Birth of an Elephant

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...

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

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

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

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

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?

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.