in your bag?

2009-08-18T21:22:00.004+01:00

So I took the girls to a 5-year-old's birthday party yesterday and, as is the norm for children's parties, there were rather a lot of sweeties. Sweeties inside wrappers for Pass the Parcel, sweeties in a bowl as consolation prizes for not winning Musical Statues, sweeties in a bowl as prizes for winning Musical Statues, sweeties as part of the party tea, sweeties in the going home bags. You get the picture. Lots of sweeties. Now I'm not against giving sweeties to children. Far from it, in fact - I'm a huge fan. What I'm not a fan of though is five lolipops in the mouth at any one time, plus a packet of chocolate buttons in one hand and a Milky Way in the other. It's just not a good look. So just as the sweetie situation was about to get out of hand, I swiped the one's they'd 'won', put them in my bag and saved them for later on.

All fine.

That was until later on came and Renée called to me from another room.

'Mummy, what did you do with my lolipops?'

'They're in my bag darling. You can take one if you like.' I figured one would be ok.

Thing is, she couldn't find them.

'Where Mummy?' She called again.

'In my handbag.' I was loath to actually get up from the sofa because it was the first time I'd sat down all day.

'Found them Mummy'.

And that was that.

Except of course it wasn't.

When I later decided to make my way from the sofa to the kitchen, I just so happened to pass by the contents of my bag, in the hallway, strewn everywhere. And I mean everywhere.

I was most displeased.

But as I searched through the contents I remembered a post I had once read, quite a while ago, about the contents of another blogger's handbag. I can't recall who it was, but I do remember thinking what a hilarious post it was and if only I had the energy to empty my bag and go through the contents I could leave a funny comment detailing what I had found in the deepest depths. But I'd never had the energy. Until yesterday when I had absolutely no choice in the matter. But, I thought, I won't get cross with Renée (well not very). Instead I'll make a blog post out of it.

So this is it. The contents of my bag.

7 pens. Only 3 of them working
4 round wooden beads
1 square wooden bead
1 squashed Milky Way
3 hair clips
1 apple stalk
1 child's wooden watch bracelet
2 pieces of red string
1 pink notepad (with only child's scribbles inside)
1 Smint packet
1 eye hospital referral letter
1 hotel room key (whoops - sorry Butlins)
1 plastic harmonica
1 purse (and I won't even tell you the contents of that or else we really would be here all night)
4 cheque books
1 business card for a dog walking company (I do not have a dog)
2 lolipop sweetie wrappers
2 very manky raisins
1 tooth pick with a pirate flag at the end (!)
1 screwed up shopping list
3 random receipts
1 Hello Kitty transfer
1 Nurofen tablets instruction leaflet

No wonder poor Renée couldn't find her lolipops amongst all that. I never realised I was quite such a hoarder.

So that is that. But the question remains. What, oh what is inside your bag? You'll be surprised, I'm sure.

Butlins ain't what it used to be

2009-08-16T20:17:00.031+01:00

As I was lying on my hotel bed a few nights ago I decided to update my Facebook status. This is what I wrote...

Emily is having the best time at Butlins...seriously.

It was the end of the first day of our two night stay and despite being without a husband, who had yet again been called away on a job, the two girls and I had had a blast.

When I checked Facebook the following day I was met with a deluge of negative comments.

*Oh sweetheart, you have obviously lost your mind. We took the kids one rainy weekend and I just about lasted without killing myself or the kids. You are a stronger woman than me.

*I'm scared for you Em.

And this one was perhaps the most telling...

*But you're middle class. For God's sake don't let the girls speak French. You'll get lynched.

I can't say I was totally shocked by the reaction - Butlins, (if you're reading this from overseas) is well-known as the destination of choice for the working man and his family. And how many middle-class people holiday in Britain these days anyway?

Well, quite a few it seems. That is, if they even holiday at all. Thanks to the Credit Crunch, middle classes especially, are choosing to holiday on home soil, which is perhaps why Butlins continued to forge ahead with the development of a brand new £20 million Ocean Spa Hotel, when other competitors were making cutbacks.

I knew a while ago that my only hope for a holiday this Summer would be a week in Norfolk visiting the Grandparents, so when I heard that Butlins were inviting all manner of press, including bloggers to come along for the launch of the Ocean Hotel in Bognor Regis, I jumped at the chance. Renée herself had been known to shriek with excitement every time she saw the adverts on television, complete with smiling children and waterslides - asking if one day we'd be able to go there. "Of course, darling", I would say "Of course we'll go there...one day", hoping that she would forget the request and I'd never have to fulfill her dream.

So it was with a certain amount of trepidation that I loaded up the car and headed off. Would we be lynched as my friend had envisaged? Would I be on my knees threatening to kill myself before the two days were up? I sincerely hoped not, especially as I was on my own with the two girls and the responsibility to bring them home safe and sound was solely mine.

But I needn't have worried about a thing. I mean, does this look like the sort of place you'd be lynched?

Exactly.

The Ocean Hotel itself is visually breathtaking, especially in the bright sunshine which we were unbelieveably lucky to have...and once inside it didn't disappoint either. The yellow tub chairs, slightly reminiscent of early series of Big Brother, set the decorative tone, which was continued throughout the hotel, from the very chic and funky Kaleidescope Restaurant and Bar to the different coloured floors of the hotel.

The disco mirrored lifts were a novelty, for perhaps the first five times, but when your child has gone missing and you're frantically trying to reach your bedroom in the vain hope that they might actually have made their own way there, then flashing lights and Bee Gees screeching in your ears is perhaps not the most soothing of atmospheres. I'm not saying that actually happened to us of course...cough... splutter...I'm just saying if it happened.

As with most hotels, there are rooms with fantastic views and rooms with views that are far from fantastic. When we were first given a tour of the hotel we were shown both views, in this case one of the sea and one of the car park, yet unaware of which one we had been assigned. So I was somewhat disappointed to find that we had been given the car park view. Strange thing was, on closer inspection, it wasn't the car park view at all - it was in fact, sea view extraordinaire, only with a car park sandwiched in between the hotel and the sea. Now I hate to bite the hand that feeds me, but surely the car park could have been positioned elsewhere? Just a suggestion mind.

The accommodation was otherwise fantatsic. A main room complete with double bed, green suede sofa, fridge, ample storage, plasma television, huge balcony, twin beds in a separate room and a bathroom.

The two girls were ecstatic to see a flat-screen tv in their room as well, only not quite so ecstatic to find that there was no children's tv...just another suggestion for a family friendly hotel...or was it just me not pressing the right buttons? It has been known...

But the real reason why I think you'd be drawn to this hotel is for the exceptional Spa.

Inside there's a sauna, a snow cave (one of only two in the country), an outdoor hot tub, hydrospa, steam room, relaxation pods, 'disco' showers, plus an inordinate amount of treaments available to book. I'd originally reserved a complimentary spa treatment, but on learning that my husband was unable to make it, I had been forced to cancel, there being no one to look after the children. And as I enviously eyed-up the other bloggers sloping off for their manicures and facials, I made a last-ditch attempt to enquire about creche facilities.

'Oh yes. We have a nursery. Would you like me to make a reservation for your children?'

I think I nearly kissed the woman. Instead, I promptly booked my little ones in for a two-hour nursery session. Now apart from the nursery being as far away from the spa as was geographically possible and unable to reach without passing through the cavernous indoor activity area which was full of every kiddie ride imaginable... which meant I was at least half an hour late for the spa, the experience was unequalled.

I had the pleasure of getting to know a couple of other fabulous bloggers - Elsie Button and MrsOMGWe'rePregnant, in the open-air hot tub and I even managed to sneak in a quick pedicure.

It was bliss.

When I collected the girls from the nursery they too seemed to have had a great time - brandishing, as they were, newly-painted bits of paper to show for their morning's work.

The other rides we tried were the Merry-Go-Round, trampolines, tug boat and climbing frames. But perhaps the best outdoor entertainment were the karts which could be driven around the complex, either solo, as a couple, or as a foursome. Renée and Nixdminx's Miniminx hired one... and off they went...it was a moment of independence which I think Renée will remember forever. As for Edie, she was a tiny bit too small to go on a lot of the rides which her older sister was able to go on which meant me having to pre-empt tantrums with promises of lolipops and ice cream, but they seemed to do the trick nicely...

We even made two appearances at the Splash Waterworld complex - which included waterslides, flumes, rapids, wave machines, paddling pools and water cannons. The children loved it. But for me, as a Mother on her own with two small children, it was probably the most unrelaxing part of the stay. Unrelaxing and just a tiny bit unsanitary too. I did spy rather a lot of floating plasters and the underside of my right foot is starting to tingle just a touch...

As for the famous redcoats and the evening entertainment - we had been promised Eoghan Quigg and Chico from the X-Factor - and although I wasn't completely enthralled by the lineup, the queues were far too long for me to even consider going along with two children. Instead I opted for a few drinks with some other Mummy Bloggers and called it a night.

There are many more stories to tell you, aside from how much fun it was hanging out with all the bloggers and their families, but this post has taken far too long already. So I will just leave you with this instead...

Did I enjoy my stay?
Absolutely. Definitely. I had a blast. And so did the girls.

Has it changed my perception of Butlins?
Yes, without a doubt.

Would I go again?
Yes, for the Ocean Hotel alone.

So that's all for now. Thanks to everyone at Butlins who made our stay so special. I'm sure we'll be back. Maybe next time I'll bring hubby along and I can enjoy the spa for a wee bit longer. And finally, thanks also to the other bloggers who made it even more fun...
NixdMinx, And1MoreMeans4, PerfectlyHappyMum, ZooArchaeologist, DaddaCool, SingleParentDad, Part Mummy, Part Me, Elsie Button, MrsOMGWe'rePregnant, HaveALovelyTime, FunnyWomenMedia.

Happy Birthday my little one

2009-08-14T12:42:00.003+01:00

Now I should really be posting about my trip to Butlins, but I can't escape the fact that today my eldest daughter turns 5. So sorry Butlins, but you will have to wait. And just as a quick update, I wanted to let you know that the party for 25 little monsters in my own home turned out to be not quite as hideous as I had imagined. The sun shone for the whole three hours of the party, there were no tears, no accidents and no one actually set foot inside the house, except to use the loo of course...I'm not quite that mean. I won't bore you with the details. Suffice to say, you can now call me party planner extraordinaire!

But now back to today.

My darling Renée. Happy Birthday little one. I can not believe that you are 5 years old - so grown-up, with your long hair and flawless skin, able to tell me what clothes you want to wear but quick to throw a tantrum when I choose something you don't like. A big girl, but still so small and vulnerable. You are brave beyond words and can hold back your tears when you fall over and scrape your knee, but you can still cry when your balloon bursts (and I'm so sorry about the enormous red one that you saved all the way through Butlins, even rescuing it after it had flown off the balcony, only for me to burst it on the rose bush as I was unloading the car at home). I'm sorry I made you cry - I will buy you another big red balloon and kiss your broken heart better.

I remember when you were first born. Your face was so wise. I seriously thought that you had already lived a thousand lives. Maybe you had. Your name means 're-born', so maybe that says it all. When you cried I sang you Amazing Grace and explained that you had to stop crying or else you'd wake up the whole hospital and I'd look like I didn't know what I was doing. You obliged in an instant and I will be forever grateful.

Thank you for coming into my life and making me smile and cry and feel things that no one, except you could make me feel.

You are unbelievably clever. More so than I ever was, I am sure. And as much as I am able to teach you, you can teach me too. You have taught me a lifetime of lessons already - to be patient, tolerant, kind, loving...all these things I owe to you.

Thank you for being the most amazing daughter. Every day when I look at you I realise just how lucky I am. Happy fifth birthday my little horserider, swimmer, comedian, daughter, sister, grandaughter, friend.

May only good things happen to you in your life. And if for any reason they don't, then I will be here for you, always loving you and remembering the first ever time I fell in love with your little squashed face.

Party preparations

2009-08-08T16:51:00.000+01:00

So I think amidst my blogging breakdown (and slight pom pom obsession) I may have forgotten to mention that it's Renée's fifth birthday party tomorrow (which could trigger a real breakdown rather than a mere virtual one...we shall see). She won't actually be five until the end of next week, but what with husband being away on a surf road trip (thinly disguised as a week's work), we've had to bring the party forward. Call me naive, but I decided to invite her whole class of 30, not wanting to exclude anyone and also, hoping that as it's the Summer holidays, most people will be away and only half of those invited will be around.

Trust me to have picked the one weekend when everyone is at home. Well, 25 out of the 30 anyway.

So this morning, in a mild state of panic at the prospect of having to entertain 25 five-year-olds inside my own home, I decided to stock up on party paraphenalia from an out-of-town Supermarket which I've never actually been to, but which I've heard sells not only food and drink but all manner of bits and pieces needed for party games too - sacks for sack races, plastic eggs and spoons, bean bags, bunting. You name it.

The thing is, there's nothing worse than visiting a Supermarket you've never been to, when (a) you're in a hurry, (b) you have an unbelievably enormous amount of items to buy and (c) you have a small child with you who's favourite words are 'I want', followed by everything in the store.

It really isn't all that pleasant.

Add to that the fact that it was a very warm Saturday morning and every other Mother and their screaming child had decided to shop at that precise moment and you can just about imagine the tranquility of the scene.

And this is where I revert to the present tense, just to get you in the mood.

The whining cries of 'I want' are emanating from all four corners of the shop. Everywhere I turn there is a red-faced toddler in the middle of the worst tantrum of their life, and an equally red-faced parent wishing they were anywhere but here, and I CAN NOT, for the life of me, locate one item that I have come in for.

My urge, of course, is to turn around and drive straight back to the comfort of my home, but I am a Mother and I have a Mother's responsibility to throw a fantastic birthday party and I can't succeed in doing that without my sacks and plastic eggs.

So instead, I walk from aisle to aisle, scanning every shelf for at least one item that I can cross off my rather lengthy list, swearing to myself never to set foot inside this hideous place again and soldier on. A toddler in the sweetie aisle has just thrown themselves on the floor in front of me, so I hastily back away, narrowly missing the teetering jelly beans with the edge of my trolley.
And that's when I hear a child being told off by a voice full of hatred and malice. I wonder what this poor little monkey has done to warrant such a verbal battering.

'Get out of my way. Pesky child'.

I turn round expecting to see a small toddler cowering under the onslaught, but instead there's a rather elderly-looking woman in some sort of motorised transport and she's looking straight at me, almost frothing at the mouth with distaste.

'You're in my way, you menace. Move. Can't you walk in a straight line?'

I look around and around and then I realise that it must be me she's talking to.

'Erm, obviously no I can't you bloody old woman', I want to shout. 'I have no idea where I am, what I'm doing here and I wish I'd never come, but thanks for making me feel even better about myself. Now toddle off and leave me alone before I really give you something to moan about.'

Of course I don't actually say that. She does look rather old. And she's probably infirm.

So I just stare incredulously at her, take a deep breath in and continue on my way. As does she, muttering under her breath as she goes.

Should I have been flattered that she had referred to me as a child? Stupidly I felt quite shaken by the whole affair. Violated even. But if that's what I have to go through for my children, then so be it.

Wish me luck for the party. I think I may need it...

A blogging breakdown

2009-08-06T22:22:00.012+01:00

So first thing's first....

I'm having a blogging breakdown (image above courtesy of Posh Totty).

My brother called me yesterday from Majorca to inform me that I've posted once in two weeks and can I please sort it out because he's bored of logging on to find the same post on pom poms over and over again.

And then there's my Father who was a tad disappointed (although he'd never admit it of course, bless him) to have hosted us all so warmly in Norfolk only to be rewarded with the same one post on pom poms, despite having taken us on a boat trip on the Broads ('surely you had something witty to say about that?'), horse-riding, to festivals, to the sea-side. The list goes on.

Of course I blamed the slow Internet connection in Norfolk for my lack of posting and even believed it myself for a while, but the fact remains that we've been back a week now and the same post on pom poms is still very much the lead story. The truth of the matter is...well, real life has got in the way of blogging. It's the Summer holidays and I have two small children and well, enough said really.

Just one quick mention of my husband who's been laughing at me all evening as I've been trying to take photos of pom poms. I even threatened to write something mean about him on my blog if he didn't help me, but alas, he laughed again and continued to watch French news.

Aaaaargggghhh.

I'm all alone in this world. Forgive me if I haven't visited you in a while. I promise I haven't fogotten.

BUT, I will be posting and commenting next week because I'm off to Butlins!!!!!!!! Yay. We had planned to go as a family of four, but hubby unfortunately has a week's work (surf road trip to France) lined up, so I'm coming on my own with the two girls. If you see me hovering in the corner desperately looking around for someone to talk to, then please come and say hello. I've already relinquished my Spa Treatment due to no hubby and small children so I may need a bit of cheering up.

Until then, I'm going to leave you with a couple of photos of THE pom pom. Don't say I don't spoil you.

If you're contemplating making a pom pom, then be sure to keep it even all the way round, just like this one.

And of course, don't forget - each thread needs to be exactly the same length.

Never forget who you're making it for.

Making Pom Poms is NOT a cottage industry

2009-07-30T11:40:00.006+01:00

Just in case you thought I'd disappeared off the face of the earth, I'm just writing a quick post to assure you that I haven't. We've been visiting the Grandparents in Norfolk for the past week, and ever the optimist, I thought I'd be able to post from there, but alas, the Internet was a tad too slow and I just didn't have a moment.

Aaaaargggh.

And now I'm back at home there's just too much washing (on to my third load already today and it's not even midday), sorting, tidying, etc and not a moment to sit down and breathe. But before I go completely insane through lack of blogging I'm going to quickly update you with news of the pom pom for Bobble. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, then where have you been? I insist you click here before reading on...

So, not wanting to let my poor child cry for longer than was absolutely necessary (quite a few hours in this case, but I'm trying not to think about it), I took the advice of a number of very clever people and decided to make her a pom pom all by my own. Whoops, sorry - meant all by myself - have spent far too long in the company of small children.

Unfortunately, it wasn't actually all by myself, as the result would probably have been somewhat more professional-looking. Instead I enlisted the help of small children and husband. Not a good move.

But first thing's first - although it's been a few years since I have made one (about a quarter of a century in fact), I embraced it with great enthusiasm and Renée and I, along with Grandma, toddled off to purchase enough wool to make 100 pom poms. At least, that's what I thought until I'd spent four hours winding said wool round and round and round and round and round and round........and realised it was, in fact, only enough for, erm...one. Shhhhh - don't tell Edie. Her consolation pom pom will have to wait until another day.

Anyway, I won't bore you with the details too much. Except to say, that when you next decide to make a pom pom (in 25 years time perhaps), do make sure you don't use the bluntest scissors you can find and don't, under any circumstances, let anyone, other than yourself, take the glory moment of snipping all the way round, especially if they veer off-centre as they're doing it, thus making one side rather longer than the other.

Hmph.

However, Renée seems happy enough - (I love it Mummy...but....ummm...do you think it might be a bit big? And why is this side longer than this one?)

Ahem...

But the person who was most impressed was my Granny, who it has to be said, at 85 years of age, doesn't have the best eyesight.

"You know you could sell those and start a little industry."

Erm...let me just do a few quick figures Granny.

How much would anyone be willing to pay for one of these?

£2.00 perhaps (on a good day when the sides are all the same length).

So for four hours work, I get £2.00. That's...quick calculation...50p per hour. Not forgetting the cost of the wool which was £3.00. So for four hours work, I would have earned minus £1.00.

So thanks for the support Granny, but I think I may have to look elsewhere for my fortune.

What constitutes a tragedy?

2009-07-23T11:08:00.003+01:00

So my darling 4-year-old has finally finished her first year of big school and to mark the occasion, an enormous Bring and Buy sale was held at the end of last week. A Bring and Buy, for those of you not in the know, is where you do your best to have a good old tidy up and sort out, finally clearing out the broken plastic tat that your child has never played with, only for it to be replaced the very same day with another child's tat that your little darling has excitedly spent your money on. That is, if they don't end up buying back what was originally theirs - I understand this is common.

Luckily, there was less plastic and more cuddly toys brought home this time. And Renée's cuddly toy of choice - a rather, ahem, delightful, formerly white, teddy bear with a pink and blue bobbled hat sewn on. It was immediately christened 'Bobble' and taken to bed where it spent its first night cuddled up in my daughter's arms. Since then, it has not left her side...even taking precedence over her already-established 'guys' (as she calls them) at the breakfast table. She is nothing, if not fickle. Indeed, never has a new 'guy' been welcomed into the fold with such open arms since Woof Woof and Woof Woof first made their appearance. To further concrete its status, Bobble even accompanied us on a camping trip at the weekend where it spent the night under a tent...narrowly missing out being weed on by Edie in the morning (but that's another story entirely).

However, on the journey home, a scuffle broke out in the back of the car...resulting in Bobble's 'bobble' being torn off by little sister Edie. Whoops. Despite my reassurance that the bobble could be sewn back on, Renée was distraught and spent almost an entire hour crying over the dismemberment of her beloved Bobble. Still, I kept the bobble, putting it in the side pocket of the car, promising to sew it on when we got home.

I forgot.

And then I was too busy.

And then I forgot again - despite being reminded every evening and every morning since the incident.

This morning Renée reminded me again.

And I could hold off no longer. She really had been very patient and understanding.

So I took a deep breath in, braced myself for a search of the sewing kit and a bit of effort and walked out to the car to retrieve the bobble from the side door.

OMG. OMG. OMG.

It wasn't there.

It really wasn't. I searched EVERYWHERE. Believe me - I searched under car seats, behind car seats, under dirty rubber mats - I DID NOT want to have to break this tragic news to my child. I honestly didn't think I had the strength to cope with the repercussions.

But alas, I had no choice.

I walked slowly back into the house.

I knelt down beside Renée, who was playing on the computer, took her hand and looked straight into her eyes.

"Renée, darling. The bobble has gone. It's not there anymore. I'm so sorry."

The realisation was immediately apparent on her face and her bottom lip started to tremble and before I could say anything more she was in my arms crying, big sobbing tears, whilst I held her against me, kissing the top of her head. We stayed like that for some time.

And I know it's not a tragedy, and I'm grateful for that. But to my poor innocent child, it is as much tragedy as she's known.

It's those priceless moments

2009-07-20T14:42:00.003+01:00

"Mummy I love you" said Renée to me this morning as I was brushing her hair in time for school.
"I love you too darling", I replied.
"No, but Mummy, I really, really love you."
"And I really, really, really love you."

This had the potential to go on for some time. It reminded me of the book that my Mother had bought for me when I had first given birth to Renée and one that I hadn't read in a long time - the one with the two hares - 'Guess How Much I love You' - where Mummy Hare concludes by saying 'I love you right up to the moon and back'.

I wanted to say something similar to Renée, but she beat me to it.

"You're the best Mummy in the world and if they had Mummys on other planets then you'd be better than them as well."

It was a priceless moment which brought tears to my eyes and made me realise just how lucky I am.

It's all about ME

2009-07-17T10:47:00.006+01:00

As always, I'm a bit late on posting about this. If it's not recovering from Swine Flu, then it's picking up poo....(don't worry Edie hasn't regressed I'm pleased to say - it's just the darn fox outside who's been keeping me awake all night and leaving me special little presents in the sandpit). Doesn't he know I've had just about enough of poo?

Anyhooooo...I finally have a moment and I'm going to celebrate because gurgle.com (a fantastic website full of parenting advice, pregnancy tips, and child-related info) have voted me as one of the Top 20 Mummy Bloggers in the UK and in doing so, they have made me happy. They have made me smile and feel all warm inside, and on a cold, windy day, that's no mean feat. So thankyou Gurgle. You're fab (and I love you even more because you think I'm hilarious). Did I ever say that the people I get on best with are the ones that laugh at my jokes?

And while we're on the subject of awards, I thought I'd take this opportunity to mention that I've also been given this one...

It's the MEME award and it has been bestowed upon me by the amazing 'I don't know how she does it' Amy at And 1 More means 4 and the stunningly beautiful, stylish and hilarious That Girl at Forty Not Out (you can thank me later sweetie).

Rules of the award need me to list 7 personality traits and pass it on to 7 other wonderful blogs. But because I like to change the rules, I'm going to make it 5. Shoot me now...

1 - I am ridiculously tidy (although not quite as tidy as my Mother). I just can't stand mess and I think I may have passed this on to my children because a few nights ago I hadn't tidied up the books in Renée's bedroom (not like me) and she said she wasn't able to sleep until they had been put away. Oops...poor love - she doesn't stand a chance!

2 - I am a stickler for bedtime (the children's, not mine). They're normally in bed by 6pm and anytime after 7 is a late one and I start getting edgy.

3 - Despite the above, I like to think that I'm laid back. Hmmm...well, if I think it, then that's all that matters!

4 - I try to make things as easy as possible for myself (I always take the easy option).

5 - I'm very open. I will tell anybody anything. My husband's not a great fan of this, but I always think it's easier that way - otherwise you're always trying to remember what you've told people and what you haven't. Too stressful.

And I'm passing this on to...

Brits in Bosnia - because there are no girlie friends for her in Bosnia and I want to put a smile on her face. And er...because she's also called Emily.

WAHM-BAM - because I've met her and she's wonderful.

Home Mum of 2 - because I like her a lot.

Who's The Mummy - because she has a new blog and it's great...and she once lived in Brighton and I know she wants to come back.

Notes From Inside My Head - because I met her too and she always makes me laugh.

So that's all for today. Feel free to pass the MEME award on ladies...

Children's reading material? Not quite.

2009-07-13T09:51:00.004+01:00

I thought I'd share a little conversation I had with Renée in the car this morning.

We'd just delivered Edie to nursery and were on our way to drop Renée at school. On leaving the nursery, Renée had helped herself to a whole handful of leaflets and flyers that had been left just outside the entrance - it's part of a community centre with a cafe and meeting rooms, a hall and various other non-descript offices.

As I was driving along, Renée was sitting behind me, reading through the leaflets.

'Mummy. I'm reading this magazine.'

'Well done darling. Your reading is really coming along now isn't it? I'm so proud of you. What does it say?'

Now, if you can - imagine you're reading from the point of view of a 4-year old. It's letter by letter, phonetically...

'Hmmmm. 'S'...'I'...'Z'...'E'.

'That's 'size' darling. Well read. What else does it say?'

'Hmmmm. 'M'...'A'...'T'...'T'...'E'...'R'...'S'...

'Size matters. Well done honey. Great reading.'

'Mummy, What does it mean, 'size matters'?'

Now I probably should have been concentrating more at this point, but if you have children, you'll understand that every now and then you drift off and you can have a conversation without actually thinking about what you're saying. Either that or I'm just a bit slow. Hmmmm. No need to comment here.

'Well, darling. Size matters. You can be big. You can be small. You can be tall. You can be short. That's what size is.'

'Hmmm. Ok. I'm going to read some more. And I don't need your help this time.'

'Ok, honey. You go for it.'

'AH-NALLE. Mummy, what does AH-NALLE mean?'

'AH-NALLE', I said, repeating back what Renée had read. I said it in my head, thinking that perhaps she had read it wrongly.

'Hmmmm. I'm not sure darling. Can you spell it for me please?'

'A'..'N'...'A'...'L'...

It was at this point that I came to my senses.

'Darling, what exactly is it that you're reading?'

She handed me the magazine and I looked at it. A full-frontal, naked torso. I mean this is Brighton, and I like to think that I'm open-minded, but please. Try not to leave your erotic men's magazines lying around so my four-year-old daughter can pick them up. I do wonder why she hadn't commented on the picture, but all I can say is that she's an avid reader...I'm hoping she hadn't noticed!

Swine Flu or not? I have no idea

2009-07-10T10:32:00.005+01:00

Ok, so I think I may have worked out why I've been such a procrastinating underachiever this week.

Swine Flu.

Seriously.

First there was the birthday party we missed because we were all just so bleeeuuurrghh...

Then there was Renée's Sport's Day which I can not even bring myself to write about because it's just too sad. She'd been up all night coughing and wasn't in a fit state to wipe her bottom, let alone run and jump and dribble balls as she did. I was hoping that pure guts and determination would win through just as it had done for Home Mum of 2's little M - do have a read - it actually made me cry. But alas, it was not to be. She finished last. And now we're not speaking about it.

But the very next day we were sent a letter from the school saying that there had been a case of Swine Flu and that we were to be extra vigilant of any symptoms.

Hmmmmmm.

I looked at Renée with her pale, drawn face, at her coughing and spluttering and I decided that she was just under the weather. So off to school she went. And before you call me a bad Mother - she had actually asked to go (and it was my free morning after all)...

So feeling achy and pretty bad myself I thought I'd take the opportunity to Google Swine Flu symptoms. You know, just to be sure. And this is what I found.

Sudden Fever
Sudden Cough
Headache
Tiredness
Chills
Aching muscles
Limb or joint pain
Diarrhea or stomach upset
Sore throat
Runny nose
Sneezing
Loss of appetite

So it was a yes to pretty much all of those. But no stomach upset yet. So I sat back and twiddled with my hair instead. And that's when the phone went. It was Renée's school.

'We have little Renée here. She's not feeling very well. She has an upset tummy. Can you come and pick her up please?'

Oh Lordy. That's it. Swine Flu. Or is it?? I have absolutely no idea. But, as I search around the blogosphere, it seems that I'm not the only one. Jo at Reasons To Be Cheerful has been affected, Jo Beaufoix, indirectly Rosie Scribble. There's been talk on Twitter and as I passed a newsagents this morning, it's on the front cover of the papers agan. Is it just me, or is it spreading like wildfire?

Well, I'm off for now. But if you don't hear from me for a few days, assume the worst. Toodle-pig...

What is Mummy good at?

2009-07-08T18:53:00.004+01:00

Forgive me - it's been a long, hard week (and please nobody remind me that it's still only Wednesday)...and I haven't had a second to sit down and write a thing. Well, that's not entirely true...I have had a few spare moments, but I'm a terrible procrastinator and have instead decided to sit, contemplate life and twiddle my hair.

Needless to say, I have achieved absolutely nothing and my brain has turned to mush.

But rather than leave you postless until I put an end to my procrastination, I have decided to lift an idea I saw on A Modern Mother by way of Wife of Bold and WAHM-BAM. You see, it turns out that I'm not the only one stealing ideas...

So here it is, THE Interview - my girls on their Mummy...

By Renée (almost 5)
And Edie (2 and 2 thirds)

1. What is something Mummy always says to you?
Renée - I Love You
Edie - Happy Birthday to you (Hmmmm).

2. What makes Mummy happy?
Renée - Doing the right stuff (You got it girlie).
Edie - Papa (bless - hubby will be pleased about this one)!

3. What makes Mummy sad?
Renée - When we don't do the right stuff (She knows me too well).
Edie - Me (Oh Edie honey - that's not exactly true).

4. How does Mummy make you laugh?
Renée - When you do jokes (no bribery was involved here...I swear).
Edie - (Pulls a funny face and says nothing).

5. What was your Mummy like as a little girl?
Renée - Naughty. (Quickly changes her mind and says Good after my sharp intake of breath).
Edie - A bottle (Hmmm...slight lapse of concentration here I feel).

6. How old is your Mummy?
Renée - I've forgotten. Fifteen???
Edie - Don't know. Three? (Hmmm).

7. How tall is your Mummy?
Renée - 18 steps (???)
Edie - very tall.

8. What is her favourite thing to do?
Renée - Cuddling.
Edie - Cuddling. (Copied her sister I'm sure).

9. What does your Mummy do when you're not around?
Renée - Go on the computer (Like I said, she knows me well).
Edie - Crying (oops - I swear it's not true)!!

10. If your Mummy became famous what would it be for?
Renée - Movie Star (I'm liking it).
Edie - Ice cream (Hmmmm...attention deficiency I think).

11. What is your Mummy really good at?
Renée - Cuddling and kissing.
Edie - Pillow (Hmmmmm....like I said, slight lapse of concentration).

12. What is your Mummy not very good at?
Renée - Nothing...(Long think)...I'm sorry Mummy - I can't think of anything you're not good at. (Did I ever tell you I loved this child?)
Edie - Eating paper (Dubious).

13. What does your Mummy do for her job?
Renée - Look after us and before that she was a Television Producer (Wow - I had no idea she even knew I had a life before her. Now that was interesting).
Edie - Cauliflower (Attention well and truly gone methinks).

14. What is your Mummy's favourite food?
Renée - Lettuce, tomatoes and cucumber (Oh purlease Renée - and there I was thinking you were on the ball).
Edie - Chocolate cake. (Now that's more like it. How to get Edie's attention - talk about food).

15.If your Mummy could have one wish what would it be?
Renée - To have another daughter (Oh Renée you've let me down - DO NOT let your Father read this - it is SO not true).
Edie - To eat chocolate cake. (what did I say)?

And that concludes the interview.

In the meantime, do pop over to Brits in Bosnia who is hosting the British Mummy Blogging Carnival which showcases the best posts from the last couple of weeks. There are stories to make you laugh, cry and ahem, never want to have children.

Poo Stories RIP

2009-07-02T14:11:00.005+01:00

Guess what?

Edie did a poo on the potty yesterday AND one on the big girl's loo at nursery today. She even got a sticker that said so.

But you know what that means don't you? Let me just wipe a tear from my eye as I say it...

There will be no more poo stories ever. I know. I know. I'm almost as distraught about it as you.

But before I pack away the nappies and break out the champagne, I thought it was only right, in light of Edie's, ahem, performances, that I mark the occasion with a final farewell.

I hereby give you the last ever poo story from Maternal Tales.

Last weekend marked my Aunt's 60th Birthday and we were invited along, en famille, to join in with the celebrations, with husband making such a surprise appearance that I think half of those assembled didn't know who he was.

But that aside, let me paint the picture for you. A smart garden party...barbeque...champagne and strawberries. I mean, I'd even considered wearing my new Pucci floor-length dress (ok, so it wasn't really Pucci, but it sure looked like it when I'd bid £5 at the frock exchange the week before). What I did eventually opt for was not important, other than I chose to wear it with flip flops. Now that is important. But as usual, I am digressing. Back to the point. What was it? Oh yes.

Poo.

So, they have a dog, which, it has to be said, had been shipped off to a friend's house for the day, lest it get far too friendly with small children and their even smaller digits. But nonetheless, there is a dog in residence. This is important too.

Anyway, as I'm happily walking around the garden, admiring the roses, enjoying the sunshine, eyeing up the soon-to-be ready food, chatting with family and friends and delighted that my two small children are pre-occupied with other small cousins, I suddenly feel a squelch underfoot. Now as much as I may lead you all to think other things with my often ridiculous behaviour, I am not a stupid woman. I knew it could only mean one thing.

Dog poo.

Dog poo which had managed to squish itself up and over my flip flops, spreading, as it did, right in between my toes. I was mortified. Obviously, I picked up the offending shoe and sniffed it, as is the normal habit, just to make sure it wasn't a mutant mud pie.

It wasn't.

Not one to make a fuss, I ran accross the garden, flip flop in hand, screaming.

"Uncle David - I've just trodden in the most enormous turd that your ruddy mutt has left behind". (I didn't actually use the words 'ruddy mutt', but I can tell you that's what I was thinking).

A rather red-faced Uncle David quickly got to work removing said turd and was even gallant enough to offer to wash my shoe. Of course, I wouldn't have accepted his offer had it not been for the fact that it was his ruddy mutt's turd.

And that, I thought, was that.

Except it wasn't.

"That's strange", said my Aunt. "I could have sworn I'd cleared up all the poos. And the dog has been at a friend's house for a couple of days now."

Closely followed by my own Mother's interjection...

"It didn't look like a dog poo darling."

I was incredulous.

"What do you mean it didn't look like a dog poo? Well if it wasn't a dog poo, then who's poo..."

The true horror of the situation suddenly dawned on me.

"The dog's been gone for two days you say Auntie?" (Judging by the squelch factor alone that was not a two-day old turd. No, it was most certainly very fresh. Very fresh indeed).

I looked over at Edie.

She looked at me.

And I knew.

I just knew.

Award Time

2009-06-30T22:36:00.012+01:00

What was it that I said at the end of my last award post? Now let me think. It was something along the lines of...

...if you receive an award try not to stash it away for too long - or you'll find yourself in my position where you've spent all day creating links and lists.

Well I'm so glad I took not even a tiny bit of notice of my own advice...because here I am with not one, but five awards and I just know this is going to take me longer than ten minutes to post. Serves me right...

It has to be said that I do already have four out of the five, but I still need to pass them on to some worthy recipients. And because this is going to take me long enough and you may even fall asleep before you reach the end, I hope you don't mind if I skip the personal list part.

On with the awards...

First up is the Lemonade award given to me by Carol at New Mummy who has a gorgeous 7-month old little girl. Thankyou Carol! This is one to show blog appreciation. So I pass it on to five fantastic blogs that I truly appreciate...

Mum's the Boss
Crystal Jigsaw
Reasons To Be Cheerful, 1, 2, 3.
Just a Plane Ride Away
Waving or Drowning - Reflections of a Working Mum

Next up is this ever-so-slightly rude award (not in the mood for swearing today - not quite sure what's come over me), given to me by the gorgeous (and hilarious) Tasha at WAHM-BAM. I hereby pass this on to...

Wife of Bold
Lady Mama
How to Survive Life in the Suburbs
Moaning Mum
It's a Small World After all

Do with it what you want ladies. When I first received it I had wonderful fun remembering just how much I loved swearing. Enjoy...

Next up is the Honest Scrap award from my fellow-Brightonian, Rebel Mother at One More Day in the Madhouse.

These are for blogs which have shown Honesty in spades...

Not Wrong, Just Different
Fighting Off Frumpy
Polka Dot Mummy
Soap Box Mummy

Grit's Day

The penultimate award has been given to me by two people - Sandy Calico at Baby Baby and Clareybabble at Clareybabbling.

Thank you ladies. Your blogs are Lovely too!

I now pass this on to not one, but five Lovely Blogs.

Cafe Bébé
Really Rachel
Withenay Wonders
Jen's Rantings
My Chaos & Mayhem

And finally, the only one not yet already decorating my virtual mantelpiece in this - the Palabros Como Rosas which translates as 'words like Roses'....given to me by the amazingly wonderful Fhina at A Woman of No Importance. Thank you my darling - I am most touched.

I hereby pass this on to five more blogs whose words are as beautiful as roses...

Sticky Fingers
Ladybird World Mother
Rosie Scribble
Dulwich Divorcee
Not Waving but Drowning

Please forgive me if I haven't included you. It's probably because I've already passed an award your way, or else I've just had a quick peek and you have far too many, or more than likely I've become a tad confused, insulted you and you'll never venture this way again.

Apologies whichever applies!

I'm a failure

2009-06-28T11:25:00.004+01:00

So today is the last day of Recycle Week and I just thought I'd let you in on a secret.

I failed my mission.

But don't tell anyone. I'm trying to keep it a secret because it's just so ridiculously daft. I mean, who, other than someone completely useless, can't manage to re-use their carrier bags for one week?

Erm.

Ahem.

Cough.

Twiddle, twiddle.

That'll be me then.

Like I said, please don't tell anyone, because I am trying to forge this image of being something other than completely useless.

This is the silly thing - I only chose this pledge, out of the handful on offer because it was the easiest!! That'll teach me for being so lazy.

And just in case you wondered how on earth I managed to fail something so simple, here's the story.

I'm normally smug about re-using carrier bags because I have an enormous supply, some of which are stashed in the back of the car ready to be taken to the supermarket and some of which are in the kitchen having just been emptied ready to be put back in to the car and taken to the supermarket. Notice a common denominator here?

Supermarket.

You should have seen my smug face at the beginning of the week.

'Need any carrier bags love?' Said the checkout assistant already reaching for her supply.

'No, I have plenty. Thankyou.' I said, making an extra special effort to rustle them loudly so the whole queue could hear.

Like I said, I was smug.

Fast forward a few days and I checked the calendar. A birthday party. A friend of Renée's was turning five and I hadn't yet bought a present or a card. But that wasn't a problem - no need to drive to the supermarket (let's be all eco and walk to the corner shop instead). So we did. Fairy wings and magic wand and hair clips and all sorts of little things guaranteed to make a five year old smile. Perfect. That was until I was half-way back home, blue plastic bag in hand and suddenly aware that it wasn't one of my plastic bags.

Oops.

Mission far from accomplished.

So that's how easy it was. The problem lay in the fact that I hadn't factored in the non-supermarket visits. Trips to the corner shop, without the car, were not considered, therefore my generous supply of plastic bags were not available. So here's a warning to all of you wanting to re-cycle - carry a bag with you at all times.

I have to say, I did continue to re-use my bags for the week, but a fail is a fail and I can't lie to you all (tempting though it is).

And just in case you thought I'd forgotten, there is a forfeit to uphold. I can't quite bring myself to say it though because I think I might cry...

No computer use for a whole day. That's no Blogging. No Twitter. No e-mails. No Facebook. No Google searches. No life as I know it.

So as of midnight tonight, I will be computer-less for a day. Apologies in advance if I ignore you. I will be back on Tuesday raring to go.

Wish me luck!

When conversations need to be about more than just children

2009-06-24T14:15:00.005+01:00

I'm beginning to feel a bit nauseus. And before you ask, NO I am NOT pregnant. You need to have done certain things in order to have achieved that. Don't you?

She asks, moving swiftly on.

No, the real reason why I'm feeling slightly sick is because I'm going out this evening...and just the thought of it is making me want to find the nearest hole, bury my head deep inside and not come out until the morning, during which time I would have thought up any number of believable excuses as to why I couldn't make it.

Now don't get me wrong. I am no wallflower. In fact, if my fragments of memory serve me correctly, there was once the time (ahem...first night of my honeymoon) when I danced on the bar, served drinks to whoever wanted them and had to be carried off as the sun came up, minus one pair of trousers, one shoe and one earring (later discovered in the undergrowth) only to wake up later that day with a black eye and a slightly dismayed husband. Needless to say, I have never touched cheap Filippino rum since.

But look at me. During my nostalgia trip, I have digressed somewhat. What I'm trying to say here is that social situations don't often send me into a dither. Take the Mummy Bloggers Get-Together, for instance. Surely walking into a room full of people who you've never actually met, at least not in the physical sense, is slightly more harrowing than sitting down chatting to people who you already know and have previously managed to string a sentence together with?

Well, this is the thing. Being a Mummy is what I do. As much as I subtley fight against it and pretend I'm still young and hip and have absolutely no stretch marks whatsoever, it's who I am...and it's who I've been for the past five years, so when I was planning to meet up with a whole host of other Mothers and Fathers, at least I knew I would have something to talk to them about. And I wasn't disappointed. There was not one moment where I felt out of place or bewildered. I mean, I even managed to work poo into the conversation. So why am I feeling so sick at the thought of this evening?

Well, the difference between that get-together and the get-together I'm off out to this evening is that tonight I'm meeting up with people I knew pre-children. Doesn't that have a strange ring to it? I shall say it again. Pre-children. Crikey, I'd almost forgotten those days even existed. And not only that, but most of these people still work in the same, scary industry that I left all those years ago. Television. Now apologies, if you work, or have ever worked in Television, but having served eight long years in such an industry I feel I have the right to say what I want about it. So here goes...people who work in Television think that it is the most important thing on this planet. Strangely enough, I'm not of the same opinion. And I never was. Which is why I'm sitting here, feeling slightly sick.

And please don't ask me why I'm going. I don't have much of an answer - only that it seemed like a good idea when I replied to the invitation a few weeks ago. So that's that. Wish me luck. It has been five years. Maybe I'll find that I'm not the only one who's had children in the interim years. And if not, then maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to find something to talk about other than children. Here's hoping.

I have poo on the brain...or is that the tongue...?

2009-06-18T15:07:00.006+01:00

For some reason Edie has decided not to have a nap this afternoon, which kind of messes up my schedule a bit seeing as I had put aside her nap time to write a post. Hmmmm. But I have a good idea instead. In the spirit of recycling, I have decided to recycle an old post. Call me a cheat...it was written a while ago - and I think you need to read it...really I do...it's for your own good...

So, just sit back and relax...A post from back in March...Happy reading!

The time has almost come. I'm thinking of potty training Edie. Although if the little 'accident' on the stairs yesterday is an example of what's to come, then I may delay it even further (despite scrubbing for a good half hour, the stains are still pretty evident). Hmmm. Funnily enough it brings to mind an incident which happened a couple of years ago during Renée's 'potty training period'. A friend had come round for a coffee with her two children. Both our youngest were babies so they slept whilst the two eldest played in Renée's bedroom. I was breast feeding at the time (and possibly on a diet too if my memory serves me well)...so let's just say I was pretty hungry and the chocolate biscuits my friend brought round were slightly too tempting to refuse.

So that's the scene. Two Mummies chit-chatting on the sofa...two babies asleep...two toddlers playing happily in another room. What could possibly go wrong? Well, as it happens, quite a lot.

No sooner had the two toddlers spied the packet of chocolate biscuits, they were upon us, demanding that they too be given a share of the goodies. Keen to carry on chatting with my friend, I dismissed the two girls with a hastily given supply of biscuits and the promise of more if they played quietly together for at least ten minutes. Chit chat chit chat chit chat. All was going according to plan until Renée walked into the sitting room clutching the potty...'Mummy, Roxy done caca' (that's French for poo poo just in case you were wondering). 'Right - thanks darling. Lovely.' I took the potty and handed it to the other Mother (it was her child's poo after all). I like to think I'm a great hostess but I only deal with other children's poo if it's a dire emergency. This, as it happens, was not.

So that was that. Potty emptied. Babies still sleeping. Toddlers demanding more biscuits (and getting them). Mummies still chatting. It was a great morning. Great, that was, until the moment of departure came. Now for two toddlers to play happily together, a certain amount of mess has to be made. That's inevitable. But that doesn't send shockwaves through me in any way. A ten-minute tidy-up and no one need ever know that the bedroom was a disaster zone. But this time it was, how shall I put it, different. It wasn't the scale of the mess which surprised me, or the extent to which two little children had been able to run riot. No, it was this simple fact. Chocolate biscuits do not mix well with toys or bedding or carpets, or rugs, or white walls. Somehow, whilst I was happily chit-chatting away in the other room, I had managed to completely ignore the fact that almost a whole packet of crumbly biscuits with melting potential had been taken away by two two-year-olds. I mean what was I thinking? I'll tell you what I was thinking. I was thinking that just a little bit of peace and quiet is worth a ten-minute tidy up at the end of the day. But on this occasion I was wrong. Oh so wrong.

After ten minutes of crawling around on my hands and knees trying to tidy up the toys which hadn't been smeared in chocolate or crumbs, I made it to the potty corner. I don't know what had happened, but it looked as though either one or both of the children had been eating whilst sitting on the potty - like a man reading the Sunday papers on his 'throne' - and the whole surrounding area was covered with chocolate biscuit crumbs...or so I thought. And before you pass judgement - please remember - I was on a diet (and I just hate wasting food). So what did I do? I started eating the chocolate biscuits crumbs of course. Aside from the covering of tiny particles which I later had to vacuum up, there were a few big pieces of biscuit lying around. So piece by piece I put them in my mouth, pleased with myself for not only tidying up quickly, but doing it in a very efficient manner. But hold on, that doesn't taste like chocolate. Does it? No, it can't be. Can it? Just one more chew to make sure. Oh no. It really is what I think it is. It's POO. Aaaaaarrrrrggghhhh. And I'm eating it. Of course, I rushed straight to the bathroom where I spat my mouthful of biscuit and poo into the sink and quickly filled my mouth with mouthwash and water and mouthwash and water. Over and over again. But I'm telling you this - however many times I washed my mouth out and scrubbed and brushed my teeth, I still couldn't rid myself of the taste of poo. I could smell it. I could feel it. I knew it was there invading my every sense.

When I went to bed that evening, a good ten hours after the 'incident' I could still taste it somewhere deep in the back of my throat. And as I lay there thinking about it (how could I even try to think about anything else) it dawned on me why it was so horrific. It wasn't that I had eaten poo, as much as that in itself was hideous. But it was that it wasn't even my own child's poo. It was Roxy's poo. And she wasn't my own. Poo is bad enough when it comes from the ones you adore, but when it's someone else's child's poo, then that really does take the biscuit. And as for potty training Edie, well maybe I can leave it just a little bit longer...

Even I can manage a bit of recycling. Can you?

2009-06-17T13:23:00.027+01:00

I'm attempting to avoid all the tags....can you see me? Head down, trying not to make eye contact, shuffling along. I may just pull it off...

Didn't think so.

I've been tagged.

A few times.

I'm saving the lists for another day (one when it's not quite so sunny and I haven't got quite so many small children flapping around my ankles)...but I'm going to do this one quickly because the gorgeous Jo Beaufoix and the equally gorgeous Sparx have tagged me. Apart from not being able to say no to two such lovely ladies, it's also for a good cause...

So this is the story.

Almost Mrs Average at The Rubbish Diet has roped in the Mummy Blogging community to spread the Recycling word. From June 22nd until 28th it is Recycle Week and each of us must make a pledge to waste less. So click HERE to see my pledge.

And if I fail???

Well I didn't want to make it too difficult for myself (not like Jo who has pledged to compost all her kitchen and garden waste and if she fails to do so, will allow her 4-year old daughter to apply her makeup and post a photo of the result - can't wait for that one).

So if you haven't clicked on the pledge above I will quickly tell you. I have pledged to re-use all my carrier bags for the week and if I fail to do so then I will abstain from computer use for a day (just the thought is making me giddy). My husband will be especially pleased with this forfeit as less time on the computer means more time with him...so now all I have to do is make sure he doesn't hide the bags in a sly attempt at sabotage.

And just a bit of info about carrier bag usage because it isn't just a game of tag after all...

"In 2008, UK Shoppers picked up a staggering 9.9 billion new carrier bags. That's an average of 400 per household - or enough to fill 188 Olympic swimming pools.

To produce that number of bags required around 180,000 tonnes of oil and emitted greenhouse gases equivalent to up to 100,000 extra cars on the road.

If you and every household halved the number of bags that are picked up, we would reduce waste and save energy. Over a year, this would mean using around 90,000 fewer tonnes of oil and a reduction in greenhouse gas production equivalent to taking up to 50,000 cars off the road."

I'm just off to find those pesky carrier bags. Wish me luck...

And just to end this post I have to, of course, tag five more people who I think will be able to shoulder the responsibilty as well as me!! Nothing like a bit of pressure...

Hee hee.

Here goes.

Tasha at WAHM-BAM

Karin at Café Bébé (who incidentally has just launched a fantastic new website - so do go and check it out).

The Wife of Bold

Rebel Mother at Another Day in the Madhouse

Mama Po at Home Mum of 2 (or 3 if you count their Dad)

And here are the rules for the tagees...

1. Visit http://www.recyclenow.com/ and sign up to one of the pledges to waste less.

2. Share details of your pledge on your blog.

3. Choose 5 other bloggers who you think will be up for a bit of recycling fun.

4. Return to The Rubbish Diet and share your pledge in the comments section.

5. Optional - As a thank you to all involved, The Rubbish Diet will be publishing a British Mummy Bloggers' Recycling week carnival on Monday 29th June. To be included, simply submit your favourite post revealing the progress of your pledge by Saturday 27th June to karen@therubbishdiet.co.uk

Can we be turned from simple Mummy Bloggers into Mummy Garbloggers? Only time will tell.

Mummy Bloggers get together

2009-06-15T19:25:00.004+01:00

I've got the blues today. The sort of blues you get when you return home from a holiday where you've had a great time and realise that your house and your life are not quite as interesting as they'd been before. I'm on a post British Mummy Bloggers get together downer. It's all over. It just kind of came and went too quickly and now all I can do is sit in front of the computer clicking on my blog list to see who else has written a post about the event. Ok, I lie a little. I have had a rather busy day, but sitting clicking on my blog list is what I'd much rather be doing.

But, seriously, it was great. I was too tired to write a post last night, but realised this morning that I had, in fact, dreamt about everyone in my sleep. I was tempted to base this post on the dream...but I didn't want to lose friends so soon after making them. Hee hee.

One of the best things about yesterday, other than meeting so many virtual friends in the flesh, was the fact that I somehow managed to bring only one child, thus resulting in an almost-relaxed day. I had originally planned to leave Edie (the two and a half year old) at home with my husband, but true to form he had had to work, so I was left with a trip to London, two fairly small children and a slight dilemma. How on earth was I going to manage it on my own? Well, thankfully I didn't have to put that to the test because a wonderful friend offered to look after Edie for the whole day (poor thing - when I eventually arrived to collect her, Edie was in the kitchen stirring cake mixture, mess everywhere, having just had a shower because she'd decided to do a poo in her pants...I could have put money on that happening). And when I saw the venue of the Blogging meet-up - The Rainforest Cafe with its vast underground caverns, hiding places and potential mishief-making corners, I was pitifully relieved to have left Edie behind.

It's rare that I spend time with Renée on her own and I'm so thankful that I had the opportunity to. A bus ride from home along the cliff edge commenting on the flight of the seagulls, a train ride into Victoria, complete with a whole hour of colouring, followed by another bus ride through the centre of London, rounded off with an entrance into the cafe of soft toys, rubber snakes, an aquarium of tropical fish, a meal of pizza and ice cream, a rainforest goody bag and a whole host of playmates. For an almost 5 year old it was bliss. For her Mummy, it was possibly even better.

But the reason for making the journey to London, was, of course, to meet a handful of my fellow bloggers...none of whom I had ever met in the flesh, but most of whom I feel like I know almost as well as 'real' friends. I know that Sparx who writes Notes From Inside my Head has a little boy with chickenpox and is currently bribing him to use the potty with promises of chocolate (note to self...bribe with chocolate). I know that Tasha or Coding Mama from WAHM-BAM is pregnant with her second girl and suffers from SPD, like me. I know that Metropolitan Mum has recently given birth to Little L and I was dying to see her. I know that Peggy from Perfectly Happy Mum has not been feeling so pefectly happy recently, although judging by her wonderfully smiley face, she's feeling much better now. I know that Amy at And 1 More means 4 has 4 girls all under the age of 4 and had travelled down from Manchester for the meet-up. I know that Zoo Archaeologist at Being a Mummy is also having potty issues and that her husband, DaddaCool has recently started writing a blog too. I know that Melissa at More to Life Than Laundry is planning on sailing around the world next year in the Clipper Round The World Race and I know that Surprised Zoe missed out on the Isle of Wight Festival for the first time (but chose to come to the meet-up instead).

And the great thing about knowing all these little pieces of information is that you can cut the small talk - because you know what they do/how many children they have/where they live/what they like and instead you can get straight to the more important issues...so how exactly did you cope when you woke up to find your son trying to re-inact his baby breastfeeding moments? Sorry Potty Mummy - I know you won't mind!

So it felt easy to talk to these people - people with whom I know I already have so much in common with. The only downside is that it wasn't long enough. I wanted to talk to everyone and I nearly managed it...apologies if I didn't (Noble Savage, Alpha Mummy, Boozlebox, London Baby and Charlene from Thames Valley Mums). Please let's do it again soon.

Thanks so much to Susanna at A Modern Mother who is the pioneer of British Mummy Blogging. If it wasn't for you finding my blog one day then I probably would have floundered after a month. And thanks also to Amy and Silver Cross for organising the event. I hadn't realised until a friend had mentioned it the week before, but Silver Cross are the manufacturers of the original old-school blue prams (remember Wendy Craig in 'Nanny'? - I do) and so have been around for years. But they've re-launched with new and contemporary pushchairs and gave us all a fantastic demonstration (despite having to stop half-way through for the virtual thunderstorm). I was a little disappointed that my children are just about out of pushchairs...otherwise I would have been tempted - especially when I saw the size to which they shrunk once folded up. Apparently they are small enough to fit into the back of a Mini. No room for the children perhaps, but at least the pushchair will fit!

But thanks to everyone - I genuinely enjoyed meeting you all and thanks to Nixdminx's MiniMinx, Susanna's 3 gorgeous girls, all in matching outfits, and Part Mummy, Part Me's little Ella, Renée was kept entertained the whole time. I'm sorry (for Edie) that she missed out, but I'm sure it would have been a different kind of post entirely had she have come...

Pregnancy weight - it's just so depressing

2009-06-11T23:11:00.002+01:00

I had the shock of my life today. My hairdresser is pregnant. Ok, so she did actually tell me she was pregnant about 3 months ago, but I had completely forgotten...so when I walked in today (for my 3 monthly treat - nothing whatsoever to do with the Blogging meet-up on Sunday - you have to believe me) - and I was met with a bump the size of...well something rather large, I was a little taken aback. But only momentarily, of course. I quickly recovered my composure and instead mustered the most amount of excitement possible on a wet and windy midsummer day. But then I saw Kelly's face, and it didn't match my excitement at all...Could it have been that she wasn't happy being pregnant? I was sure she'd viewed it as good news when she'd initially told me...So what was the problem? I decided to enquire further.

"I just feel so fat. I hate it. I feel like a baby elephant. And I know I look like one too. I can't find any clothes to fit and I'm aching all over and I can't walk, I can only waddle and...well...nobody told me it was going to be like this. And the worst thing is - I'm only 5 months gone."

Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear. I knew exactly how she felt. It is a well-documented fact (or at least it is if you read this blog) that I gained rather a lot of weight during both my pregnancies. I'm not sure exactly how much (5 stone with the first and 3 stone with the second). Come on - do you really think I'd forget that? And I can honestly say I hated being pregnant. I didn't hate the fact that there was a tiny creature growing inside me...or that I was about to help make a miracle happen...I just hated the aches and pains that went with it. And most of all, I hated being so fat.

It's not that I have anything against fat people (some of my best friends are fat)...hee hee...it's just that, well, I wasn't comfortable being fat. It had never happened to me before. I had grown up proud of my humongous portions and fast metabolism...and even during my first pregnancy when I was eating for Britain (and France...and Italy and Spain and the rest of the world come to think of it), I wasn't in the least bit worried. There I was waking up in the night to eat my third king-sized Magnum of the day and I still managed to convince myself it was just the bump...

So when I finally gave birth two whole weeks of scoffing after my due date and realised the true horror of what had been left behind, I was more than a little traumatised. No longer did I possess a flat, toned stomach, or even a round taut one. Nothing of my former body had been left behind. Instead I resembled a character straight out of Channel 4's Body Shock series. 'Ten ton Mum'. That was me. I think she had to be fed out of tubes or something equally as sinister. And I wasn't just fat. I was fat and sweaty. I put it down to the breastfeeding, although it could have been something to do with the oh so natural organic deodorant that had promised not to harm the baby, but couldn't deodorise a fragrant rose.

So there you have it. I was fat and sweaty and full of misery and getting absolutely no sleep and still wearing maternity clothes 4 months after giving birth. BUT, I had the most beautiful little baby and it could have been much, much worse...

So why am I writing this now? Well apart from poor Kelly who is going through the exact same frustrations as I went through on two separate occasions, I am also currently reading a lot about other people's weight struggles, including the now infamous 'Wednesday Weigh-In' in the blogosphere. It's not just me who piled on the pounds during pregnancy....And without sounding patronising I want to say...Don't worry. The weight will go. If you want it to. It's now two and a half years since I gave birth to my second child and I no longer resemble Ten Ton Mum. My stomach isn't quite as toned as it once was (nor my breasts as pert and pretty - but that's another story entirely)...but I did lose the weight. Where it went I have no idea. But I don't care. It's gone...and yours will too.

Oh, and one last thing - if you just so happen to be pregnant - congratulations and enjoy - but try to stay away from that second helping of cheeseburger and chips...if you can.

Friends forever?

2009-06-08T14:04:00.002+01:00

Becoming a parent for the first time is one of the most daunting experiences a Mother or Father faces. There are so many questions which need answering - apart from the most obvious - how could anyone in their right mind have trusted someone so unqualified in newborn baby-minding to take home this tiny/living/breathing/pooing/crying bundle? I mean, surely there should have been an exam to pass? Did I miss it?

But in all seriousness, we can never, alone, find all the answers to all the questions. How much milk does my baby need to drink? And if I'm breastfeeding how can I even tell? Are they sleeping too much? Too little? What temperature should their room be? How do I stop their incessant crying? Am I going mad? And honestly, is it normal for them to excrete marmite from their bottom just after they're born? (Sorry - you know me - I couldn't not mention poo somewhere)!

Books, of course, go a long way in providing some of the answers, but there's nothing quite as in-depth or honest as hearing it from other Mothers and Fathers - people who are experiencing the same fears and anxieties as you. Some parents-to-be join NCT groups. Other new parents partake in Mother and Baby bonding sessions at local community centres. Some meet through friends. Some meet in parks, at play centres. But however they meet, these friendships forged through having children of similar ages are invaluable and often life-long.

When I gave birth to Renée almost 5 years ago I met a number of other Mums with newborn babies, some of who are still my friends now. Some, inevitably, became friends purely because we had babies of the same age and I was eager to make friends on behalf of my children, as well as for myself. But others became friends because I genuinely liked them, with or without children. Children had obviously brought us together, but I had found kindred spirits who would have been friends if we'd happened to meet any other way.

But this is all pretty obvious. Surely there is more to this post than me repeating all sorts of things that you already know?

Of course there is (did you really doubt me)?

So last week, just before Renée went to bed she asked me what we were doing the next day - (she has this habit of asking for an itinerary for the following day before she goes to sleep and can only sleep if the itinerary is to her satisfaction).

"Well", I replied. "You've got school. And then after school Mr B is coming to play."

I expected, of course, a big whoop and a smile and an easy drift off to sleep dreaming about the escapades her and Mr B would get up to the next day, because Mr B had been her friend since she was born and his Mother was one of my 'kindred spirits'. But I was a little shocked, if not even more disappointed at her reply.

"I don't want Mr B to come and play."
"Oh no. Why not, darling?"
"He plays too rough. And he wants to play boys' games. And he doesn't want to dress up."
"But I thought Mr B was a good friend. I thought you liked playing with him."
"Well I don't. And I don't want him to come. Can you cancel it Mummy?"

Oh dilemma. What to do? I hadn't seen Mr B's Mother for a while and was keen to catch-up... but I didn't want Renée to be upset. And if I cancelled, did it mean that Mr B would never be invited round again? Was this to be the end of their life-long friendship? Would this be the end of my 5-year friendship with his Mother?

Eventually, I persuaded Renée to let Mr B come round one last time as I convinced her it was too late to cancel, but that I would be extra-vigilant of Mr B's rough behaviour and if after that she still decided that she didn't want to play with him then I would see the Mother on her own. She seemed happy enough with this.

As it turned out, Mr B wasn't rough in the slightest, Renée managed to persuade him to put a fairy princess outfit on (how on earth she did that I have no idea), and there were even tears at the door when neither of them wanted to part. And she's already asking when he can come round again. So a good result for all concerned.

But it has got me thinking. Pretty soon, it won't be me in control of who's invited over, or who Renée chooses to be her friend. I always used to ask myself this question - was it worse if the children got on, but you didn't like the parents, or if the children didn't get on but you really liked the parents? I still don't know the answer to that one, but I think we're almost at the stage now (at least with Renée, if not Edie) where that question might be irrelevant. Renée will choose her friends and I will choose mine and we might meet in the middle somewhere, we might not. But until then, if she could be friends with the boys and girls whose parents I like, I would be extremely grateful.

Poo-related karma

2009-06-01T14:13:00.003+01:00

So we're finally back on South-Coast chalk and if the 5-hour car journey in the blazing heat is an example of what happens when we leave home, then I may never set foot outside the front door ever again. I'm sure it's something to do with karma and the cosmic universe - you know what I mean - the good times only last so long before you're made to pay. We had a truly fantastic week in Norfolk - Good food, sunshine, plenty of outdoor activities and no stresses or strains of normal day to day life with two small children (apart from lack of sleep - but I'm saving that for another post). In short, a little bit or R & R. But in the space of 5 very loooooooooooooooong hours, it was pay back time. One hideously painful hour for every fun-filled day we'd just had.

Let me explain in a little more detail. Now I may, or may not have mentioned that Edie is in the middle of being potty-trained. If you are a regular reader of this blog, then you'll know that we've had a few...ahem...problems in this very area. But we are making progress. She's now out of nappies in the day and using her potty and the 'big girls' loo' for her number ones. Hardly any accidents. Number twos, however, are slightly more miss than hit, unfortunately for all involved. So that'll be unfortunately for me then... And as you can imagine, given this background information, a 5-hour car journey could provide a number of, how shall I put this?...Rather indelicate situations.

Could and did.

Add to this the fact that the one day we chose to drive 200 miles home conveniently turned out to be the hottest day of the year...and when you're stuck inside a car, with or without indelicate situations, it's not very pleasant at all.

I won't bore you with the trivial details of 5 separate wee wee stops in the first hour, all of which required pulling in to a side lane, extracting small children from car seats, holding them aloft, legs akimbo (parents of boys may not be able to empathise here), trying desperately not to let that small trickle of wee (which did occur to me half-way through each and every procedure that it was hardly worth stopping for in the first place), trickle dangerously close to clothes, or worse still, bare feet in flip flops, whilst at the same time, trying to remain inconspicuous to passing traffic.

Like I said, I won't bore you with the details.

The part about the turd though, I will have to disclose, because, well, I owe it to you...You can thank me later.

So, just as we'd finally navigated our way through the small lanes that make up most of North Norfolk and made it on to the motorway, I heard the words that I was praying I wouldn't hear.

'Mummy I need a ca ca' (That's a poo to you and me).

Strangely enough there was no inconspicuous country lane to pull over into. There was, however, a potty. A kind of 'chair' potty with an insert part for the seat which I couldn't recommend highly enough for those of you thinking of potty training your children. I'm not sure my reccommendation would stretch as far as using it on a car journey though...

Somehow I managed to pull Edie out of her car seat - don't worry - husband was around and he was driving - you didn't think I was that crazy did you? Anyway, I plonked her on the potty - inbetween the two car seats. And, unbelieveably given the circumstances, she managed to produce a rather fine looking specimen. Now is it just me, or has anyone else ever wondered how a relatively small child can produce a rather adult-looking turd? Maybe this is too much information. I'll stop...

In my excitement at seeing my youngest child perform under stressful conditions, I must have taken my eye off the ball for one milisecond too long. In truth, I think I was reaching for the wipes between my feet. Excuses aside, I took my eye off Edie long enough for her to take the insert part out of the potty and offer it to me, a look of pride etched on her still baby face. I almost had a second to share her pride, but at that precise moment (it was karma I tell you), the car (not husband of course) decided to apply the breaks a little too hard and the rather largish, rather sticky, exceedingly smelly, quite repulsive, in fact, turd, ended up being deposited halfway between the gear stick and the dashboard, a little towards my side.

I am, if nothing, fairly practical and not particularly squeamish...but this, was not how I'd wanted to spend my car journey. In the one second it had taken for Edie's poo to land next to me, all the country walks, barbeques, tractor rides and relaxation had been erased. I could have cried. Instead, I managed to pick up the offending object which had now, unfortunately, become objects and stashed them away inside a plastic bag. I'm electing not to mention how many wipes were used in the clear up or how long it actually took. Suffice to say, I'm happy to do the driving next time...

And a perfectly-timed text from a friend was just about enough to send me over the edge...

'Hope you're enjoying the sun. We're in the back garden with the paddling pool out'.

I looked at the plastic bag, with it's revolting smell emanating through the plastic fibres and filling up the car in the 30 degrees heat and decided to laugh. It was, after all, just another day in the life of a parent.

As for the turd, I can't actually remember what became of it...

Luckily I don't have a 'proper' job to go to, or I could follow More Than Just a Mother's rather unfortunate example and find myself taking it to work with me. I'll be thankful for small mercies then...

I'm still here - just!

2009-05-28T17:17:00.004+01:00

Just in case you were starting to wonder of my whereabouts, I can confirm that I am still here. Well not here as in somewhere on the South Coast residing, as I normally do, at home, but here, as in half-way between North and South in the flattest place on earth (I am prone to slight exaggeration on occasion - I have noticed a couple of small undulations). But just in case you wondered, we're in Norfolk, visiting the Grandparents, and my access to the Internet has been somewhat limited. Part of me is feeling understandably edgy...I mean how can I cope without just a wee bit of blogging? But part of me wants to kick back and just enjoy the moment, which for my children's sake, I have decided to do. The truth is, I don't think the children have ever been so happy, so I'm trying to enjoy the moment for as long as I can. This is a little indicator of how much fun Renée is having...

Me to Renée - "Renée, is Norfolk your favourite place in the world?"

Renée - "Yes...um...well..." (A slight hesitation).

Grandma - "It's ok darling. You don't have to say it's your favourite place. I expect home is, isn't it?"

Renée - "Oh no. Italy (where we went on holiday last year) is my favourite place. And Norfolk is my second favourite place. And France is my third favourite place (where her other Grandparents live). And London is my fourth favourite place (where her cousins live). And..."
She trails off.

I only hope that home makes it in to the top five. I'm not even going to ask.

So that's that. We're spending a few days visiting Renée's second favourite place in the world and boy is she happy. There's been horseriding, farm visiting, lamb feeding, baby chick and guinea pig cuddling, ferret feeding, tractor riding, chocolate eating and only a tiny bit of television. But perhaps most exciting of all, they've had Grandparents to spoil them and because the Grandparents are so far away, it's a rare treat and one which causes joy all around. I'm not quite sure whose face beamed wider on the tractor ride - Grandpa's or the two children's, but all I can say is that it's worth the five-hour car journey to get here.

Normal business will resume when we're back on the South Coast in a couple of days. In the meantime, I hope you're all having as much fun as us!