Adventures of a Sleepless Toddler

Familar

2010-09-15T19:25:00.003+01:00

We recently filled another Julia Donaldson shaped hole in our bookcase. We've long borrowed The Smartest Giant in Town from the library but didn't have our own copy until last week. T is, unsurprisingly, loving it. We're reading it nightly along with Zog and, on nights when C isn't getting too tired and cranky to wait any longer for milk, another story of his choosing.

Tonight, as George the giant redressed himself in his shabby but comfortable gown and sandals, three quarters of the way through, T piped up.

Mummy, what's milly-ear

Not milly-ear, it's familiar

What's familiar

Familiar is when something is old and nice and you like it very much, George's gown and sandals are familiar

Mummy, Grandma is old and nice. Is she familiar?

I suppose, if pushed, I could get away with pretending he'd said family.

Anatomy

2010-09-07T18:06:00.003+01:00

T is bending his arm, holding it in a funny manner.

'What's the matter darling, have you hurt yourself?'

'No Mummy, this is my ELBOW'

'It is darling, well done!'

He holds his hand up, folding over his fingers.

'Mummy, these are our KNUCKLES'

'Well done darling, that's a difficult word!'

He fiddles with his socks and thinks hard.

'Mummy, this is my UNCLE. I have three uncles. This is my left uncle, this is my right uncle and then there's Uncle Nick. And Uncle Esteban. Three uncles!'

We really need to work on his counting.

A weighty Update

2010-08-30T18:43:00.002+01:00

(For the first post on this subject click here)

I have never been happier to be overweight*! Two weeks before I am due back at work (wibble) I am two pounds off my 12 stone goal and two pounds lighter than my pre-pregnancy weight with T. I'm not going to win any awards for speedy weight-loss, but I am a whole stone and a half lighter than my starting weight and giving you a twirl right now in my size 14 jeans. What do you think?

C now weighs almost as much as I've lost. Carrying her in the sling I huff slightly climbing the steps from the beach to the prom. The downside of losing weight is that when the lard is on your front rather than your hips it doesn't keep your jeans up. I reach the top step and my 16s slip down to my knees, revealing my purple pants to the sunbathers behind and, worse, my Father in Law, carrying our picnic remnants back to the car.

Shopping anyone?

*Rather than obese. Obviously a healthy weight is my ultimate end goal!

A little less conversation

2010-08-26T21:44:00.003+01:00

The children are chatting to each other in the bath. Well, T is chatting. C, although starting to speak, is still a way behind in the conversational stakes. Her current repertoire is a whole load of babble and four or five proper words, including a broad Manc 'hiya' and 'Dada', but nothing of course for the parent who currently gets up four times a night to soothe her teething brow. Not that I'm bitter of course. Hmph.

Anyway, the conversation goes like this:

Mummy, C can't walk yet can she?
No darling
Can she talk yet either?
She can say some words but she can't talk properly, no
(holding up a toy) C, can you say duck?
DUHHHK
Mummy she said duck!
Yes darling, duck is one of the words she can say
Can you say train?
DUHHHK
Can you say boat?
DUHHHK
Can you say ... hot tap? (he was clutching at straws here)
DUHHHK
(he looks around the bathroom) Mummy can C say toilet?
No I don't think so darling
Mummy can I say toilet?
Yes darling, you just said it then!
I'm going to teach C to say a new word. C ... can you say toyyyy lettt
DUHHHK
No, Toilet!
DUHHK
NO! TOILET!
DUHHK

Maybe I should try and get them into advertising?

Noses

2010-08-25T08:59:00.002+01:00

I will preface this post by saying it has been a very, very wet summer. Well summer would be pushing it. It has been very wet in the last couple of months. Full stop.

This morning we found a slug in our kitchen. Well, T found a slug in our kitchen when I sent him to put on his shoes. It was just a baby one, heading for the teeny gap between the door and frame it must have squeezed through last night in order to leave a silvery trail across my kitchen floor and knocking me a little bit sick.

'I'm not standing on it Mummy!'

Words only spoken by a boy who really wants to, not out of some cruelty to other living things, but probably with his unshod foot, just to see what it feels like.

I pause my diatribe about being nice to innocent creatures to grab the baby, my second child now approaching the animal with a gleam in her eye and a bead of drool sliding down her chin. A slug is bad enough, half a slug infinitely worse.

I grab a sheet of kitchen roll, my plan is to gingerly pick up the slug and deposit it on the correct side of the back door to slime, and whatever else slugs do, to it's hearts content, accompanied by a strict lecture on not sneaking into houses uninvited.

Roll in hand I approach from behind.

'Mummy ... stop!'

He eyes my familiar stance with some reproach.

'Don't blow it's nose. It hasn't got a nose!'

Liberator of invertebrates, wiper of bottoms, blower of noses. Same old, same old.

Hotels

2010-08-23T21:31:00.003+01:00

Look Mummy, over there ... a moon shop! A moon shop Mummy!

Oh to be nearly three.

I love my boy.

Perseverence

2010-08-18T19:06:00.004+01:00

Pre-schoolers are trying. If you have one you'll know this. They're wonderful of course, bright and funny and entertaining but oh lord the whining. And the questions. And the questions in a whiny voice.

Watching the last vestiges of my sanity trickle down the plughole with the bathwater, I have started to praise T wildly for the other sort of trying. Perseverence.

Can you put your socks on please?
(whining and looking the other way) I can't do it
Can you try please?
(sits down on the floor with a huff, unballs socks, places one on top of foot and wriggles until it falls off again) I caaaaaan't dooooo it
You haven't even tried, open the sock and put your foot in it!
(picks up sock, stretches it between hand, balls it up, thwacks it up and down on the floor a few times)

This could go on ad infinitum, however by changing my language the exchange is truncated.

Can you put your socks on please?
(whining and looking the other way) I can't do it
Can you try please?
(sits down on the floor with a huff, unballs socks, places one on top of foot and wriggles until it falls off again) I caaaaaan't dooooo it
Well done darling, you've pulled them apart! Can you do them on a train, can you do them in the rain? Do you remember the Green Eggs and Ham book? Mr Knox tried didn't he. Can you put your socks on in a box, can you put them on a fox?
(laughing now)
Can you put them here or there? Can you put them anywhere?
(the socks go on)

Of course this isn't ideal. In a perfect world, being capable of putting his socks on without recourse to silly rhyme, T would spring into action the moment I asked him to do something. However there's a perfect world and then there's being nearly-three. Two very different things. For now I'm happy to cajole, encourage and sometimes downright bribe him to just have a go. If you have a little try of the risotto you have been pushing around your plate for half an hour you can have a chocolate treat. On a very good day he'll discover the risotto is delicious and eat the whole lot, leaving him too full for chocolate. No, honestly!

There is a downside though. A couple of weeks ago I slung a grumpy T around the zoo on a muggy Saturday afternoon, my husband carrying his sister. From the raised wooden walkway we regarded a field of okapi and, in the distance, a fierce looking rhinocerous.

Mummy, can you throw C to the rhino?
No darling.
Oh go on Mummy. Just have a little try.

Julia Donaldson's Favourite Books

2010-08-03T10:00:00.005+01:00

'You can never have too many books'

The person who said that had clearly not been to my house! I am desperate to instill a love of reading into my son but having collapsed two out of the three shelves of his bookcase with too many stories I'm having to take a step back and let the library take the strain for a while. Today though I am making an exception. We are eagerly waiting for the postman to arrive with the latest book from the Julia Donaldson/Axel Scheffler stable which has just been released!

Zog, who you can see above, is an accident prone dragon who's facing a tough test, capturing a princess. Can a mysterious little girl help him with it? As with The Gruffalo, The Snail and the Whale and Stickman I'm really excited to add a new rhyming story to our pile. Even though, as a Northern family, Julia's prose doesn't always scan correctly (however hard I try I can't rhyme scarf and laugh) the twosome's books are amongst our most beloved. In fact I know some of them off by heart I've read them so many times.

A couple of months ago I was lucky enough to meet Julia as part of a talk she did locally for teachers and parents. Massive thanks go to the friend who told me about it. I didn't really know what to expect, but she (Julia, not the friend) didn't disappoint.

We heard a little about her student life, including time spent busking on the streets of Paris with her future husband Malcolm, and how once back in the UK she began to write songs for BBC children's radio and television programmes. Although I'm not sure she's up there with John Lennon, a Squash and a Squeeze (based on a traditional folk tale) is certainly very catchy. Julia told how an agent approached her and asked whether the song could be turned into a book. Axel drew the pictures and the rest was history. Then came the fun part, Julia picked members of the audience to act out the different parts (yes, including the animals) and sang the whole lot for us. She was most particular about the actors too, the goat was chastised for not pretend-eating the table leg with sufficient gusto!

Later Julia talked about the books that had inspired her to become a writer. I found this particularly fascinating and thought that you might do too!

Dogger, by Shirley Hughes

I love this book and have posted about it before, including here. Julia said she particularly likes the story because Dave's love for his toy dog is universal and that parents and children everywhere can empathise with it. I agree, not least because it was loved by my sister and I in our childhood and is equally adored by my children a quarter of a century on!

Mr Magnolia, by Quentin Blake

The tale of a half-shod eccentric, this is is another of our favourites. Julia said she particularly likes the rhyme and the detail in the illustrations, which are classic Blake.

Whose Mouse are You, by Robert Kraus and Jose Aruego

I wasn't familiar with this story until Julia mentioned it but being of the sheepy variety I went straight home and ordered it from Amazon. It's the tale of a lonely mouse who has an adventure to bring his family back together again. The illustrations are fabulous, T loves them, especially the page with the cheese feast on it! Julia said she loves the fact that each page has a cliffhanger on it, with a genuine surprise when you turn over.

Would you rather ..., by John Burningham

Unlike 'Whose Mouse' I had heard of this one, although we didn't own a copy and my hazy recollection of having seen the illustrations somewhere before didn't stretch to remembering what it was actually about. Burmingham presents a fantastic selection of options for the reader to choose between, each accompanied by ridiculous illustrations. For example would you rather an elephant drank your bath water, an eagle stole your dinner, a pig tried on your clothes, or a hippo slept in your bed. It is testament to how much fun this is that T refuses to choose any of the pictures, preferring in fact to go for all of them. Julia said she loves the sense of silliness in this one and the insightful snippets of real life too. Would you rather your dad did a dance at school or your mum had a row in a cafe? I can't read that page without cringing!

Towards the end of the talk Julia gave us a sneak peek at Zog. Axel Scheffler's original cover design had been condemned as too boring and a redraw had been ordered. As she left home to come to the talk, an envelope containing the new improved version had plopped onto her doormat. Not having time to open it, Julia brought it with her and opened it on stage in front of the audience, giving us first look at the colourful jacket. I was almost bursting with excitement by this stage.

It sounds a bit hokey to describe Julia Donaldson as one of my heroes, but I have a special place in my heart for someone that's brought genuine joy into my children's bedtimes. I can't wait for her latest book to arrive which I'm sure will be as well-loved as all the others before it.

Unsellable

2010-08-02T20:00:00.002+01:00

It is now 13 weeks since my husband moved out. Unlucky for some. Well, mainly me. Although the children and I have our 'just three' routine down pat now (in fact they're asleep when I'm solo far earlier than they are when both parents are present) I am Tired with a capital T. In the early days the thought of our big move away from family and friends scared me. Now the thought that this semi-solo parenting set-up will go on forever scares me even more. I need an end point in sight, something to work towards.

Until this weekend I had thought the children felt the same. All this time with Mummy, especially a lovely big space in her bed just right for two small people, is well and good but could we please have our Daddy back now? The only thing standing in the way of our new home together is well, our current home, fast becoming an albatross around most of the family's necks. A number of viewings and couple of half-hearted offers haven't come to anything so last week we dropped the price to try and get more people through the door. It worked. Appointments made we scrubbed the kitchen and bathroom and hid most of our possessions in the understairs cupboard. We looked to the front door excitedly.

Who knew the children were so good at sabotage?

Five minutes before the viewers were due to arrive a suspicious smell began to emanate from the baby. No amount of part-bake baguettes toasting gently in the oven were going to drown this one out so my husband ran upstairs to change her.

Three and a half minutes before the viewers were due to arrive I heard screeches down the stairs. My husband's. Then a cry for help.

Two minutes before the viewers were due to arrive the baby and husband had somehow managed to spread poo all over themselves and our bed. Whilst trying to decide how to deal with this I glanced out of the window to see the viewers walking up the path.

As my husband answered the door I dunked the baby in the shower and used the book from my bedside table as a fan to try and get rid of the smell. Out of time to change the bedlinen I strategically placed C's pretty dress, poo side down, over the new stain and hoped it didn't look too out of place.

As the viewers came upstairs I wrapped a sweet-smelling gurgling baby in a fresh fluffy towel. They cooed, she giggled. Smiles all round. Then T walked in. 'Look Mummy I've brought C's dress!'

Shit, the ... ... shit! I screeched at T to 'go and put it back right now' in manner of demented fishwife then, in panic, barged past to check he'd managed to cover the stain without managing to get it all over his hands. The baby began the cry. The viewers shuffled their feet and looked worried.

Having been unfairly chastised, T adopted a wobbly bottom lip and insisted on being carried up to the third floor to accompany Daddy and viewers, and down again.

Rejecting the opportunity to have a look round by themselves (who would blame them, psychotic woman in a strange smelling fug upstairs and all) my husband stalled the couple in the living room to restate actually just how lovely the house is and how keen we are to move quickly. T took this opportunity to turn feral and start hurling the cushions from the sofa.

It's fair to say the couple couldn't get out of there fast enough. I was so depressed by the whole thing I couldn't even bear to listen at the open upstairs window to see what they were saying about us as they half-ran back to their car.

All that cleaning and tidying for no reward. Maybe the children are trying to tell us something. Maybe they don't want to move?

Observations

2010-08-01T19:56:00.003+01:00

We are driving down an unfamiliar highstreet. I have one eye on the Sat Nav and the other on the Volvo driver in front who is pointing out something to his front seat passenger and veering between the lanes.

T pipes up from the back. 'Mummy, look a card shop!'

Volvo driver suddenly speeds up as he notices the lights start to change and we get stuck on red. I look around, absentmindedly trying to spot Clinton's, wondering why my still two year old would be able to recognise it from a distance.

There's an M&S, a couple of estate agencies and a snooker hall. No cards in sight.

'Where's the card shop darling?'

There Mummy, the one with the horse on it, but you don't need to buy a card because you've got one already. In your purse.

He pointed to the bank.

There followed an interesting discussion about cash cards versus birthday cards. I am fairly relieved this came up before I found him feeding my Mastercard into the local postbox.

Sales

2010-07-29T20:50:00.003+01:00

Christmas last year was a rather surreal experience. I was floating in a fog somewhere between the fantastic hormonal high as a result of my hugely positive home-birth and eight weeks straight of serious sleep deprivation.

In the days leading up to C-Day I appliqued my daughter's name onto her Christmas stocking, just as I had done with my son's two years before. I finished just before we left to walk to the Christmas Eve family service, nothing like leaving it to the last minute.

On the day itself I cooked dinner for seven, two of whom are veggie and one of whom was experiencing his very first UK Christmas. Unlike the year in which I later found I was days pregnant with my first child, I managed not to grill the turkey and we all ate at a reasonable hour. In fact, without meaning to blow my own party trumpet too loudly, it was all pretty much a bloody great success. The turkey virgin even liked the sprouts.

On boxing day then, I languished in bed as my family rewarded my hard work with a long lie-in. Or not. This is where the fog comes in. Somewhere in my post-natal brain a little voice said 'why don't you get up and go to the Next sale'. Yes, leaving my husband and toddler asleep in the warmth I put my eight week old baby in the sling and half slid on icy roads to our nearest out of town retail estate at seven am.

When the fourteenth person tried to elbow the fat woman in the red out of the way, suitably chastised when they noticed I hadn't just had too much Christmas pud but actually had a baby strapped to my front, I realised the error of my ways. It was too late then though, I was already forty minutes into what would turn out to be a ninety minute queue for the checkouts. C was fast asleep of course and I was bonding with the woman behind me on potty training, Thomas the Tank Engine and the reputations of local schools.

Once home, the fog started to lift as I realised I'd squandered what had been a perfect opportunity to fill the bed with pate crumbs and start on my Christmas book list. I comforted myself with a big pile of bargains though, and carefully stashed them at the back of the wardrobe for autumn 2010 and my then almost-one-year-old daughter to wear.

This week as the rain continued unabated and the temperate dropped again I retrieved that bag and set about replacing the outgrown items in C's drawers. Or did I. Somewhere in the months between then and now C has grown. A lot. At nine months she's bigger than my son was at a year. Like her mother she's solid rather than tall and those clothes I bought? They're almost all too small. The ones that do fit wont last the autumn never mind the winter.

I have a crystal clear memory of standing in a crocodile of harrassed shoppers, holding up a dress against the sling on that Boxing Day morning. My fellow queuers laughed at the sight and the possibility of my teeny froggy-legged almost newborn ever being big enough to fit in it. Now it strains at the seams.

Time flies and babies grow but one thing never changes. I am still VERY good at shopping. The outgrown clothes are added to the eBay pile and my daughter and I hit the stores together once more.

Help!

2010-07-28T20:06:00.004+01:00

As I mentioned in my review of In the Night Garden Live, it's not always easy to find something that pre-schoolers and their parents can enjoy at the same time, and the car stereo is no exception. T had been listening quite happily to Radio 2 'because I'm two' but we've had to quietly discourage him. Not only because he developed a passion for Brotherhood of Man after hearing Ken Bruce's Eurovision preview programme but also because he's rising three and Radio 3 isn't really my thing. So back to CDs we go.

We're currently enjoying the Beatle's Red Album. The songs are short and catchy (apart from Norwegian Wood of course, I've never liked that one) which is perfect for the nursery run and as a treat when you get to the end there's the ever popular Yellow Submarine.

This morning, half way through the journey, T piped up from the back.

'Mummy what's this song?'
'You've Got to Hide Your Love Away'
'Why do they keep saying 'hey' Mummy?'
'It's to make sure you're listening darling, just before they get to the chorus'

He seemed placated by that.

'Mummy'
'Yes darling'
'I think this hey song sounds just like when that other lady sings the Gruffalo song!'

The rest of the journey was accompanied by the sound of John Lennon spinning in his grave.

Theatre v Kids

2010-07-27T20:30:00.008+01:00

Going to the theatre is one of my great passions. Yes the cinema is great, especially Toy Story 3 in 3D with a bucket of popcorn and vat of Sprite, but there's something extra special about getting a little bit dressed up, sitting in an uncomfortable seat and having real actors within spitting distance. Not that I've ever spat of course. I have seen some rubbish in my time, the very worst being some Kabuki at the Lowry which I'm going to be charitable about and presume I just didn't get, but even then I only sneaked out at the interval and went to the pub.

It's probably no surprise then that I want to introduce the children to theatre. I'm not talking about Les Mis for toddlers of course, there is now a whole industry offering plays and shows to little people including adaptations of favourite books and spin offs from TV programmes. But how good are they?

At the weekend we went to Liverpool to see 'In the Night Garden Live'. T was very taken with the 'igloo' inflatable theatre in Sefton Park. I was less taken by the ticket prices, £10 each (including the baby) and that was for a 5.30 pm 'cheap' show. We booked the seats four months ago and actually in the intervening time T has stopped watching ITNG. In fact we watch barely any children's TV at all, so I was a bit worried whether he'd like it. I needn't have been. In fact I needn't have complained about having to pay for 9m old C either as I think she enjoyed it even more.

The show was a mixture of 'life sized' characters and puppets, playing on the skewed scale featured in the TV programme. Makka Pakka for example was 'life-sized' (by which I mean he was obviously being played by a strapping bloke inside a hot suit) when on stage on his own and puppet sized when interacting with other characters. There was even a mini-puppet pushing an Og-Pog which 'walked' across the garden/stage in a sort of long shot.

All of the favourite bits from the TV show were in there, the Tittifers, complete with nodding beaks, appeared on the igloo's ceiling in an effect which made me feel a bit seasick, but all the children present seemed to like them.

The downsides then. The storyline was pretty weak. We saw the Pinky Ponk show (there is also a Ninky Nonk version, perhaps encouraging parents to take their little darlings twice) which basically involved Makka Pakka washing faces. I appreciate the audience was very young but the show was an hour long and even the half hour TV episodes are a bit more complicated than that. There were also some technical issues where images that should have been shown on the roof were missing or out of time with the soundtrack. At one point bubbles floated out over the audience from a machine at the back of the theatre. Well, I say the audience, they reached the back couple of rows in the centre and that's about it.

Like I said, the children (particularly C) were entranced by the whole thing, which was wonderful to watch, but I was left a little disappointed.

In the last couple of months we've also seen two other children's productions, Long Nose Puppet's adaptation of Polly Dunbar's fabulous book Penguin and Travelling Light/Sixth Sense's one man show of Bob, the Man on the Moon. At £3 each, they were both one third of the price we paid for ITNG Live. We have been listening to the Penguin soundtrack (written by Tom Gray of Gomez) ad nauseum in the car for weeks and have constant requests for the Bob book at bedtime. Interestingly, post Sunday's theatre trip though, T hasn't asked for, or mentioned, ITNG again.

Words

2010-07-26T19:54:00.002+01:00

It seems like only yesterday that I was blogging about my son learning to talk. Although I have almost burst with pride and relished all of the other milestones of course - first smile, first tooth, crawling and eventually walking - T's learning to speak has been perhaps the most satisfying part of parenthood so far. It pains me now that, with his increasingly sophisticated vocabulary, I can't actually remember what his first word was. I think, after Mama and Dada, it might have been 'baff' (bath). Today, drinking an Innocent smoothie carton as we walked to the park he asked me to 'hold it whilst we cross the road'. Whilst. Who taught him the correct use of that word? Yesterday, in a fit of lazy parenting, I distracted him from a tired-out tantrum in the shop at Tate Liverpool by buying him a 65p badge with a rainbow on it. 'Mummy, you have made me very happy with my badge. Thank you very much'. I scooped him into my arms, all flailing legs, and squeezed him hard. I wanted to cry. How did my little boy become so grown up?

It's with trepidation then that I admit that not only is T talking for Britain but C, yes baby C, wants in on the act too. Last week, at nine months, she said her first 'proper' word and now it seems there's no stopping her. So not only do we have 'nana' but also 'hiya' and not momma but 'da-dee'. I console myself with the fact that it's harder for babies to make the 'm' sound than the 'd' one, and the fact I heard her speak first.

My house is never quiet and tonight is no exception. C gurgles, babbles and laughs with delight. T shouts 'I am NOT a teething toy' as she chomps on a handful of his t-shirt and tries to persuade me to give him a pre-tea Jaffa Cake. The washing machine spins and a variety of annoying plastic toys plink and sing in the background where they have been switched on and discarded. I long for just a moment of peace and quiet, but secretly dream of the day when both my children can talk. I'm not wishing away the baby years of course, just standing by for the magic moment that I'm sure feels just as good second time around.

Manchester Blogmeet

2010-07-23T11:11:00.002+01:00

There are plenty of iconic Manchester landmarks, the sky scraping Beetham Tower, both of the city's football stadia, the fairy lit anemone domes of the shopping mecca that is the Trafford Centre.

There are also landmarks of a Manchester childhood of course, the llamas at the farm at Heaton Park, the excitement at sitting in the swivelly bit in the middle of a Metrolink tram and, my personal favourite, Stan the Tyrannosaurus Rex, the pride of the Manchester Museum.

T is a longtime fan of the giant dino skeleton but C has yet to be introduced to the big man, so when we were invited to a Manchester blogger's coffee morning at Manchester Museum last week of course we had to go.

The event was great fun. It was lovely to meet fellow North West bloggers including Amy who'd brought the gorgeous little F along with her, Sandy and her boys Presley and Cash and Claire whose little H was very taken with my C. In fact the feeling was mutual. What is is about children who are much more keen on other people's siblings than their own?

The whole thing was organised by Warburtons to mark the launch of their fab new range of snacks. I've posted about my own quest to lose weight, but as a long-time grazer it's really hard to go cold turkey and ditch the crisps. Warbie's new ChippidyDooDas might be the perfect solution, they're wholegrain pieces of pitta which are baked rather than fried, giving them 60% less fat than crisps. Result! And who can fail to fall for a snack which such a fab name? I (cough) might have eaten (cough) one or two bags full. The salt and vinegar were my absolute favourite and the bags had just the right amount of tart flavour to make them very, very moreish.

After covering the floor of Cafe Couture with snack crumbs Daisie and I took the children for a quick whizz round the museum highlights. Our two pre-school boys were of course very taken with Stan's spiky little toothies and scary little nails (as an aside, if you have a small person who loves dinos this is a fantastic story) whilst the tired smaller ones had a sling around. C didn't look particularly impressed by Stan although of course she has years of school trip visits ahead to hone her love for him.

Warbies gave us bloggers a lovely goodie bag to take home, including of course some more of the snacks. My husband, who's a chilli afficionado declared the Sweet Chilli Snackadoodles to be really good, which for someone not obviously drawn to low calories treats (only 84 in the whole bag!) is high praise indeed.

Rhyme

2010-07-14T20:47:00.004+01:00

Orchard Toys are the kings of the pre-school game and puzzle market. This isn't a sponsored post, they haven't asked me to write this, I really do love them this (holds arms apart) much.

Their board games are simple enough to keep my nearly-three year old's attention until the end, no mean feat when Daddy always seems to win. So great is his love for one of them that he even has a special 'Dotty Dinosaurs' cushion which he sits on to play. My son this is, not my husband.

Their jigsaws have big sturdy pieces and bright pictures with lots to talk about. Our favourites include the Big Bus and Alphabet Floor Puzzle. As an added bonus they're tough enough that they don't instantly disintegrate the moment the baby swoops and sucks on a discarded corner.

Today, with T under the weather again, we cracked open a new puzzle, the Find the Rhyme floor jigsaw. The 'ants in pants' hooked him in, he loved the 'star in a jar' and was reaching boiling over in excitement point by the time we reached 'train in the rain'. Then we stopped.

What are those men Mummy?
Well they're in a field, and one of them has got a fork, what do you think they are?
Men!
Well yes they are men, but they have a special job, they look after animals and grow things.
Farmers!
Yes darling, well done.
Where's the rhyme Mummy?
You find the rhyme, look at the farmers, what are they wearing?
Clothes.
What sort of clothes?
Stripes!
That doesn't rhyme does it ... look, what are they wearing, they look like they've just got out of bed.
Jim-jammies! Mummy I found it, I found the rhyme. Farmers in Jim-jammies!

I didn't have the heart to correct him.

A Weighty Problem

2010-07-13T15:21:00.004+01:00

I am fat.

There, I have typed it, there's no getting away from it now. In the last few years my weight and my clothes size have crept up, and up, and up. I look at myself in photographs and don't recognise the woman I've become. Now don't get me wrong, I've never been sylphlike, I have a bust, and a bum and a waist, all of which I quite like actually. But I also have a double chin, and muffin top and back fat and various other far less attractive characteristics, and they're sitting like a layer on top of the real me, blurring the edges and slowing me down.

I have lots of excuses for being fat, none of which are very good:

I say: I have sole care of two small children and can't go to the gym or go swimming once they're in bed. I don't say: I have a Wii fit though, and a step machine, and I'm not exactly knocking the door down of the local baths when my husband's home at the weekend.

I say: I am breastfeeding, which burns 500 calories a day, so pass the cake. I don't say: My child is now on solids and feeding much less than she used to, plus that tub of ice-cream probably contains 2000 calories. I am heavier now than I was during most of my pregnancy.

I say: I have Polycystic Ovary Syndrome which makes it difficult to lose weight I don't say: I spend too much time sitting on the sofa under the laptop.

Ten weeks ago I got on the Wii Fit and had a bit of a shock. I inputted my height. Five feet six and a half inches. That half makes all the difference you know. I stood still, feet hip width apart, as the computer took measure of me. It calculated and spat out a result. Obese. My BMI had hit 30. The little computer icon I'd chosen for myself widened perceptibly on the screen. There's something a bit sad about selecting an alter ego much slimmer than your real self. I marched with the band, 'cycled' and hula hooped on the special board, wondering how I'd let myself get to this stage.

Nine weeks ago, when my husband moved out, I decided to do something about it. Not having anyone to slob on the sofa with in the evening is a great incentive to get the stepper out, and however much I want a tub of ice-cream at eight o'clock there's no-one to leave the children with to go and buy one. So I don't. To save time, and money, I'm now eating my evening meal with them at 5 o'clock preventing the late-night carb loading I was previously so guilty of.

Today I stood on the scales. I have lost 13 pounds!

I am still fat of course.

So today I celebrate having reduced my BMI by two points, taking me into the Overweight category, but give myself a push to keep going.

I would like to lose another ten pounds by the time I go back to work, that's one and a little bit a week. Then I'll set my next goal. Doable, right?

If I write it here, put those numbers I'm ashamed of down on paper (well, screen) there's no getting away from it.

Was: 13st 9lb

Now: 12st 10lb

Next: 12st 0lb

So who's with me?!

Telling Tales

2010-07-12T19:17:00.002+01:00

Sitting at the tea table post-nursery, T swings his legs with gusto and gives us a running commentary on his day.

'Sam Smith* did a poo in his pants ... that's silly Mummy, poo poo goes in the toilet'

'Mmmm darling?'

'And Sally Sausage snatched my pink scissors and the ladies made her sit out'

'Mmmm?' I'm not really listening. 'Do you ever have to sit out darling?'

Ignoring the question he ploughs on regardless.

'And Tommy Jones bit Billy Stone on the leg ... that's naughty Mummy, we don't bite people'.

I love the selective pre-school memory. It's not so long ago that T was the one in the early stages of toilet training, and he's bitten me in frustration on more than one occasion. I steel myself and launch into a gentle reminder that although I love to hear about his friends, it's not nice to tell tales.

T takes it remarkably well, and nods along. The conversation turns to more important matters, like the bugs he found during a digging session in the nursery vegetable patch. I start to tune out again after the fourth rendition of 'There's a Worm at the Bottom of the Garden'.

As I retrieve the baby's corn on the cob from underneath the table T starts again.

'Mummy, he's delicious'

'Who darling?'

'Billy Stone, he's deeeelicious'

'What darling?'

'That's why Tommy Jones bit him. Because he tastes so nice. This nectarine tastes nice so I'm going to bite it too. We can bite nectarines. We don't bite Billy'.

I'm not sure that little chat did quite do the trick after all actually.

*Names changed to protect the (possibly) guilty

Pissy Parking

2010-07-07T17:22:00.004+01:00

We live in a Lancashire mill town built on a hill. Nothing here is straight, as my husband found to his chagrin when he hung the curtain rail in our dining room. He'd studiously measured it from the top of the front window. Its slope irritates me every day.

Our local Tesco Metro is no exception. The parking spaces are small and, due to the shape of the site, at various strange angles which make getting small children in or out of the car very difficult. There are two Parent and Child spaces.

I pulled up in the rain this afternoon in search of bread and milk, both kids in the back. T has spent a couple of days in hospital with an infection and croup and is going a bit stir crazy. He's taken to shouting 'trump' at the top of his voice (thank you ever so much Tyler in bed six) and running in circles. I decided to use shopping as a distraction and assembled the children side by side in the trolley.

As I was selecting the right one (two straps in full working order, not smelling of wee, no miscellaneous papers in the bottom) a red BMW pulled up next to me in the other P&C space. A lone woman got out. I've had a pretty shitty week.

'Excuse me, do you know that's a Parent and Child space?'

'Sorry?' said the woman, and she started backing away. OK, I admit I had post baby-swimming hair and a toddler with sausage-face but I'm pretty sure I'm not the type of person people cross the street to try and avoid.

Louder now. 'That space there, it's for parents and children'

The woman stopped. 'Oh' she said, 'I have a child ... in the store'. She pointed.

Mortified, I apologised. I wittered about how difficult it was to get two children from car to trolley safely, how the bigger spaces really help and, when I looked up, this time she had disappeared.

I walked around Tesco. It's not a big store. As we chose just the right amount of broccoli (enough to be cooked and thrown on the floor but not too much that it goes off in the fridge) she browsed the greetings cards. No child. As we argued over who was going to hold the bread she picked up milk. No child. As we went in search of Mini Milk ice-lollies she was having a conversation and blocking the aisle. Still no child.

We paid for our shopping, on parallel tills, at around the same time and as I walked back to the car I saw her pause in the shop doorway. Getting two children unstrapped and into the car when one insists actually he'd quite like to drive takes rather a long time. Both restrained, I returned my trolley. The woman was still standing in the doorway. She looked at me and quickly looked away.

I got in the car and reversed from the space. Glancing up, red BMW woman was still watching me. In fact, she was peeking her head around the supermarket door. I negotiated a taxi and followed the one way system around. Stuck behind another vehicle I looked back. In spy mode, the woman stuck her head out, checked the coast was clear and darted (looking behind her all the time) back to her car (still no child of course) and closed the door. I imagined her safely inside, slightly out of breath, relieved she'd got away with it.

Yes love. You parked in a space designed for people who need it. Then you lied about it. Then you hid until I'd gone so you weren't found out. This from a grown woman.

Pathetic. Utterly pathetic.

Although I do admit to having a bit of a laugh at your expense.

The Gallery: Motherhood

2010-06-16T19:58:00.006+01:00

The theme for The Gallery over at Sticky Fingers this week is Motherhood. Do you know, I have been a mother for 1000 days. Yes, exactly 1000! My son was born in September 2007 at 3.30 am on an unseasonably warm day. His first photos are blurry, taken by a brand new grandmother with shaking hands in a semi-dark hospital room. The woman on those pictures, a mother for mere moments, doesn't look like me. The images don't capture the monumental life change that's just occured. Ten minutes ago I was one person, now we are two, tied together forever.

Since that moment I have taken thousands of pictures in an attempt to record my children's childhood, something that's racing by faster than I could possibly imagine. There are photos of laughing babies, crying babies, a wobbling toddler and a petulant pre-schooler. There are photos of first teeth, first holidays, first meals and first birthdays. There are pictures that show the change in me too, motherhood has left me considerably larger, with lines where once was smooth skin and with eye bags, but I hold my children and smile for the flash.

How can I choose just one photo to sum up 1000 days?

So I have cheated, and instead of a photograph this week I enter an aural picture of my children. Tonight, at dinnertime, I plugged a microphone into the laptop and let it record. Then I snipped a random part of the sound wave and changed the colours.

The clip might be C banging her cup on the highchair and laughing with glee
It might be T telling me he doesn't like 'omglet' without having taken a bite
It might be me retrieving dropped fruit from the floor for the 300th time
It might be 'I'm a Little Teapot' sung with a mouthful of beans
It might be reassuring shouts from the kitchen that I will be back very soon as the little one cries

It might be all of that, at once, at high volume, in stereo, again and again and again.

Life with my children is brighter and louder than I ever thought possible. And that, to me, is Motherhood.

Legs

2010-06-11T07:52:00.005+01:00

Dear son,

These are your legs. They are Boy Legs, bruised and a little bit dirty no matter how long your bath. They run everywhere, except when they're jumping. You like doing 'moon jumps' like Bob. They pedal your trike and chase the Gruffalo down his big hole.

They are growing, slowly. You are nearly three and your 12-18m trousers are just half an inch too short. When you are thirteen you will wish your father and I were taller, but I know you will be a funny boy which girls like too. For now we are spending the summer in shorts.

At the table, your legs swing and kick, especially when you are making up stories. Yesterday they kicked me. I sent them, and you, to bed for that. You can kick a football without falling over, stand in first position and 'make a window', although you refuse to say plie. You can climb to the top of the big slide without my help.

You have ticklish toes and can put on your own shoes, though not always on the right foot. I grew those legs, although they have lost their rolls of baby chub which your sister is still modelling. You ask for 'magic cream' for the bruises that have appeared as if from nowhere. It is nothing but moisturiser but it makes you happy.

These are the legs that are taking you to pre-school and beyond. I shout 'don't run!' and mean it in more ways than one.

Love you,

Mum x

Do you like ...

2010-06-09T20:00:00.002+01:00

We are playing the 'do you like' game. It involves T asking me endlessly whether I approve of everything from pink to elephants via toilets and aeroplanes. I like this game, a lot, mainly because I can play whilst doing something, anything, else and it only requires a modicum of my attention. In fact he doesn't like it when I say too much. He's in charge. So far we have ascertained whether I like tomato ketchup (no), flags (yes) and beasties (yes).

Mummy, do you like red grapes?

No darling, I like green grapes

Mummy, do you like red grapes when they're cut up?

No I don't darling

Mummy, do you like red grapes when they're stuck together?

You mean whole darling?

No Mummy, grapes don't have holes!

Together

2010-06-06T19:50:00.002+01:00

As a teenager I hated nothing more than sharing a bedroom with my sister. I had a black and white magazine centrefold of River Phoenix and the lyrics to 'Everybody Hurts' on my wall. I marked the date of my period on my Oasis 1994 wall calendar. She had pictures of ponies and a toy duck, called Peep Peep. I used to stand on it when she was pissing me off, and she used to cry.

I always wanted my children to have their own bedroom. Perhaps my younger sibling and I would get on much better now had we not had to endure, amongst other room-sharing joy, endless fights over the cassette soundtrack to our simultaneous GCSE and A-level revision. Two desks only 3 or 4 yards and a few thousand miles apart.

Plans change though and despite having put our house on the market when C was a mere lump under my jumper, we're still no closer to moving. She'd been sharing with us, latterly in a crib at the bottom of my bed. Her new crawling skills have put paid to that though as she can now pull herself up on its slatted sides and, even with the gliding function locked, is inches away from making a bid for freedom over the side.

So we did some major furniture rearranging. T has the single bed which was previously in our attic conversion (space saver stairs mean it's not a suitable child's bedroom) and, with the bars replaced, C has moved into his cot bed. And they are rooming in together.

The transition has been relatively smooth. There is space at the end of T's bed for me to sit cross-legged and feed his sister when she wakes in the night. I have trained myself to respond instantly to the baby monitor and Mummy-dummy her before she can wake her brother. He hasn't complained at all about sharing his room.

Just before creeping into bed at night I sneak in to check they are breathing. I listen for the tell-tale wet semi-snores but can hear only one set of in and outs. I panic and switch on the bedroom light. I place a hand on both babies, the room is so small that were it not for the high cot sides I could do this simultaneously. They are both well of course, but breathing in absolute perfect sync. Both tummy sleepers, their backs rise and fall with each other. I allow myself to breathe again, and creep out without waking either.

The breath thing is only one aspect of siblings who adore each other. C has nothing but smiles for big brother who will fetch her toys, pick up food she has flung on the floor and splash in the bath to make her giggle. I am increasingly content with the fact that I can't give them their own rooms because I have given them something much, much better. Each other.

Grey

2010-06-03T21:01:00.002+01:00

Last week I found my first grey hair. I was looking in the bathroom mirror, stuck between wondering how a splatter of toothpaste had got all the way up there and thinking I needed to tweeze my eyebrows when it caught my eye ... ... ... what is THAT?

I pulled it out and laid it on the bathroom shelf. I know that sounds a bit slummy Mummy but I had ideas of going back later and taking a photo for posterity, black humour sort of thing. We have a little silver 'first curl' pot that someone bought as a gift when we had T, perhaps they also do adult versions, inscribed with 'first granny hair'. I could curl the silvery thread up inside and in future years find it in a drawer somewhere and remember fondly a time I used to be dark.

Once the kids were in bed I went to retrieve the hair, camera in hand, but it had disappeared! I looked behind the Calpol, under the antibac hand wash and even inside the tooth mug but there was no sign. I started to think that maybe I'd dreamed the whole thing. I was 30 less than three months ago, I surely, absolutely, definitely cannot be going grey. Oh how we laughed.

I looked in the mirror again today. This time I was baring my teeth and wondering about flossing. Do you? Should I? Doesn't it hurt? Hang on ... ... what's THAT? AND THAT? AND THAT!

Now I know where my grey hair had gone. He'd gone to fetch his mates. First one, then three. Will tomorrow bring five? Or six? How long before they're all grey? To dye or no to dye? My eyebrows are still dark, am I going to end up a female Alistair Darling?

In an attempt to prevent having to think about it too much I smeared some more Colgate on the mirror. Distraction rules.

Connections

2010-06-02T21:05:00.004+01:00

We are playing Connect 4 in the pub. Well I say the pub, it's more 'pub lite', a facsimile of the real thing with carefully placed beams and extortionately priced drinks*. It's pleasant enough, child friendly without being plastic, but not particularly authentic. You get in via a carpeted office style corridor, and there's a shiny lift to the posh restaurant upstairs.

Having said that, it's so long since I've been in any sort of pub, authentic or not, that I'm not one to quibble. It's 6 pm and after a late nap we're killing an hour post-swim and pre-tea. The baby is playing with a toy in her buggy and intermittently watching the lights on the fruit machine. The toddler is colouring in, the picture and coffee-cup full of crayons provided by the establishment. He pouts in concentration, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his lips, and scribbles red lines on Tinkerbell's face.

Board games are also provided. My spoilsport husband refuses to bring Mousetrap from the pile beside the bar so Connect 4 will have to do. We rack it up and begin. I'm the red tokens, he the yellow. Drop, pause, drop, pause, drop, long pause as we approach stalemate. The satisfying clunks have roused T from his crayoning. 'I want to play!' His father distracts him momentarily. With a few more moments thinking time he has this game in the bag. T fiddles with the catch at the bottom of the frame, threatening to send our carefully arranged counters into a pile. 'I want to plaaaaaaaay'. The whining is a bad sign. My husband taps his next token on the table, irritated, but T is one step ahead. He picks up a red disc and pops it into the nearest column before clapping himself enthusiastically.

My husband sits back and sighs. Then, moving forward, he looks at the game again. 'He's won it!' I don't understand 'He's bloody won it, look where he's put that piece!'. I follow the top red counter down ... one, two, three, four in a diagonal row! My two year old, without a thought, broke our grown-up impasse and won the game. And, as luck would have it, he picked up one of my pieces to do it.

Accidental victory is victory all the same and I claim the win. I love my boy!

*£9 for a pint, a G&T and a small orange squash. I don't drink much any more but that's dear, right?

Yoghurt-onomics

2010-06-01T20:45:00.002+01:00

Think Frock it's Friday

2010-05-28T10:00:00.004+01:00

I have been following the fantastic Think Frock it's Friday campaign on Lottie Loves for the past few weeks and been desperate to join in. I love the idea of wearing a dress because ... well, just for the hell of it. Who needs a because? Sometimes it's just nice to put the jeans to one side and wear something with a spinny skirt, just to lift your spirits.

I would have joined in earlier but for one problem. Despite me having a wardrobe full of dresses, there are very few I can wear at the moment. Some of them are too small (eBay here we come) and some of them just aren't suitable. I am breastfeeding C who, although now on solid food, still needs milk feeds throughout the day. My preferred method of discrete feeding is a stretchy vest under a normal top. The vest gets pulled down under my bra, the top gets pulled up and voila, we can feed away without flashing anyone who happens to be in the vicinity a glimpse of my Mum Tum or anything further North! Obviously you can't pull up a dress though!

There are dresses specifically designed for breastfeeding, with a dual layer top section, but they almost universally seem to be dull in both colour and design, hideously expensive or made from very non-summery sweaty polyester material.

And so began my hunt for the perfect non-breastfeeding dress which I could breastfeed in!

I did a lot of online research, looking for something with a stretchy front section which could be pulled to one side, paired with a long cardy or light shawl to cover up the top of my boob. In the 'proper summer dress' category (cotton and bright) with straps wide enough to hide a bra there was remarkably little.

In the end I had a chance high street encounter with this lovely thing from good old M&S

It is just what I wanted! The front section has plenty of give thanks to the lovely smocking at the back and it's a perfect just below knee length. I've lost just over half a stone in the last few weeks and, standing in the changing rooms, the shop assistant had to fetch me a smaller size. Result! It was also bargainous, coming in at less than £20.

Now you will see that, contrary to the 'rules' of TFIF that's not me in the picture there! Given I'm currently alone in the house with a baby and a toddler, neither of whom can use the camera or resist trying to knock over the tripod whilst I make an attempt at self-timing, you'll have to imagine what it looks like on me. I'll try and rope my husband into taking a picture this weekend and post it next week.

In the meantime, I'm off to swirl my skirts, kick up my sandals and revel in the fact that it actually just might really now be summer!

(This is a scheduled post. I'm actually off on my holidays now and will be back after the Bank Holiday weekend. If you know where I live, please don't break into my house. Lets cross our fingers for frock weather!)

Two-nager

2010-05-27T07:53:00.002+01:00

T has a maddening capacity to eat very, very, v e r r r r r y, slowly. Of course he can eat quickly if he wants to, inhaling ice-cream comes to mind, but should we be talking peas (one at a time) or breakfast cereal (tiny amounts on the tip of the spoon as he natters on, and on, and on) we're on to a loser.

Yesterday I was the loser. Faced with a bowl of Weetabix rapidly starting to resemble concrete I lost my temper and shouted.

'Will you just eat a bit more quickly. Have a big spoonful. Now!'

Brown eyes wide he looked up, duly loaded his spoon and forced a mountain into his mouth.

He chewed carefully, squishing the mush from one side to the other. Then he looked at me.

'There Mummy, are you happy now?'

Two going on thirteen.

I am a lucky blogger

2010-05-26T19:47:00.003+01:00

This has been a busy week. No sooner were we home from Leicester on Monday afternoon than I needed to start packing for our upcoming Bank Holiday weekend away in Wales. This basically involved tipping everything from a bag, into the washer, pegging it out and putting it back into a different bag. Well, until the sun went in. The forecast for Narberth this weekend is now looking suspiciously wet, as befits a British public holiday of course. I haven't unpacked the summer stuff, just in case, but have also added warmer clothes, raincoats and board games. Hmph.

Anyway, in my whirwind state of writing lists and creating piles this week I have been lucky enough to receive not one, not two but THREE fabulous parcels through my door which have all made me stop and smile and cheered me up for different reasons.

The first was my Secret Post Club parcel for May, sent by the fabulous Wendy at No More Excuses. I ripped open the envelope to find a book I've been meaning to read for ages but never quite got around to buying. Wendy had wrapped it beautifully and included a lovely note saying how much she'd enjoyed it. It's What Mother's Do and I can't wait to get started. As an aside how fab do Wendy's classes look? As the not so proud owner of a Mummy Tum I'd love to learn how best to get rid and definitely wish she was nearer!

The second parcel was a brilliant surprise from a lovely friend. Who knew you could buy cake, by the slice, online and have it delivered next day? Well now I do of course, and what AMAZING cake it was. I had the chocolate and raspberry which was dense and sticky, kind of like a brownie with chocolate cream in the middle and frosting. I absolutely loved it and will definitely be using The Cake Nest to order treats next time I'm looking for something to send. Go there and treat yourself, or even better a friend. I would have added a photo to the post at this point but I accidentally fell on the cake with my mouth open and inhaled it in one fell swoop.

The third parcel was a present to myself. We'll be doing a lot of swimming this weekend (indoors in a well heated pool rather than in the sea thank goodness!) and I have been desperate for a new cossie for as long as I can remember. I bought my current one when I was a student which was (cough) ten years ago now and it's not only too small but also bobbly around the bum and almost transparent in places where the chlorine has eaten the fabric away. Not a good look. I found a fabulous swimming costume on the Next website (my bikini days are long gone!) only for it to be out of stock for a fortnight, so I turned to the man who sends me more post than even my bank, the lovely Johnnie Boden. I had some account credit for prostituting my friends, sorry, suggesting they might like catalogues, and used a discount code and it ended up being the same price as the Next one. It arrived this morning and it is truly the cossie of my dreams. Nowhere near as garish as it looks in the pics, lovely fabric, fab fit and definitely what you need to cheer up a wet Welsh weekend.

I hope your postie has brought you some treats this week too.

Other people's houses

2010-05-25T13:10:00.002+01:00

Imagine if you can the most child unfriendly house in the world. Then add ornaments, and more ornaments, and some pot pourri.

We spent the weekend in my husband's 'Daddy flat', his temporary home away from home until we sell our house and buy a family one in our new area. It is almost perfect. A Granny annexe to a large house with oft-absent residents it has a fabulously large garden with swing seat, dark places to explore and plenty of grass to roll and play on. There's a park at the end of the road with a cricket pitch (toddlers like cricket, who knew?) and great play area. There's even a local duckpond. Then you go inside. I'm using artistic licence here, it's not that bad, but this Granny flat was until recently lived in by a real life Granny and she liked things pink, frilly and most probably found in the magazine that comes with the Sunday People.

Decor issues aside we had a lovely sunny weekend. I even got a lie in. On Monday I snuggled into the duvet as my husband came to tell me it was time to get up as he needed to leave for work. I ignored him. He started to pull back the covers so I resorted to desperate measures. 'Can I have a love?' He's such a sucker. He pulled me close and I fell back into almost-sleep, still relaxed enough to not care about my morning breath, but awake enough to clutch him closer when he tried to leave. Anything to avoid having to properly wake and Deal With The Children.

He soon sussed me of course and insisted he really HAD to go unless, you know, I fancied, well, you know ... quickly? I couldn't quite manage opening my eyes so I made a mental assesment using my ears. I could hear the strains of CBeebies from the living room. The baby was giggling. In hindsight she was also giggling when I found the toddler pressing a pillow on her face, so this probably wasn't a safe indication we were free to go ahead, but no-one was crying and he did say quickly.

'Have you got any ...?'

My husband jumped across the bed and rifled in the dressing table drawer for a condom. I waited. He rooted and cursed. I waited. He chucked a couple of t-shirts on the floor. I waited. He banged about a bit. Still waiting.

'Where did I put the damn ...'

The moment had gone of course. One of the children started crying. It's a good job the flat's shower also has a habit of going cold every couple of minutes.

Packing to go home in a moment of wifely generosity I grabbed the bag containing two weeks worth of his dirty washing, reasoning I'd probably be doing it if he still lived with us. We're going on holiday on Thursday and I do like him to look vaguely presentable when I take him out in public. Once back, as I dragged t-shirts, pants and trousers out of the machine something glinted and caught my eye. I pulled and four Durex appeared, safely hidden, as he'd thought, under a pile of clothes. They'd managed to survive a 40 degree stain removal cycle with added Vanish spray.

Still, maybe I should be thankful. All of those pink frills in the bedroom would probably have put me off my stride anyway.

Oh Seven Oh Oh

2010-05-24T21:55:00.003+01:00

A little hand tugs at my arm.

'Mummy, it's oh seven oh oh'.

I reach for my phone on the bedside table and groan aloud. It is, in fact, 5.37 am.

'I just get in with you Mummy'.

I bury my head in the pillow as he takes over my husband's side of the bed. Stage whispering, to avoid waking his sister, T tells me variously that he is hungry, needs a wee, wants to wear his yellow t-shirt today and that the sky he can glimpse through the crack in the curtains is blue.

My, also hushed, admonishment that it's actually too bloody early to open my eyes never mind hold a conversation is ignored. Reaching for my phone he tells me he can see a seven on its digital clock so it MUST be time to get up. It's now 5.47 am. I admit defeat and crawl out of bed.

***

I love my blog stats. It's fascinating to see how people find this blog and how and what they read when they get here. One of the most interesting things is the Google searches that direct readers to these pages. I'm pretty sure that the individual searching for 'toddler locked in the house all day' will have been disappointed I don't have any advice for them, but of course a lot of people looking for advice on 'toddler sleep' (and variations on that theme!) click here and actually, in the last few months I haven't had much to say on the subject! Well, from the toddler side anyway. The baby's another matter, but who wants to read 'adventures of a sleepless baby'? It's not exactly headline news is it.

Anyway, luckily for all of the Google searchers out there, T has decided that sleep is for, well, babies. Unluckily for me he's timed his new super early wake-ups perfectly, meaning he's bouncing around about 15 minutes after I've gone back to sleep after C's last feed. Knackered does not cover it!

Sadly I think, as with most things child related, time might be the healer we're desperately looking for. We have had wakeful periods before, often coinciding with leaps in his development or times of change like the one we're going through now, and come out the other side, slightly darker of under eye. But time doesn't make an interesting blog post does it? So we're trying something new. We've purchased a Gro clock, a sleep training device with a simple star and moon on the face which aims to encourage toddlers to stay in bed until it's 'officially' morning. As an added bonus, it also features a digital clock, so T can double check it's 'oh seven oh oh' before getting up for the day.

Online reviews are generally positive so I have high hopes. I'll report back in the next few days and let you know how we get on. The sleepless toddler is back!

Bath poo

2010-05-19T21:41:00.004+01:00

I feel I am relatively lucky on the poo front. With a toilet trained toddler and a baby on solids we now have very few poonami anecdotes to tell, until tonight that is. I listened gleefully at tea-time whilst T told me about one of his nursery peers who'd done a giant poo in the playground this afternoon and the ladies' attempts to stop the others standing in it whilst cleaning it up. I should have taken it as a sign.

All three of us were in the bath. 'I need a wee wee' whined T. I toyed with telling him to do it in the water but thought he'd probably grass me up to Daddy, so securing the baby under one arm I heaved him over the side and onto the bathmat. He did a great impression of a scrawny drowned rat. I fed him instructions ... stand on that little ledge, now onto your step with your knees, now turn around, bottom down, look you got on all by yourself! He's a titch - two and a half and still in 12 month trousers - being lifted on and off each time he needs to go so this was a major achievement, plus I didn't have to get my wobbly bits cold. Result. He sat and made a familiar grunting sound. Sigh. I fed him instructions again ... OK, now down you come, turn around, pass me that packet of wipes there. I did the necessary one handed, still in the bath, and chucked the dirty one into the loo, hole in one! Thank heavens for small bathrooms. T passed the antibac soap from the sink ledge and, once heaved back into the water, we both washed our hands thoroughly.

I was feeling quite smug. There we were, all pink and cosy and warm in the water. Only snug stories, milk and sleeps to come. Then a noise. The water's gone a strange yellowy colour. Ah, that'll be the baby then. Evacuate! Evacuate!

I drained the water and showered the children. Once they were asleep I bleached and scrubbed the bath, and the bath toys. I cursed my earlier laziness. If I'd have speeded up that toddler wee, that baby poo would have landed in a nappy rather than just above my left knee. On the phone my husband reminds me that last time he was on the receiving end of this treat, but it was a toddler poo which needed to be caught rather than washed away. I put away the Flash and think it could have been worse.

A Little Less Conversation

2010-05-18T20:08:00.003+01:00

I am fascinated by the idea of comfortable silence, the notion that if you're truly happy with someone, if you know them inside out, you don't need to talk. Well obviously you need to talk - pass the ketchup, that sort of thing - but not all the time, and certainly not the sort of nervous garbling I tend to revert to when faced with a roomful of people I've not met before.

One of the things I've missed most about my husband being away is actual adult conversation. This morning I'm ashamed to admit in tiredness I cried down the phone to him as I described the awful night we'd had (there's a post on sleep coming soon!) and, with toddler T at nursery, he suggested baby C and I had a lazy day today so I could rest. I cried harder, 'But I don't want to stay in the house all day, I want to talk to someone'. Yesterday I said only a handful of words to other adults, a quick transaction in the Co-op and more than half of the other ones with my mouth wide open to the dentist, 'ahhh ah ah ahhh, ahh ahh ahh ahh ahh', well he appeared to know what I was talking about. I wasn't schtum for the rest of the day of course, but there are only so many conversations you can have about 'cloud monsters' before you start to go a little crazy.

This afternoon I met a fabulous friend for a catch up chat. It felt very, very good to talk. But as we put the world to rights over hot chocolate and smoothies (yes I know real grown-ups drink tea and coffee, but not us two!) I wondered whether this week in a fit of melancholic pique I am actually mourning something I never really had.

Were my husband here right now, what would we be doing. Well I'd probably be doing this, typing on the laptop, rubbish telly in the background, and he'd probably be doing what I assume he's doing right now in his new flat, playing on his phone, rubbish telly in the background. Even in the same room, sharing the same sofa, chances are we absolutely, definitely would not be talking to each other.

So instead of complaining about the lack of conversation, maybe I should be celebrating the fact that the comfortable silence remains. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Week Two, here we go!

2010-05-17T19:45:00.002+01:00

Look here I am! This is me, typing these letters right now, so I must have managed what I was so worried about and survived my first week solo with the children.

I must say at this point that I know I am actually very, very lucky. I'm not a single parent, I do have support at weekends, and I'm not trying to compare my experience to those who do a wonderful job on their own all day every single day without any help whatsoever.

God it's bloody hard though. Well, maybe hard's the wrong word, relentless would probably be a bit more apt. We all made it to Friday evening without too many tears but the days did sort of blur together in an endless cycle of preparing meals, watching the children eat/throw them on the floor, cleaning up the mess and washing up. I love my children, adore them even, but aghhh if I'd had to retrieve one more Tommee Tippee spoon from where it had been flung on the floor (small) or applauded one more mouthful of peas (big) I might have exploded in a giant ball of pent up frustration. Luckily Daddy took over and did meal supervision on Saturday and Sunday.

I know this is just teething trouble. We're in the early days of weaning C, the frustrating period where she'll happily play with her food for hours whilst eating very little, meaning I need to squeeze meal times around just as many breastfeeds as ever, and I'm still finding my flying solo feet, learning the little tricks that help speed up the whole process.

One thing I didn't manage particularly well last week was feeding myself. Don't get me wrong, I'm certainly not going to waste away, I might even have sneaked a midweek McDonalds, but could that dry skin at the side of my mouth be the start of scurvy?! Once I'd finally settled both children it was a mammoth effort to get of the sofa and make something for myself that wasn't cheese toast. So, sitting here with another five days stretching ahead of me, my task for this week is not just to survive, but to survive in style, maybe even with some added vegetables.

Small steps. In a fortnight I might even be enjoying it!

What a difference a year makes

2010-05-16T15:44:00.002+01:00

Spring 2009, making an awful mess

Spring 2010, a clean t-shirt and not a drop wasted (he licked his lips afterwards)

We love ice-cream

Naked

2010-05-15T09:09:00.002+01:00

My husband walked into the room, naked. It's a good job this blog is anonymous because if you knew him you'd have to stop reading now for a drink of water, or at least a few deep breaths.

Having woken too early, the other three of us are lounging on the bed. Well, I'm lounging. The small one is chewing the bedding, the large one is trampolining.

'I'll just go for my shower now'

'You can't go yet' says my husband 'I'm not dressed'

'And?'

'Well I can't keep an eye on both of them and get dressed at the same time'

Yes dear. That's why, for the last week you've been away I've done the nursery run, shopping, visiting friends, music and ballet classes all entirely stark bollock naked.

In his defence he did concede I might have a point.

Handmade

2010-05-13T20:59:00.003+01:00

It's charity week at T's nursery. Each year they pick a theme and ask you to sponsor your child to wear items that fit that theme. Last year it was spots and stripes, this year the theme was pirates.

So that's T, ready for nursery this morning: denim cutoffs, striped tee, kitchen roll 'telescope' and a pirate hat made from an old pizza box, some tinfoil and the last of the ribbon I used to make one of my best friend's wedding invitations. I also painted on an eye patch using toddler friendly face paint, knowing he wouldn't keep any other type on. He was overjoyed with his reflection in the mirror. What's not to love about an outfit that gives a toddler boy the excuse to shout 'arghhhhhhh!' at the top of his lungs.

Walking into Toddlers this morning though I was gutted. T was the only child with a home-made costume! There were children with plastic cutlasses, felt tri-cornered hats, skull print bandanas and waving blow up hooks. We had the only tinfoil and cardboard in the room.

The ladies were polite of course, the telescope was 'very, erm, creative' and he's too young to tell the difference between his and his peers' outfits, so why did I feel like the poor relation? I could have bought him something to wear, although the time it would have taken to get to the shops with both children would probably have been longer than it took to stick on the black sugar paper and cut out the foil 'skull'.

I know people have busy lives, or don't have the idea, skills or kit you'd need to make a costume. I'm sure some parents just don't want to, but I do, and I hate the feeling that that somehow makes him stand out for all the wrong reasons.

La La Shoes

2010-05-11T14:32:00.003+01:00

I have posted before about T's eclectic taste in music, thanks in no small part to my husband's fabulous personalised mix tapes*. He swings between artists and genres in an instant. There was a time I knew exactly how many plays of 'Yellow Submarine' it took to get from home to nursery with the CD on repeat. He enjoys Take That and songs from Glee, music from the Lion King and The Proclaimers. And don't even start me on his year-round passion for Christmas tunes or Julia Donaldson calypso-murdering 'A Squash and a Squeeze'.

Then came a request: 'Mummy, I want the la la song'. But which la la song was it? I wracked my brains. Hey Jude? No. 500 Miles? Nope. I asked friends, they suggested Kylie's Can't Get You Out of My Head (also no) or something by The Offspring. I have to admit not even suggesting the latter to him given the likelihood he'd ever have heard it. He asked, and asked, and asked, but it wasn't The Stylistics, Goldfrapp or even Deck the Halls with Boughs of bloody Holly he wanted. Stuck, I changed the subject and turned up Radio 2, introducing him to Girls Aloud and saving my sanity at the same time.

Then it happened. Months after the initial request there was a squeal from the back of the car. 'Mummy, it's the la la song!', and the culprit? Is This the Way to Amarillo of course (Peter Kay version). Having had that annoying 'answer on the tip of your tongue' feeling since he first asked I could finally breathe deeply again. Until, moments after it had finished, he said 'I want the la la song again'. I explained patiently that we couldn't rewind the car radio but that Mummy would put that song on a CD so we didn't lose it again. 'No not that one, I do like that one, but the OTHER la la song'.

It was back, that feeling that you just can't find the right word or remember where you know that person from, a deep pervading frustration that I must know the song he wanted but couldn't think of it! Eventually, in the way these things have of working themselves out, just as we'd forgotten the trauma of the whole experience it transpired that the original, best, first requested la la song he really really wanted was Paris 1919. To avoid future confusion we have now taught him the song's official name, and artist, should he feel the need for a hit of ex-Velvet whilst we're not around, saving everyone some heartache. The Youtube version is even bookmarked on the laptop, just in case.

To express just how much he loves this song, after a trip to a well known department store on Saturday to buy some new sandals he proudly told his keyworker we'd gone to 'John Cale' to get them and they were his la la shoes.

*C also has two, one of music to go to sleep to and one for wide awake time!

Greater Good

2010-05-10T19:12:00.002+01:00

My husband moved out tonight.

It's day one of the New Normal, a sort of half-life that we flail in whilst we tie up the ends in Manchester and make a move down the M6 to the Midlands. A house that wont sell and one, soon to be two, children needing childcare means we're not able to just pick up and leave here, but nor will my husband's new job wait, so for now he goes and we stay.

The goodbye was perfunctory, after all he'll be back on Friday. I'm not unused to him staying away overnight, I can watch what I want on the telly and not have to worry about cooking a veggie option at dinnertime, but tonight with the house quiet it just feels different.

This is the start of a big change. We've known it was coming but now, with a weeks worth of suits packed and on their way to his home for the next week, it's really happening. Soon it will be our turn to go, and we wont be coming back at the weekend.

My children deserve an energetic father, one who isn't constantly exhausted from long and antisocial shifts and can enjoy his time off rather than existing in a constant state of jet-lag. I am looking forward to meeting my new husband, a man who can stay up past 10 pm and doesn't need a daytime nap. I know we will be happy in our new life, in the village we have chosen for its schools, parks and commutability. It's not even too far to come back and visit. The positives are stacked in the corner in a great big pile.

But tonight my heart breaks a little at the thought we will never again live as a family of four in this, the house we were married in, to where we brought home our tiny firstborn, where our daughter was conceived and born where we became the family that now stands on the edge of a change that's exciting and terrifying in equal measure.

Generosity

2010-05-07T08:06:00.003+01:00

T, up too early, is rolling around on my bed.

'I bought a present for you Mummy!'

'Thank you darling, that's very kind. What is it?'

'A chocolate rabbit!'

'Wow, thank you T. I like chocolate rabbits. Where is it?'

'In the shop. I buy it for you next week'

Hmph.

With apologies to his future biology teacher (TMI sorry)

2010-05-06T21:28:00.002+01:00

'Mummy, my poo comes from my willy doesn't it?'

'No darling, poo comes from your bottom. Wee comes from your willy.'

'Nooo Mummy, it comes from my willy! I want it to come from my willy.'

'Well it's not really up to Mummy, it's the way you're built. Everyone's poo comes from their bottom. Mummy doesn't even have a willy!'

(crying now) 'Nooooooooo MY poo comes from MY willy'

(noncommittal) 'OK darling'

Sometimes you have to know when to give up the argument.

You can come too ...

2010-05-05T10:06:00.004+01:00

When T was almost exactly six months old we took him for a day out at Chester Zoo. That's him in the top picture, in the backpack carrier. I remember that we swapped him between us a few times that day, posing for pictures in front of the elephants, giraffes and lions. Looking back, we were immensely proud to be enjoying a family day out, Mummy, Daddy and son. I thought he was so grown up and that the hours spent peering through windows at everything from snakes to apes were 'educational' and crucial in his early development. I remember getting stressed at the end of the day because he was getting tired and grumpy and we hadn't yet seen everything. We trudged to the far side of the zoo to look at Przewalski's horses, disappointed that as we carefully explained about endangered species to our precious firstborn they actually looked pretty much like any other type of horse.

As I look back at the photographs I realise how ridiculous this all was. At six months old T was a baby. We might as well have strapped him into the carrier and walked him around Tesco, he'd have been just as entertained by the colourful creatures wandering up and down the aisles and we could have done our shopping at the same time. Like all parents, we've striven to give him the very best in these early years, but as yet he hasn't shown any childhood genius in taxonomy. Should we have given ourselves a break from the hectic new parent do-it-all schedule of days out, exposing him to sights, sounds and colours, and taken it easier?

Last week, on a particularly sunny spring day, we went back to Chester Zoo. Daddy was at work this time, so a friend and I were both solo with our two children. That's T in the second picture, very taken with the penguins. C was six months, exactly the same age as T on his first zoo trip. So where is she in this photo? She's in the buggy of course, my much loved parent-facing pushchair, which gives a great view of Mummy but achieved a remarkable feat in whisking her around the zoo without seeing a single animal. Oh no, I tell a lie, there was a particularly vicious duck which attempted to steal our picnic lunch from the hands of the older babes. She might have caught a glimpse as I abandoned her midday breastfeed to help shoo the predators away from toddler fingers.

Two years ago, keeping my six month old son awake to see a horse was the holy grail, this time it was getting my six month old daughter to sleep. As I lifted her brother to get a better view of the elephants, she watched a school party walk past in a crocodile of pairs. As I took the penguin photo above, she chomped on a teething ring and listened to the sound of her brother and his friend screeching with delight.

Coming to terms with giving your children different experiences is remarkably hard. It's taken me six months to realise that not doing with C what we did with T doesn't mean I love her any less or care any less about her development. Two and a half years of parenting has taught me that often less is more when it comes to babies. As her brother rests his tired legs in the buggy she absentmindedly chews one of the straps on the sling and I celebrate the fact she's enjoying quality Mummy close time. We walk past the sign for Przewalski's horses and I kiss her soft downy head tucked six inches underneath my chin. I'm still doing my best, but my best has changed.

Nick Sharratt

2010-04-30T19:39:00.004+01:00

If you have a toddler, you will know Nick Sharratt the author and/or illustrator of books including Pants, Octopus Socktopus and the Daisy series. I seem to be building a library upstairs in T's bedroom, albeit one with sagging overstuffed shelves, and Nick is one of our favourites. I love the fact that his drawings appear so simple with their bright colours and strong lines but tell a fantastic, funny story, full of quirky extra details. That's why he's a gazillionaire* and my son's New Best Friend. I'm sorry Julia, it's been nice knowing you but there's a new kid in the bedroom** and we're reading him Every Single Night.

Nick's books are instantly recognisable, which sadly to my two and a half year old, means interchangeable. This week he picked up You Choose (a fabulous book, perfect for keeping toddlers entertained when out and about because there's lots to look at, we always take ours when we're going out for dinner as a perfect 'waiting for the food' activity) and cleared his throat.

'More Pants ... illushhtrated by Nick Sharratt'

'No darling, that's You Choose'

(oblivious) 'Red pants, green pants, yellow submarine pants'

'No darling look, that's You Choose, that's the page where you decide where you'd like to live, I'd like to live in that little lighthouse, what about you?'

(ignoring me now, turns page crossly, voice gets louder) 'Dancing with the Queen pants, la, la, la'

'No darling look, this is More Pants' (holding up the book)

(death stare) 'yummy pants, mummy pants, sucking on your thumby pants, tickling your tummy pants and a matching bwwwaaa'***

I gave up. He flipped the pages of one book, pausing occasionally to give me his 'I'm right' look and recited a completely different story from start to finish. Who am I to argue with a boy who really, really loves his books?

*An estimation on my count, no idea what he's really worth.
** Nick has actually illustrated a few of Julia's stories, One Mole Digging a Hole and Toddle Waddle are amongst the ones we have.
***Poor child has a small issue with his r's.

You make me so very happy ...

2010-04-29T19:43:00.002+01:00

The lovely Muddling Along Mummy has welcomed me back into the blogging fold by tagging me with the Happy 101 Meme. Sometimes in the fug of everyday life - the endless rounds of feeding, cooking, cleaning - it's hard to step back and take note of the good stuff, so taking part is my attempt to right the balance! Here, in no particular order, are 10 things currently making me happy ...

Friends
I'm not sure I can put into words how lucky I am to have a group of fabulous friends providing support, advice, entertainment and sanity-saving in equal measure. I've tried to write something here, a fitting tribute I suppose, and deleted it every time as it doesn't seem to do them justice. I hope they know who they are.

Cake
Particularly Cherry Bakewell Cake. Easy to make, delicious to eat, especially with the above.

Sitting up
C is now sitting reliably for longer periods. It means I can sit her alongside her brother in the front seats of the supermarket trolley. Admittedly I then have to watch the shelves on both sides in case unwanted items are swept into the basket, but seeing them both interacting, able to 'talk' at the same level, hold hands, swap toys, is truly a joy.

Splashy baths
Or 'doing raining' as T calls it. Three in a bath tires everyone out for bedtime.

My Bugaboo (but I'm not a buggy snob, honest!)
I did so love my Micralite buggy. It was cheap, light, folded small and could be pushed one handed. In fact I spent an awful lot of time pushing it like that when T was small. Once he outgrew the carrycot I popped him into the forward facing pushchair and stepped out of the door. He screamed, and screamed, and screamed some more. A small child with separation anxiety who can't see his Mummy is Not Good. This time we used the carrycot attachment for the first few months and once C was ready to move into the seat unit bit the bullet and bought a rear-facing pushchair, a second hand Bugaboo Bee. The freedom to shop or walk whilst she chats away happily is wonderful, and guess what, the baby who knows Mummy's there will even close her eyes and nap without fuss. When T is tired I can sling C and he hops on for a ride. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

Squeaky cheese
It's summer! Well, maybe not, but it's warmer than it was, and warm means salads, and salads means halloumi!

Holiday planning
On maternity leave and with an upcoming house move, money is tight. It must be, we're going on 'holiday' to the inlaws' this summer and with them this autumn. I was really pleased then to win a free long weekend to Bluestone in Wales. We've been before, it's utterly fab, and no rellies. Hurrah! Roll on May.

Next and their ridiculously large clothing sizes
T is wearing his 9-12m shorts for the third summer in a row, leaving me more money to spend on funky summer t-shirts.

Looking forward, not back
I never thought it would make me happy to admit I will never be a size 12 again. I recently unpacked a suitcase of clothes last worn in 2006, the summer before I got pregnant with T. Four years and two breastfed children meant I could barely squeeze into them. I would like to lose weight, I don't want to be my current size forever, but having them in the bottom of the wardrobe waiting for me to shrink by what in all honestly would probably have to be three stone wasn't doing anyone any good. So I sold them. I bought some nice new things in my new size with the cash, and posting the parcels let me indulge my wrapping fetish!

Toddler cheek
'Don't tell me what to do ... nice try Mummyo'
Sometimes you have to laugh.

I have been pretty slow with this Meme and I'm pretty sure everyone I'd have tagged has already completed it. If you're reading this and you haven't, why not give it a go?

A Sense of Place

2010-04-27T21:53:00.003+01:00

It is 1990. My ten year old self scuffs the toes of her sensible Startrites together and scowls. My sister and I spend our weekends with my Dad who has been browsing Harry Hall Cycles, underneath the Corn Exchange, for almost an hour and I'm bored. As payment for behaving during the interminable talk of inner tubes and Sturmey Archer gears we'll be paid in Marks and Spencer egg mayonnaise sandwiches, consumed in the garden of Manchester Cathedral, before catching the bus home again.

It is 1995. I'm a schoolgirl who thinks she knows it all. On Saturday nights I hop on the Metrolink without paying and race to Idol's where they serve triple vodka for £1.50 before 7.30 pm. My skirt is shorter than a pelmet. An inspector calls and I queue, shamefaced, in Stretford Post Office to buy a Postal Order to pay the fine.

It is 2000. During University holidays I work long hours on the checkouts at Sainsbury's in Salford. I change hurriedly in the staff room at the end of my shift and race to Love Train at Royale's. My heart beats like a drum, poom poom, poom poom. I hail a taxi home and run out of cash on Chester Road, walking the last half mile, carrying my shoes.

It is 2005 and I am planning a Manchester wedding. We have rings made at the Craft and Design centre and spend the summer drinking in city centre bars under patio heaters and planning the future.

It is 2010. My toddler pronounces his a's like one of the Gallagher brothers. I drive into town and complain about the traffic and cost of parking. I curse the students who clutter the Oxford Road pavements and constantly ask 'what used to be there?' as the city changes more quickly than I can keep up. I visit art galleries and museums with a pushchair in tow and always, always know the whereabouts of the nearest public toilet. I am still stubbornly proud of my home town.

Then there's news. Promotion means a family move to the Midlands. With a lifetime of memories within a 15 mile radius, if I'm not Manchester, will I still be me?

Where do babies come from?

2010-04-27T08:38:00.002+01:00

'Shower time!'

My shout from kitchen to lounge went unanswered, although I could hear the telltale scuffling sound of a toddler who was Up To Something.

Hoiking the baby up on my hip I stuck my head around the door. 'Shower, now!' I'm not proud, I should really have said 'please come upstairs for your shower now darling' but when you're leaving for the zoo in 40 minutes and still need to get three people washed and dressed and one of them breastfed there's not much time for literary flourish. Plus single words seem to penetrate toddler ears more successfully.

T was sitting on the sofa facing away from me. I growled his name in a warning tone.

'Shhhhhhh!'

Curiosity won over time management. I stepped into the room.

'What are you doing darling?'

'Shhhhhh!'

I noticed he was sitting on one of his teddybears.

'T, what ARE you doing?'

'Shhh Mummy, I'm just hatching my eggs. I'm nesting!'

We were a little late for the zoo, but what price imagination?

Complimentary

2010-04-25T21:31:00.005+01:00

I am sitting on the toilet. Sorry, not a great opening line I know but hey, this is anonymous and it adds a certain something to the story. The door creaks open (there is nothing sacrosanct in our house) and T toddles in, oblivious to the fact I might like some privacy. He grabs my necklace and fiddles, 'I loike your beads Mummy'. His Essex based Grandparents have had more of an impact on his speech than our 300 mile separation would suggest, his accent is anything but Lancashire.

I stand and fasten my trousers. 'I loike your top with (peers closer) leaves and flowers and (grabs a piece and fingers it) patterns'. I move to the sink and wash my hands. My squat shadow follows me. 'Mummy, have you been to the hairdressers?'

I'm perplexed. I'm fiercely proud of the fact my son is a caring, sharing, gentle boy. His father mutters quietly about our weekly ballet class, and rather more loudly that I shouldn't indulge his penchant for hairslides, and I worry how I'll explain this apparent new fascination with the dowdy dress sense and straggly locks of a tired Mum. What's next, toddler fashion and beauty tips?

I meet my fellow NCT Mums for dinner. Over chow mein we discuss the little darlings' latest skills. Post potty training, it's all about phonics. T can sound out his own name and recognises the letters that belong to the rest of his family. C is for compliments and N is for nursery where it appears they've been talking about 'being nice' all week. My friend's daughter A has also been passing comment on her Mum's outfits, 'Mummy I like that top on you'.

So the mystery is solved, but as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror it's comforting to think perhaps T might, without encouragement, still think in his own small way I'm a yummy Mummy.

Cause and effect

2010-04-15T16:30:00.004+01:00

As the Rhythm Time teacher proffered a handful of lollipop bright maracas, C's eye's glinted and a slow trickle of drool dripped down her chin. She reached for the red one and opened her mouth wide ready to chomp down on the hard plastic sphere. Two white pegs through, eighteen more to come, makes anything and everything a likely teether.

Handle grabbed, she raised her arm hungrily towards her mouth and ... stopped. She lifted it further, but again it didn't make contact. Instead, as she waved her hand about, the musical instrument rattled and she let out a delighted giggle. Small wave. Rattle. Big shake. RATTLE. Bash Mummy repeatedly on the knee. Rattle, rattle, rattle. Bash yourself on the head. Rattle, cry. Bash Mummy on the head. Rattle, laugh. Bash the floor. RATTLE.

For half an hour, with a vice-like grip, the maraca was a toy and remained unchomped. The bottom button of my cardigan, now that's another matter.

Blog duck

2010-04-13T16:41:00.000+01:00

Consider it broken.

Deep breath, I'm coming back x

Crabby

2009-12-10T10:00:00.003Z

We are attempting our first holiday as a family of four. This morning we're off to Bluestone - a bit like an independent Center Parcs, with much nicer accomodation and staff and in a beautiful part of the world. Well, officially we're going there tomorrow, today we're driving through Snowdonia to Aberystwyth (is there a harder place to spell in the UK?) to break up the journey.

I have done plenty of preparation for the mammoth undertaking that is a holiday with a toddler and a newborn. The solar-heated swimming pool can get a little chilly, so I've picked up a wetsuit for C and took her on a dry run (or should that be wet run?) to a local pool just to check she's going to enjoy the trips we have planned. We have enough vests and nappies to allow for all manner of potential sick or poo explosions, but not too many that we can't close the boot. Oh, and I've booked my husband onto a whiskey tasting session on Saturday night so I can watch the X Factor final in peace.

I haven't however prepare for crabs. Crabs you say, are they a major problem in the Greater Narbeth area? Why yes they are if you're my toddler. When asked whether he was looking forward to going swimming this weekend he said no. Surprised, I asked why. The crab Mummy! Crab? Yes, 'the crab, with two eyes, and wings like a butterfly and, and, and ... shoes and socks! I no like swimming with crabs'.

Well what can you say to that?

In a days work

2009-12-07T15:16:00.004Z

My husband is a wonderful father. He winds babies, changes nappies and gives piggy back rides. He takes the big one to football, giving the little one and I lazy Saturday afternoons at home, and blows gentle raspberries on the little one's tummy so I can read the big one's bedtime stories in peace. Pretty good eh? He does however have one major failing. An insistence that my maternity leave is a 'holiday'. Dare I open my mouth to complain that the baby has been grumpy, or the toddler obstinate, and out it comes ... 'you think that's bad. I've been at work all day!'

No amount of persuading will make him see that a full day at home with a baby-with-cold and toddler-with-attitude is probably not a holiday in the traditional sense. For the next 10 months or so this is my job. I don't have an office or an identity badge and it doesn't pay well. Yes I enjoy it, but I resent the suggestion that it's easy. So here, for his benefit, is a day in my life as Mum of Two.

I say a day in the life, there are also night feeds of course, but for the purpose of this post I'll start at 7.45 am, when (following a couple of hours of playtime at 3 am) the baby woke.

7.45 am - Breastfeed the baby. She has a cold so this involves liberally squirting saline to clear her nasal passages and allow her to breathe whilst latched on. It's not perfect of course and she's gulping in air by the bucketload. The feed takes so long as I have to stop every few minutes to wind her or mop up my over exuberant milk supply.
9.00 am - Take the toddler downstairs. Assemble Weetabix and fruit concoction and allow him to eat in front of CBeebies. Breastfeed the baby whilst he eats.
9.45 am - Wash up the breakfast things. Dash back in from the kitchen at the telltale sound of the toddler playing with the Christmas tree when I realise it would fall over onto where the baby is napping.
9.50 am - Having been moved, the baby is awake again. Shhhh and rock her whilst operating Early Learning Centre play toaster with my free hand and 'eating' plastic toast.
10.00 am - Take the toddler into the kitchen and give him a bowl of sprouts to peel whilst I finish the washing up. Start assembling the fishcakes we'll be having for lunch.
10.15 am - Regret letting the toddler spoon chopped vegetables from the food processor into a pan. Set him up with Ballamory on Sky+ and a snack of cheese and crackers whilst I clean the kitchen floor and eat my own (very late) breakfast standing at the worktop.
11.00 am - Let the toddler help add the now cooked veg and fish to the mashed potato and build fishcakes. Clean the kitchen floor again when he waves his coated hands around in excitement.
11.15 am - Breastfeed the baby whilst the toddler unpacks the contents of the downstairs nappy changing box.
11.25 am - Put the baby in her crib under her mobile. Desperately hope the occasional squawks wont turn into full-blown crying before I've washed my hair. Strip the toddler who demands the potty. Shower with one ear on the baby and the other on the toddler (adjacent to the shower screen) shouting 'I'm doing a big poo Mummy!'
11.28 am - Realise baby meltdown is approaching in T - 2 minutes. Clean out the potty (bleurgh!) and shower the toddler. Taste soap and realise I have forgotten to rinse my facewash off.
11.30 am - Wrap up the toddler and sit him on the (closed) toilet seat to clean his teeth. Grab the baby and rock her whilst cleaning mine.
11.33 am - Realise a crying baby is incompatible with a lack of breastpads. Despair at the two large wet patches forming on my towel and throw it in the wash.
11.40 am - Dress the toddler. Put the baby down to much screeching. Dress hurriedly in ill-fitting unflattering clothes.
11.45 am - Remove the fishcakes from the oven and assemble lunch.
11.50 am - Eat quickly, jiggling the baby in one arm.
11.55 am - Reassemble the nappy changing kit and change and dress the baby. Start the 'one more mouthful and you can have ...' routine.
12.05 pm - Breastfeed the baby.
12.15 pm - Provide the toddler with fruit and yoghurt for dessert.
12.20 pm - Breastfeed the baby whilst fending off requests for chocolate buttons.
12.45 pm - Round up the toddler's week-late library books.
1.00 pm - Arrive at the doctor's surgery for the toddler's appointment with the Orthoptist. Spend the next half an hour shamefaced as he stage whispers 'I no like the eye doctor!' and whines 'she's hurting me!' whilst resolutely refusing to name the pictures on the cards she is holding up.
1.30 pm - Comfort the screaming baby who has been accidentally bashed on the head by her brother
1.35 pm - Change the toddler's nappy on the cold floor of the disabled loo
1.45 pm - Run (carseat in one hand, toddler in the other) in the rain from the doctor's to the library. Return week-late books and beg forgiveness from the brusque librarian. Try to persuade the toddler there's no need to borrow books we already have at home. Breastfeed the baby and wave a series of stories in turn until the toddler's distracted away from the Bumbo seats (I don't want a repeat of this performance). Grab the entire back catalogue of Judith Kerr then realise I can't control both children, changing bag and books.
2.15 pm - Ignore pointed stares from little old ladies as the toddler entertains himself with the automatic library doors whilst I check out the books. Turn slightly puce when the librarian reminds me four times what date the books are due back.
2.20 pm - Run back to the car (still raining)
2.30 pm - Arrive home. Quietly place the sleeping baby in her carseat on the dining room floor. I daren't remove her snowsuit or she'll wake so I leave the vestibule door ajar so she wont get too hot. This of course means the house quickly becomes freezing.
2.40 pm - Read one of the new library books to the toddler as he demolishes a fruit snack, snuggled into my side for warmth. Feel intense guilt that we can't do this more often.
2.50 pm - Realise the toddler, who insists he no longer needs a daytime nap, is asleep. Gently carry him up to bed and shuffle silently out of his room before he wakes.
2.55 pm - The baby is awake again. Breastfeed her on the sofa whilst typing this with one finger.

So there we are. It's only 3 pm and I'm already exhausted. The afternoon stretches ahead of me. Five full hours until the toddler's usual bedtime of 8 pm. The baby falls asleep, still latched on, and in my head I hear my husband's voice ... 'you can't be that busy, you still had time to update that bloody blog'.

It's all about the adjectives ...

2009-12-01T10:23:00.005Z

T's vocabulary continues to increase at a rate of knots. This week it has been all about the adjectives.

We have started a baby ballet class, and he is very taken by the teacher ... 'Mummy, the lady is bootiful!', I'm not sure why he says this with more than a touch of the Bernard Matthews, but it's still very sweet. Less sweet is his descriptive word of choice for me ... 'Look Mummy, that tree is massive [pause for thought] Mummy's massive!'. Yes, thanks love! I wouldn't mind, I'm five foot six, hardly Giant Redwood standard.

Then on the dark drive home from nursery last week T fiddled with the sunshade on the rear window and excitedly proclaimed 'Mummy, I can see the boob!', I hadn't left my nursing bra unclipped again, he meant moon but has another cold and slightly blocked nose.

'Yes darling I can see it too' I said, eyes firmly on the road.
'It's a sharp boob'
'Hmmm?'
'Sharp boob Mummy!'
'I don't understand darling'
'It's sharp Mummy, someone cut it up, with a knife!'

I glanced sideways out of the window at the crescent moon ... waxing, waning, I didn't know which. In a crisp, cloudless winter sky at less than half of its round whole it did look rather like someone had taken to it with a sharp pair of scissors.

I explained, on dodgy scientific ground, that he was very clever to have noticed that the moon does in fact grow ('like C!') and shrink again every month, but that there are no sharp implements involved. I was quite proud of myself until the 'why?' started and I ended up having to distract him with a small packet of chocolate buttons.

Learning about the world is magical!

Feeding

2009-11-28T10:57:00.006Z

I always knew that I would be a breastfeeding mother. As little girls my sister and I shoved our dollies up our jumpers in a show of solidarity with the various aunties and friends who nursed their little ones at family get-togethers. Once over the plethora of problems which plagued the first days of feeding my son I adored the special bond our breastfeeding brought, and was emotionally torn when, already pregnant again, he self weaned.

There is something magical in watching a child grow before your eyes and knowing that you did that. C is now more than two pounds above her birthweight, and every single one of those ounces is down to me. The gluggy nightfeeds, frantic oft-interrupted by toddler day feeds and endless evening clusterfeeds are all more than worth it now I can no longer stuff her into a newborn babygro. I am a simple type, I work well on a reward basis (sticker chart anyone?) and I now have the ultimate visual reminder that the hard work is worth it. And it is hard work. No-one else can feed C. I'm still Leaky McLeakerton and getting through breastpads and matronly feeding bras at a rate of knots. Although I quite fancy my husband again, in a sad reversal of my teenage exploits any fumblings for the next few months will definitely have to be bottom half only. Until I can find the time and inclination to sterilise the breastpump and a bottle I have no hope of leaving her for more than a few minutes at a time, and she might, like her brother, reject anything but the good stuff straight from source anyway.

With reward also comes great responsibility of course, and I have always been a worrier. I scrutinise nappies, weighing up whether their wetness means C's getting enough. If she has a short feed I panic my supply will dip in response. If she has a long feed I worry my milk is drying up. As she flops drunkenly from my breast, the last drops dribbling from the corner of her mouth, I scrutinise them for evidence that it's creamy hindmilk goodness rather than grey, watery foremilk that's sent her into a warm fug. It's all OK of course. In reality C would make herself very well heard was I starving her. But much as I would love to be one of those laid-back breastfeeding mothers, I feel that despite the fantastic weight gain I will always be on the look out for extra reassurance that I am doing a good job. Imagine having sole responsibility for the most precious thing in the world. Surely that would keep anyone on their toes?

Starving

2009-11-15T16:17:00.002Z

There is no hunger quite like that which you experience when breastfeeding a newborn. It is of the 'bottomless pit' variety, only allieviated by throwing down a ridiculous amount of food which barely touches the sides.

For example, yesterday I ate ...

4 potato cakes with butter
A blue cheese toastie, crisps and a pear
A packet of Percy Pig sweets
12 M&S party food duck spring rolls with hoi sin sauce
A giant M&S readymeal, enough chicken and chorizo to serve two hungry adults
Almost an entire box of Celebrations chocolates

I also drank 15 pints of fruit squash in an attempt to remain hydrated.

Oh, and in the course of producing enough milk to grow my daughter from 8lb 4oz to 9lb 7oz in her first two weeks I've lost more of my pregnancy weight. Imagine, if I had a modicum of self-restraint and the urges could be quelled with fruit or (shudder) vegetables, I might even be (gasp) thin!

Getting ahead of myself

2009-11-05T11:30:00.004Z

Our wonderful birth experience has meant I am rather ahead of myself. Following T's difficult delivery I spent five days on a postnatal ward at the Royal Blackburn Hospital. Breastfeeding was a challenge, delaying our departure, and once I came home and gingerly installed myself on the sofa, nipple shields and Lansinoh within easy reach, almost half of my husband's paternity leave had gone, spent driving to and from the hospital and feeding the pay and display machine.

This time has been very different. My husband was in the office two and a half hours before I gave birth, and of course I haven't been near the inside of a hospital. We were out and about the day after C was born, and being more relaxed about feeding this time around seems to be paying dividends. The midwife warned me not to be too disappointed at C's seven day weigh in, 'all babies lose some of their birthweight in the first week', but once on the scales (C, not the midwife!) she confounded expectations and had put on four ounces. My superwoman labour hormones still don't seem to have dissipated. I'm even (shhhhh!) coping well with the night feeds and odd five am exploding nappy.

This week I decided then that I needed a new wardrobe. My maternity stuff is all too big (not to mention almost entirely summery after two early autumn due dates) and opening the door on my non-mat clothes didn't fill me with joy. So off we trotted to the shops. Avoiding anywhere 'fashiony' (I'm not in denial about the fact I can't carry off jeggings) Next shone like a high street beacon, offering breastfeeding-friendly tunic tops and dresses that didn't cost the earth. C was starting to root for a feed so I loaded an arm up with hangers, paid and ran for the nearest bench.

It was only when I returned home and tried on my stash that reality bit. I had a baby only nine short days ago. I still have the appearance of a 20 week pregnant Weeble, but with a slightly bigger backside. Nothing fit. Nothing was anywhere near fitting. It's some sort of miracle that I didn't rip anything in the putting on and taking off. It all has to go back of course.

So I was guilty of getting ahead of myself. Clothes shopping is on ice for another month or so, and I've resolved to layer up some mat clothes to get me through the next few weeks, and hope for magic breastfeeding weightloss. But hey, I might not look it, but I feel good. And no number of size 14s could make me want it the other way around.

Brotherly love

2009-11-02T10:18:00.006Z

I like to think it was brotherly love that caused T to tell everyone at nursery that his new baby sister was called Timon. I wondered why, when we took C in to visit, the staff gingerly asked us what her name was as they 'couldn't tell' what T had been saying. Couldn't believe that we'd be so cruel more like!

I'm pretty sure brotherly love was the reason I found C in her bouncy chair with a pile of M&S baby t-shirts (a present from a generous friend) on her head. T said he'd been 'showing' them to her.

I know however that it's brotherly love when C mumbles and peeps and T runs over, pats her hand ('s'OK C') and shouts for us ... 'C needs a mummy milk, C needs a daddy cuddle'.

I am so proud of my little (big?) boy and the way he's handled this massive adjustment. Whether it stays this way remains to be seen, but at the moment, four is very, very good.

Remembering

2009-10-30T15:02:00.002Z

C is the spit of her big brother. She has the same velvety head with its soft covering of black fuzz, the same lips with a tiny milk blister forming in the bow, and the same newborn blue eyes. Is it any wonder then that I'm spending most of my time telling her she's a 'good boy'?

Must. Remember. Baby. Is. A. Girl.

C

2009-10-28T01:54:00.009Z

48 hours ago I was tossing and turning in bed, trying to find a comfy position for my giant bump, now I have two children, and it being almost 3 am as I type this (and 6 am as I finish it, one fingered and with a rest inbetween) of course we are sleepless again. Sitting on the sofa breastfeeding my little girl*, I wouldn't swap it for the world.

So you know the key facts, which are that she arrived quickly, but safely, at home, but I wouldn't be a good blogger if I left you hanging like that would I?! Let's talk details (again, squeamish types look away now).

It seems that after all that hanging around, once she had decided to come out C just couldn't wait. I spent most of the morning of her birth pottering around, wondering if the crampy 'Braxton Hicks' feelings I had would come to anything. Around 10 I called my husband and said I thought there might be pattern and did he want to come home. In the back of my mind I did worry that I might be dragging him away from his beloved office for a false alarm. Yes I could now predict that my bump would tighten every five minutes or so for about 20 seconds at a time, but it didn't hurt. I put it to the back of my mind though and carried on with some chores. Putting the cover back onto our Maxi Cosi carseat was probably my proudest achievement, a task that's almost impossible to accomplish even when not in labour.

My Mum arrived for a long arranged date to play with T. I told her things felt like they were getting started and she arranged to take him on a bus and tram adventure to her house, giving me some space and peace and meaning I could relax even if the tightenings turned out to be just another trick my overdue body was playing on me. At 11.30 they left and I went upstairs for a lie down.

Once on the bed I felt the tightenings ramp up. I put on my iPod and listened to Marie Mongan's Rainbow Relaxation, the hypnobirthing script which had lulled me to sleep almost every night for the past four months. The practice paid off, and although the cramps were getting harder to ignore I was managing to breathe through them with ease, inflating an imaginary balloon with each contraction, counting up and down to 20.

It's only because of the script that I am able to time much of what happened with the rest of my labour. I stayed on the bed, on all fours, breathing through two plays of the Rainbow Relaxation, a total of 50 minutes. I heard my husband call the midwife to warn her I was in early labour, and start to organise the birthing pool, the low hum of the pump intruding into my headphones.

Then suddenly whatever I was doing stopped working. The Rainbow Relaxation started for a third time, but the surges were so strong I could now no longer concentrate on the breathing. From far away I could hear myself groaning, and knew the contractions were suddenly much closer together. I called for my husband who, although having completed nine tenths of the hypnobirthing course with a look of disdain on his face, remarkably managed to coach me back into the correct pattern, which helped, albeit temporarily. Despite my clinging to him for dear life, he left to call the midwife again and ask her to start the 15 minute journey from the hospital to our house. He returned and I hung my arms around his neck, levering myself off the bed in a desperate attempt to relieve some of the pressure I was feeling at the bottom of my bump. My waters went all over the bedroom carpet.

Despite being encouraged to get back onto the bed (which in hindsight was probably my husband's futile attempt to protect the new landing carpet from, erm, leakage) I demanded to go to the toilet, hobbling doubled over to the bathroom. The pressure was too great to allow me to sit on the loo, so I got onto the floor.

'I'm pushing'
'No you're not'
'I am, I can't stop it'
'Calm down, the midwife will be here in a minute'

More of my waters released

'I can feel the head'
'No you can't'
'I can, I can feel it, the baby's coming'
'Stop touching it you might do some damage'
'I'm pushing!'
'Hold on, the midwife's on her way'

'I need to stand up'
'You'll slip on the wet floor and hurt yourself, stay down there'

I hoiked myself up on the sink

'The baby's coming ... catch her'
'HEEEEEEEELLLP!'

And so C was delivered into her disbelieving father's arms. His shout for help was answered by the midwife who had just arrived and let herself in through the (thankfully open) front door. She came up the stairs to hear the baby's first cries and began a well rehearsed operation to get us wrapped, warmed and fully checked out. The time was 12.45 pm, just an hour and a quarter after I'd gone for that first lie down, and we were back in bed, this time plus one. More towels than I thought we owned were called into service. Sadly though I'm not sure the landing carpet will ever recover.

I did it. I had my homebirth. The baby arrived safely. No pain relief. I am superwoman!

*learning to BF lying down is high on my list this time. T didn't get the hang of it until around three months when he was a bit bigger and I realised the joy of feeding and sleeping at the same time. C had her first feed lying on a pillow next to me, but it's been hit and miss since. Still, I shouldn't complain, it's not like we're not going to get chance to practice is it?!

She's here!

2009-10-26T16:28:00.003Z

Baby C, named for her great grandma who sadly never had chance to meet her, was born at home this afternoon. Her entrance was a little unorthodox, after only just over an hour of active labour she was delivered on the bathroom floor by Daddy as the midwife let herself into the front door! She cried straight away, weighs 8lb 4oz and is feeding beautifully. More details once we've got our heads round it all.

Oh, and I never made the acupuncture.

40+9

2009-10-25T15:15:00.004Z

This baby is officially more lazy than her brother. He'd managed to find his way out by 3.35 am on the 289th day of my pregnancy. Today, as the clock ticks down towards day 290, I am officially fed up.

My inlaws are visiting from Essex this weekend. It's their 40th wedding anniversary and my brother and sister in law, niece and nephew are in tow. They're staying elsewhere (they wouldn't all fit in the house, even if we didn't have all of the birth pool paraphenalia hanging around the place, plus I don't want anyone seeing me in this intense hormonal state!) and there's no denying they would have loved to have been meeting the baby today. Not as much as I would have been of course!

As the days pass, I'm finding it harder to manage the emotions of being VHP (Very Heavily Pregnant) and absolutely concede I am harder still to live with. My husband has done both of the weekend get ups with our lively toddler. Yesterday, knowing I hadn't slept well, he took him to the Museum of Science and Industry for some train time, even managing to feed him lunch, take him to play with friends and pick up a yummy M&S tea on the way home. As they walked through the door, happy and tired, having had a full day to nap, read and catch up with guilty TV pleasures, of course I cried at the fact that I'd 'missed them' and moaned about being lonely. Talk about a kick in the teeth. Contrary, or hormonal, barely covers it. But despite being well aware of how irrational I was being, I was unable to stop the tears from coming.

Today I have tried to spend the baby out. The Boden Spring preview, replacing a lost baby toy via ebay and a massively expensive but lovely to look at baby seat thing. I am still pregnant. Poor and pregnant in fact.

Tomorrow, sweep number two and acupuncture. Oh, and my Mum. I think this is a 'my head on her lap' occasion.

40+8

2009-10-24T11:14:00.005+01:00

Yesterday, in another attempt to get the baby moving, we went with friends to play in the snow at Chill Factore in Manchester. T loved the special children's area, especially the super fast slide, giant building blocks and being dragged around at high speed in a kid-sized innertube.

Once I had managed to pull on the snowboots provided (even I couldn't justify wearing my Birkies in the snow, despite the fact they're infinitely easier to wear, not requiring bump navigation like 'proper' shoes) I surprised myself by managing to enjoy it. You'd have to be really, really grumpy (+10? +11?) not to be cheered by a squeal of excited toddlers. Plus I had a giant hot chocolate with marshmallows afterwards.

Of course what you all want to know is whether the cold and exertion managed to encourage the baby to head for the exit. Although I went to bed early, my bump firm and with some familiar PMT style backache, this morning I am definitely very much still pregnant. Snow baby news I'm afraid.

Lines 2

2009-10-23T10:36:00.003+01:00

On Monday 9th February, I was seeing lines. This morning, as I got up for the seventeenth post-midnight wee and caught sight of my giant, low-slung bump in the bathroom mirror, I was seeing lines of a different sort.

Oh yes, after two pregnancies, more than 18 months of growing babies, in what will be my last week of child carrying I have finally succumbed to the dreaded stretch marks.

I've not been completely immune until now of course. My thighs bear the tell-tale silvery spider tracks of having once been a size 10. That was a long time ago though, as evidenced by the fact they've faded to almost nothing. The new lines on my tummy - which until now has been pillowy, white and clear - are angry, red and raw, showing that as I approach the end of my tether, my skin has reached the end of its too.

Come on now, one week late is just not cricket. BABY OUT!

Dick van Dyke

2009-10-22T15:45:00.004+01:00

If you are squeamish, please look away now. Similarly, if you don't want to know me in a kind of intimate gynacological way, STOP READING. Now, don't say I didn't warn you.

The baby has still not made an appearance. I am 40 weeks and six days pregnant today, which is somewhere between seven and eight on the frustration scale. T was nine days late. I keep being told that I'll have a sense of humour failure just before I go into labour. I don't like to keep reminding people that I don't have much of a sense of humour anyway (especially as it appears I'm managing to get away with it) but I do believe that by Sunday, should the little one not have made an appearance, I'll be lying on the floor, screeching toddler style and thumping my fists.

I remember that the NCT classes we took during my first pregnancy told us that women in the final stages of giving birth often claimed that they 'couldn't do it' and 'wanted to go home'. I distinctly remember trying out those words an hour or so after I'd arrived in hospital, in the hope that by some sort of midwife magic I'd end up being further along than I thought. I wasn't of course. I'm not sure whether the same reverse psychology would work with tantrums though? Maybe if I force one out it will, well, force the other one out too! Got to be worth a try.

In the mean time I am trying a variety of old wives tales to try and get my labour started. Curry? Check. Raspberry Leaf Tea to tone the uterus? Check. Evening Primrose Oil to soften the cervix? Check. Bouncing on the birthing ball to move the baby down into the correct position? Check. Realising it's impossible to browse the internet whilst doing so and falling off, more than once? Check. I have drawn the line at pineapple, mainly because you need to eat 27 whole ones within 20 minutes of them having fallen from the tree or something for the specific enzyme to have any effect, and there aren't any pineapple trees in Ramsbottom.

Yesterday it was time to get a bit more brutal, and after an appointment with the midwife I volunteered for a membrane sweep. To my disappointment this didn't mean her bursting into a verse of 'Chim chiminey, Chim chiminey, Chim chim cher-ee!' whilst Dick van Dyke kicked up his heels in the corner, but did involve a quick rummage about and some cervix related news. Not great. Despite the baby's head being very low (good sign) the route out is posterior and 'unfavourable' (bad sign) and I might have a bit of a wait yet.

On the plus side the baby seems very happy in there. She's wriggly, although less so as she runs out of room, with a lovely strong heartbeat. My blood pressure is normal, which is astounding frankly given the amount of time I've dedicated to stressing over WHY SHE HASN'T COME OUT YET.

If I manage to get past the weekend without having given birth, Monday promises another sweep plus acupuncture in an attempt to get the baby moving. In the mean time, pass me that ice-cream, and budge up, I need a nap.

Loser

2009-10-22T15:38:00.003+01:00

I didn't win anything in the Manchester Blog Awards but to be fair I hadn't really expected to, and it was lovely, and surprising, just to be nominated.

Special congratulations go to fellow Mummy blogger (who's much more eloquent than me of course!) My Shitty Twenties who won in not just one but two categories. Her writing is warm and witty and I'd highly recommend you bob over there for a read through some of her posts.

Manchester Blog Awards 2

2009-10-21T21:12:00.002+01:00

It's the Manchester Blog Awards tonight. Much as I'd love to be at Band on the Wall with the rest of the nominees to hear the results of the judge's vote, I am the size of half a house and wary of going out after dark in case I sneeze and the baby pops out or something. They've only just done up BOTW, I'm pretty sure they wouldn't appreciate the mess on their nice new floor.

So best of luck to those nominated, there are some tremendous writers out there and I've loved discovering new blogs through the shortlist. I'm heading to bed shortly and will report the results in the morning.

Oh my ...

2009-10-21T07:56:00.006+01:00

When T is learning to say something new there is always a lot of repetition.
When T is learning to say .... no, not really.

On the way to and from nursery we drive over the high road which has a fantastic view of Scout Moor, our friendly local wind farm. On clear days, the statuesque blades rotate gently against the blue sky. We've not quite got as far as 'turbine' yet but T is very taken by the giant white battlements protecting our Lancashire village from the Pennine hills ... 'look Mummy, windmills, turning round and round'.

As his language and understanding become more sophisticated, there is more to say. As the road dips down past the traffic lights and we enter the final stretch home T used to say 'windmills gone!', to which my reply is now 'they've not gone, we just can't see them any more'.

And thus it starts. 'Mummy say it ... mummy say it ... mummy say it' and I repeat the sentence up to ten times, T listening to the words, rolling them in his mouth, until he's confident enough to repeat them back to me - 'not gone, can't see them any more ... I DID IT!' followed by clapping.

It's not black and white though of course, and sometimes there are words and phrases I have to repeat only once or twice before he takes them and runs with them, whether I want him to or not.

I picked T up from nursery yesterday and strapped him into the carseat. We began the usual 'way home' routine, talking about what he'd done that day, choosing which way to go at the traffic lights ('turn RIGHT Mummy') and discussing what to have for tea. Then it started. Giggling. Not normal giggling, the soft rumble as I tickle a round toddler tummy or kiss a sensitive little boy's neck, but naughty giggling. Crafty giggling.

'What's the matter T?'
'Oh my ...' (dissolves into fits of laughter)
'Pardon?'
I was laughing myself now, toddler enthusiasm being pretty infectious
'Oh my ... oh my ... oh my ...' (he was gasping for breath by this point) 'Oh my ... BOLLOCKS!'

Yes, I am that parent, the one who, once or twice (honestly!) might have used a curse word within my child's hearing. I might sometimes say 'oh my god' too and so, of course, he has combined the two into a whole new level of maternal humiliation. Not just swearing, but creative swearing! T was inordinately pleased once he'd got the words out, and even had the gumption to try the 'Mummy say it' line.

I did the obvious of course, talked at his level about 'naughty words' which he shouldn't say, but didn't make too much of the issue, not wanting to encourage his contrary side into repeating his new phase at grandma, or (worse) nursery. Then, as he tucked into his tea, I buried my head in a cushion and laughed and laughed, and resolved to watch my words much more carefully from now on.

40+4

2009-10-20T09:03:00.002+01:00

Massive congratulations to blog friend Muddling Along Mummy who, despite a hugely difficult pregnancy, has given birth to a beautiful baby girl.

Meanwhile I am tapping my fingers and still waiting for our baby to make an appearance.

When asked how old he is, T insists that he is 'free' (as in the number, rather than available for customers John Inman style). It brings its problems of course. In reality he's a petite just-two year old, still wearing trousers designed for six to nine month old babies, but he has ideas above his station. One of these is that he can reach the pedals and self-propel some of the pre-school bikes in the nursery playground. He can't of course. Well, we thought he couldn't. Last week, perched on the very edge of the seat, he managed to push his tiptoes onto the pedals and went. His face was the very picture of glee, I'd imagine there was cackling. Then, disaster. In an attempt to steer away from a group of his friends of course T lost control and tipped onto the soft-surface, the bike falling on top of him.

When I went to do the nursery pick-up, T had a lovely pink cheekbone, over the weekend that's developed into a cracking shiner. Yes, my little boy has a black eye. He's remarkably unbothered by the whole thing, except to stick out his bottom lip whenever anyone asks about it, giving his face a rub and saying 'ouchie'. Drama Queen, much? It's telling that as nursery were frantically trying to apply a cold compress post-bump he was all pumping legs crying and reaching for 'my bike' as one of the big girls rode off into the sunset.

Anyway, a black eye would surely spoil the 'new baby meets big brother' photos, which is why, I tell myself, 'baby dister' is still tucked up warm an snug inside. T's eye is now a lovely lemon and lime colour, which I reckon gives us only another couple more days to wait.

In this overdue no man's land, my hormones mean I can justify anything!

40+2

2009-10-18T08:37:00.002+01:00

And I feel like I have stepped out of the back of the wardrobe and into a sort of Baby Narnia. Always pregnant but never giving birth. Weep.

Sadly there isn't anyone to ply me with Turkish Delight to make me feel better, but at least it isn't snowing. This is a Very Good Thing given I can reach down past the bump to pull/zip on winter boots and am STILL wearing my summer Birkies which are falling apart on my feet.

Come on baby, it's time to come out to meet Mummy now.

Adventures in Speech

2009-10-16T08:18:00.002+01:00

I really should have started a diary for things like this, I'm so worried about forgetting all of the little sentences which make me say 'wow!'

I still have T's incomplete baby record book to fill in at some point though, so perhaps I'm getting ahead of myelf. In the mean time, some recent speech gems ...

T's pyjama bottoms are much too long. I helped him pull them on, then jokingly tugged them up under his armpits. 'Oooh look, Simon Cowell trousers' I said (cue husband sniggers). T looked at me scathingly. 'No Mummy, I'm a fisherman!'

On walking down the stairs: 'I want to hold the bannister'. At the bottom of the stairs: 'bye bye bannister!' (where do they pick up words like this from?!)

When not wanting to go to nursery: 'I want a Mummy cuddle ... on the sofa ... sitting down ... and CBeebies'. SO much more effective than a 'refusing to get dressed' tantrum!

My little boy is growing up so quickly. And look, it's my due date, and I haven't even mentioned it once .....

Something's-going-on-itis

2009-10-12T21:45:00.005+01:00

Yes, I know it's a bit of a mouthful, but I didn't make it up. After a couple of days of not being quite himself, nursery have made the official diagnosis. There is something going on and T knows all about it.

I'm talking about the baby of course. Sorry, I am aware, in a sort of 'had slightly too much to drink' kind of way, that I am going on and on about my pregnancy and the impending arrival at the moment and that people are probably willing me to shut up, but in a 'Pinot Grigio has my tongue' kind of way I'm also utterly unable to stop.

Anyway, I know that older siblings can 'regress' when a new baby comes along. Although T's showing a willingness to potty train, we've deliberately held back, moving from my beloved cloth stash to extortionately priced Bob the Builder branded pull-up nappy pants, meaning he can use the big boy toilet when the mood takes him but I'm not constantly worried about keeping the living room carpet dry. In the next couple of weeks (days?!) I'll be changing a lot of nappies. An extra few shouldn't be too much of an issue. We'll tackle training proper once we're more settled. Perhaps around the time he'll be five?

There is no denying though that despite his fierce independence and constantly improving language skills T is very keen on reminding me that he's the baby at the moment. His new favourite phrase is 'I want a mummy cuddle', followed by a leap at speed into my arms whence he clings on like one of those clip on koala toys. No amount of pressing his shoulder blades together can persuade him to release the iron grip, which sometimes also involves licking my neck.

He's developed a fascination with my breasts, hardly surprising given they were a source of food and comfort for more than sixteen months of his life, but worrying when his rummaging down my front pulls my baggy maternity tops down to my navel, exposing me to passers by. Still, the koala cling-on does do a good job of disguising that.

Each morning drop-off at nursery and bedtime kiss goodnight has been wet with tears, and our bed home to three (and 3/4!) for much of the last week.

Then, the final straw. I woke T from his nap (that's one baby habit I'll be very happy for him to keep!) and took a strangely quiet boy downstairs. We sat together at the table, ready for lunch before our afternoon music class. He started to cry. I asked what was wrong.

'Mummmmmmeeeeeeeeee, I want a dodie*'

Right. My two year old son, who never took a dummy, even when we set aside our rubber soother snobbery and desperately held it in to stop the constant crying/feeding/crying cycle, now wants something to suck on.

We never got to our music class. Instead I let my boy cling to me, feeling his sobbing chest heave against mine and his tears drop onto my front. We stuck together on the sofa, and I murmured into his ear, stroking his hair. There are big changes coming. I'm a grown-up, with a bump, and a husband to moan at, and to be honest I'm pretty terrified. Why should my two year old feel any differently.

Something's going on. But are we ready for it?

*colloquial for dummy

Goodbye

2009-10-10T12:42:00.008+01:00

How do you explain death to a toddler?

My son is a lucky boy. He has a full complement of grandparents in rude health who adore him, and is cosseted in a family web of safety and security. I would do anything within my power to protect him from sadness or harm. I hold his hand as we descend the stairs, and when bad dreams wake him in the night even in my elephantine state I'm willing to shove up a bit so he can go back to sleep in his preferred comfort position, snuggled up on the edge of Daddy's pillow holding a fistful of my hair.

I realise this could be so much worse - my husband lost his beloved grandmother earlier this year - but we have been faced with the loss of one of the family pets, and at just over two, T 'knows'.

The rabbits predated the boy of course. Five and a half years ago with a patch of grass and too much time on our hands we relieved a colleague of two unwanted baby dwarf lops. When we arrived to pick up our new arrivals the mother (human, not rabbit obviously, this not being Watership Down) said 'I know I'm biased, but they're really bonny bunnies', and Bonny and Bigwig (OK, so maybe it was a little Watership Down) were named.

We lost Bonny a few years ago, before T was born, and replaced him with Bernadette, a completely bonkers rescue rabbit fond of chasing her own tail and trying to escape. Bigwig, older, slower and more sensible, was always T's favourite, happy to sit on the grass and be stretched towards, crawled towards and eventually toddled towards, always darting out of the way at just the right moment, leaving my boy giggling in a heap in the garden. T could say Bigwig long before he could say 'raddit'.

In the way of all things though, Bigwig had grown old and tired. As the weather cooled this autumn and he failed to fatten and fluff up in preparation for the winter ahead, we knew the end was in sight. He wasn't eating or cleaning himself and had a horrible recurring eye infection. Obviously miserable, we sadly made the decision to have him put down. My husband, tears in his eyes, made the trip to the vet yesterday morning and buried Bigwig alongside Bonny, under the rosebush in the front garden.

But how to explain to T?

I definitely didn't want to say that our missing pet had 'gone to sleep', potentially leaving our toddler terrified of closing his eyes, but talk of stars and heaven doesn't sit particularly well with our agnosticism. With T's diary stuffed full of hospital and clinic appointments, I was similarly loathe to tell him that the vet (or the 'rabbit doctor' as he calls him) couldn't make Bigwig better, which was why he hadn't come home. So what to say? Luckily, two wet days mean we haven't been out in the garden since yesterday morning. T hasn't yet noticed his furry friend's absence, buying my husband and I another day to get our story straight before the inevitable questions.

In need of a change of scenery, we trudged around the Trafford Centre yesterday afternoon. Dodging the hyper-keen early Christmas shoppers, we took T to John Lewis to choose a new toy as a present for his baby sister. Once he had been persuaded away from the big red buses, he selected a super soft, snowy white, floppy eared bunny. Snuggling it close to his chest he said 'like Bigwig, for baby'. And that made us smile.

It's not a competition ...

2009-10-06T13:33:00.004+01:00

... words which are only spoken when it IS of course.

There is sickness in the B household. After being deaf in one ear for more than a week, I finally dragged myself to the doctor yesterday to be diagnosed with an ear and throat infection and be prescribed antibiotics in a bid to get me 'tip top' for labour. Yes, those were the doctor's actual words. I stepped through the sliding doors and into 1950.

Not to be outdone, my husband is also off work sick. He has aching muscles and (again) a sore throat. Thankfully the lack of a temperature means it's unlikely to be Swine Flu, and having checked him carefully for rashes and forced him to look into the heart of one of our energy saving bulbs until he saw spots for a good few hours, I'm pretty sure it's nothing more sinister. After a phone consultation, his doctor prescribed ibuprofen, which is an over the counter drug. I am adamant therefore that he is Not As Sick As Me. I got a real prescription and everything. And that's before taking my almost 39 weeks of pregnancy into account.

He's not having any of it of course. We follow each other around the house, coughing pathetically, draping ourselves over the sofa, fighting over who gets the most room and who has to get up to make the drinks. We nap, and quarrel over the duvet, best pillows and whose wriggling has caused the stretchy bottom sheet to come away, leaving us lying on the raw sheeny mattress underneath. When the baby monitor squarks we argue whether 'poorly and on maternity leave' trumps 'poorly and tired', and the loser both gets to give our son his breakfast and later craftily deposit him on the bed with the still sleeping parent whilst sneaking off to the bathroom for a bit of respite and to gloat.

As I sigh heavily, turning over and yanking my share of the duvet from wherever he's squirreled it, waiting for the antibiotics to kick in, I say a silent prayer of thanks for the fact my husband is, underneath it all, a real workaholic, and planning to go back into the office tomorrow. He can't be that sick then. And I need a drink. This is one competition I'm not going to lose!

Practicalities

2009-10-04T09:03:00.005+01:00

I finally finished work on Thursday evening at 37+6 days pregnant. 37 weeks is considered 'term' and had I gone into labour at any point over the last week or so I'd have still been able to have my planned homebirth. The midwife visited on Monday, and having given our house and bump the green light (ambulance access in case of emergency, baby in the correct position) gave me a list of things to procure before B-day. Although of course I could go ahead without, these are the little items which apparently will make the whole business a lot simpler.

Some of the orders weren't a surprise, plenty of towels is perhaps one of the oldest labour cliches, and we have already procured a packet of B&Q decorator's sheets to waterproof the lounge floor. We seem to own a plethora of buckets, but I wanted a new one which hadn't previously been used to clean the bathroom floor or for a hungover husband to vomit in. I was confused when it was suggested I procure 'a large piece of tupperware' for the placenta though. Apparently this is so it can be inspected, if required, before disposal. Tupperware? Tupperware? Much as the thought of my baby's internal life support system fascinates me (last time I paid the dinner plate sized cartoon red blood cell scant regard, much to my regret when I eventually came round from the birth) am I really going to want to wash out its container, and perhaps retell the tale whilst producing a large portion of fruit salad in the same box at a family picnic? I have settled for a large plastic box which once held washing tablets.

The box sits in the living room, along with a large brown envelope containing the surgical gloves the midwife will wear to deliver the baby and a sterilised mouth piece for the Entonox which, I am assured, will be provided at the requisite time. There are two small vials of Syntometrine in the fridge, should the placenta need a little help in its journey from uterus to outside world, and one of Vitamin K on the windowsill. We have a pool, pump, liner and even (to my husband's disgust) a sieve.

All we need now is the baby!

Manchester Blog Awards

2009-10-02T12:38:00.002+01:00

I'm surprised and of course very pleased to have been nominated in the Best New Blog category at the 2009 Manchester Blog Awards. There are some supremely talented Manc-based writers out there, and I'm amazed that my hormonal child-centered ramblings have found a small space amongst them.

If you nominated me, thank you. If you're a new visitor, directed here from the shortlist, welcome and I hope you enjoy the read. If you're an old visitor, I hope my newly commenced maternity leave means I'll be able to post more often very soon.

The results will be announced at a do at Band on the Wall on October 21. If baby two has not put in an appearance by then I hope to be able to make it.

Pizza

2009-10-02T08:07:00.004+01:00

My mother is a technophobe. In the years since we bought her first (and only) mobile phone it is telling that she's only had to top up the credit twice. It pains me to say it, but she might as well carry a small-ish stone around in her handbag, so rarely is it switched on, within earshot or of any practical use whatsoever.

Actually I am doing her a great disservice. When it comes to the crunch, with a mammoth effort (quite possibly involving roping in one of the errant teens hanging out behind her house) she can compose and send a text message. There have been precisely three ... the first (under my tutelage) said 'dear eve i luv you mum', the extra letter in love and any punctuation being a step too far. The second was to my husband after he'd left a message to tell her my first labour was relatively advanced and we were heading to hospital, and said 'on my way'. The third, a couple of weeks ago, was the longest yet. 'In America there is a bumper sticker which says home delivery is for pizzas'.

I am 38 weeks pregnant and planning a home birth for my second child, and the text is indicative of a general parental rumbling which has become louder as B-day becomes closer, disapproval nudging just beneath the surface that I am about to attempt something foolhardy, risky and somehow just a little unsavoury.

I'm not of course. Earlier this year, a study of more than half a million women demonstrated that 'low risk' labours supervised by a midwife are just as safe at home as they are in hospital. Given my baby is head down, in the correct position and I've had a previous vaginal birth I see little reason to trouble the soon-to-be-condemned maternity unit at Fairfield Hospital. I've been loaned a birth pool, and there's no risk that someone else will be in it at the critical moment, and have my midwife's approval. Anecdotal evidence suggests that being at home amid familiar surroundings helps promote the release of oxytocin, the happy hormone which helps labour progress naturally.

So why are there still so many doubters? I think for so many women, indeed generations of women, including my mother, home birth is just totally removed from their sphere of experience. They can't see why anyone wouldn't want to rock up at a lovely clean, white hospital filled with experienced professionals and hard drugs and give birth to a baby without having to worry about getting blood on the carpet. My Mum's concerns are that her grandchild and first born daughter get through labour as safely as possible, and to her, that means surrendering to the consultant-led unit, with its monitors, lights and beeps. And until more women choose to give birth at home, nudging the percentage of births from 2.something upwards, how can I be expected to to change her mind?

I'm treating the situation diplomatically of course. I laughed at the text and continue to remind my Mum that should the remainder of my pregnancy deviate from the norm I will of course reasess whether a home birth is still the right choice. As I type this on my sofa though, I look around the room filled with photos, toys and familiar clutter and know that, given half a chance, this is where I would like my daughter to be born. Straight into the heart of the family who are desperate to meet her.

And being at home, if I have a sudden mid-labour urge for a deep pan with extra pepperoni, I can, from my own phone of course, order a pizza.

Snacktime

2009-09-28T08:41:00.006+01:00

AKA confessions of a guilty Mummy

If you know me in real life please look away now. I am posting this under the cloak of Blog anonymity for reasons of my own parenting dignity.

This weekend my husband's team, Colchester United, were playing in the North, away at Tranmere Rovers' Prenton Park ground. It's been an age since we caught up with the rest of the Northern Exiles and T had a chance to practice the football chants Daddy teaches him in the bath most evenings, so we packed bags and trotted off towards Liverpool for a Saturday afternoon out.

I always consider myself to be a fairly organised person. Whilst camping, it was my husband who had to race a non-toilet trained bare bottomed toddler back from the showers as he'd forgotten to take a clean nappy. I'm usually the one bringing up the rear under the weight of a giant rucksack stuffed with toys, books, snacks and a change of clothes, most of which are now too small (clothes), young (books and toys) or not to his taste (snacks). But hey, be prepared!

This weekend then when T proclaimed himself hungry only five minutes after kickoff, I was organised, with treats for all occasions. What I'd not considered was that he might want not just one or two, but ALL of my emergency rations. Perhaps we're coming up to another growth-spurt (about time too!) or he was just using food as a desperate attempt at distraction from the woeful performance on the pitch. In half an hour, after a large breakfast and lunch, T ate:

One round of cheese on toast (cold and sliced)
Two satsumas
One nectarine
One grown-up handful of grapes
One bag of Organix 'No Junk' cookies
One Organix fruit bar and
One disgusting pouch of 'fruit squish'*

He'd also have eaten a Humzinger had Daddy not dropped it onto the floor whilst opening the slippery packet. We had almost 15 sold minutes of plaintive 'umziiiiiiinger, umziiiiiiiinger' until half time, but even with my vaguely lax cleanliness standards (probably the main reason very few people have seen our kitchen!) I couldn't bear to pick it up from the concrete floor coated with the grime of thousands of pairs of football supporters' boots so he could eat it.

So the ref finally blew the whistle. Half time. T was still complaining about being hungry so whilst I took him for a run around (not on the pitch sadly, although he'd have liked that, mostly on a vomit inducing tour round and round the pillars holding the corrugated roof in place) Daddy went in hunt of more food for a 'starving' toddler, and his increasingly hungry mother.

He returned with two of these. Yes, amongst a landscape of lurid fuschia 'sausage' rolls and mystery meat pies, the most suitable foodstuff was the one that helps you work, rest and play. A bloody Mars Bar.

T wouldn't share of course. He ate 3/4 of the whole thing in around half an hour and then dropped the remainder on the floor, cue more tears. I was so ashamed at being the mother of the child with a brown chocolate moustache that I didn't really notice not getting any. On the plus side he was quiet, stopped wriggling and the game finished 1-1.

There is something magical about football. The result of a couple of hours outside, jiggling and watching and jumping up (ahhhhhhhhhh!) and sitting down and jumping up again (yeaaaaaaahhhhh!) and cheering which always knackers me out. T and I both slept all of the way home, even after his massive calorie intake.

Interestingly, since the weekend T has eaten very little. Perhaps for one day only he imagined he was a hamster, and stored that massive combination of snacks and, yes, Mars Bar, in his cheek for future sustinence. That, I tell myself, would make it Not Quite So Bad.

*If anyone can tell me why my lovingly Baby Led Weaned toddler, who has always refused anything pureed, has suddenly decided that sucking these Stage One sweet sachets is the best thing ever, please let me know!

Wishes for Spring

2009-09-27T10:03:00.005+01:00

One day of our recent holiday took us to the wonderful Eden Project in Cornwall. T adored it of course. There was plenty of space to run around, amazing sculptures to gape at, willow tunnels to race through and of course the giant (and very hot!) Rainforest Biome full of massive leaves which make great hats or fans. Our buggy was laden not with toddler but with handfuls of fallen (and slightly brown and mushy) ones by the time we reached the exit. Oh, and they have a 'train', carriages pulled by a giant tractor, for people who might need help walking up the steep ex-quarry's sides to the entrance and exit at the top. If T wasn't glad that I'm cooking him a sister before, he is now. He still speaks daily about the 'tractor train' that helped this tired bump up the hill at the end of the day.

Anyway, we spent our Eden morning exploring, then after a picnic lunch ventured into the slightly cooler Mediterranean Biome where, amongst olive trees and fragrant herbs, T was invited to plant a pot with a couple of tulip bulbs.

We patted down the earth, made sure they were pointy end up and sprinkled some more compost on top. T also prodded his with a stick, apparently an essential part of the planting process. We were then handed a card on which to write a wish for spring. The bulbs came home with us and when they flower, the wishes we left behind at Eden will apparently all come true.

Daddy wished for 'T to play nicely with his baby sister'. T wished for 'a train'.

Perhaps by spring we're going to need a bigger house.

In the pink

2009-09-26T11:19:00.002+01:00

I have done a crafty clothes swap with a friend who recently gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. A giant bag of our small blue things has been swapped with THREE huge sacks of baby girl items long outgrown by her sparky toddler. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not adverse to putting my soon-to-be daughter in car-print vests, they're on the inside for a reason, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited to run my hands through piles of pink, yellow and flowery patterned babygrows, tees and socks.

In a fit of nesting I emptied the bags into the washer and switched it on. In a fit of pregnancy forgetfulness, long after the cycle had finished I was gainfully employed elsewhere ... possibly napping, or Facebooking or perhaps listening to my Rainbow Relaxation hypnobirthing script. Whichever way, it was 12 hours later, my arms full of damp towels, before I even went near the machine again.

My eyebrows raised in horror. The new load fell to the floor. Tears spiked at my eyes. I couldn't believe it. Only weeks after I spent hours up to my elbows in Dylon colour run remover when an errant red sock ruined a whole pile of whites, including almost all of my maternity clothes, it had happened AGAIN. In a fit of petulance I knocked a pile of paperwork from the kitchen worksurface onto the floor. Had I been wearing shoes I might have kicked something. I mentally composed a verbal attack on my husband. It must have been him of course, I just don't make mistakes like that.

Then it hit me. The view through the concave door was meant to be pink.

I'm blaming hormones.

Holidays

2009-09-21T20:01:00.007+01:00

After the disaster/fun adventure (depending on whether you ask my husband or I!) that was our Bank Holiday weekend camping trip, there was no arguing that Family B were really in quite desperate need of another holiday. It's all relative of course, we're not talking food, oxygen or money (although we'd also quite like some more of that please) here, I know holidays are not one of life's essentials, but the week before last saw us tired, grumpy and worried about the new arrival. We'd finally washed the last of the mud from our clothes and dried out the sodden tent, so a last minute booking was made and we began the marathon trek from our home in Lancashire to the Cornish coast.

And what a week we had! Sunshine, blue skies and a cool breeze met us every morning. The cottage, chosen for its wet weather friendly swimming pool, barely got a look in as we explored beautiful beaches, made (and demolished) sandcastles and ate rather too many scones with clotted cream and jam on.

There are an awful lot of companies flogging holidays for families. Soft play, kids clubs and baby listening services were on the menus of many of the locations we considered and dismissed. Well, mainly they dismissed us, even a clear fortnight after the end of the school holidays there was remarkably little availability. It was amazing how many toddler families of almost four we saw on our travels, a plethora of bumps who, like us, had taken heart in the long range forecast and made the trip in search of some Indian summer sun. It got me thinking though, what do you need for the perfect family holiday?

There are practicalities of course. Schlepping stairgates, highchairs and travel cots across the country isn't fun. But beyond that, what are the key ingredients for a good time?

It pains me to say it, but Mummy, Daddy, a few toys and books and the space to run around are T's key happiness-makers. I loved seeing his face as the waves on Widemouth beach tickled his tiny toes, but it pains my husband to note that he loved the Lake District rain just as much.

Admittedly happy parents make happy children, and it did make a huge difference to have a cheerful husband rather than a constantly complaining one, but for me, future holidays could definitely be of the cheap and cheerful variety. Now where did I put that mallet?!

Changing his mind

2009-09-07T14:53:00.003+01:00

Remember this post? I was very excited when my husband and I finally agreed on our daughter's name, and since then have been calling her by it (in private of course, I'm still irrationally worried someone will come along and 'steal' it before I give birth!) and ignoring the multitude of baby name forums out there, well except to read and dismiss all their suggestions as not as good as ours.

So it was bound to happen wasn't it. My husband has only gone and changed his bloody mind!

It started with an email. It was a professional exchange, something from the press office. The name? The one we have chosen for our daughter. The effect? He's well and truly put off.

I sympathise of course, there are plenty of names I like but that we can't use for lots of reasons. The moniker of my childhood bully for example, or of my husband's ex-wife. But one email? One lousy email?! He wont be swayed though, it's 'spoilt it' now.

Back to the lists tonight, and the forums. Less lurking and dismissing, more posting and asking for help!

The curse of CBeebies

2009-09-05T18:23:00.005+01:00

T is a big fan of CBeebies. I always swore I'd be one of those mothers who only let their child play with organically produced battery-free fair-trade wooden toys until they were six, and that the telly would be reserved for special occasions only, but then reality bit. Admittedly we've never watched quite as much of Auntie's offerings for under-5s as we do now, but my exhausted, elephantine state is temporary (I hope!) and we do balance a couple of hours in front of the goggle box with plenty of runs around the park or trips to the library. And at least there are no adverts.

There are perils though. T loves the hideous 'Big Cook, Little Cook', a programme I regarded with suspicion even before I saw its presenters moonlighting on Nuts TV, and I can't get the Numberjack's theme tune out of my head. Then there's Timmy. Timmy is the epnoymous star of an Aaardman animation about starting nursery school ('he's a little lamb with a lot to learn'). Like Gromit before him, he doesn't speak, but communicates via noises and expressions. It's very clever, and although in the 'bright and loud' camp, unlike other new favourite 'Waybulloo' it's nowhere near as offensive as 'Lazy Town'.

In an attempt to get organised and save money I've spent this afternoon batch cooking meals for the family. Mash and home-made potato wedges have been bagged and put in the freezer and a giant pan of T's favourite, lamb curry, simmered on the stove.

I served up a giant portion for tea. T tucked in with gusto. I sat next to him in a halo of smugness, gleeful he was consuming a lovely giant bowl of lentils, sweet potato and kidney beans. I'd even managed to sneak some spinach in there this time. Then came this exchange.

T (holding a piece of meat): 'what's that Mummy?'
Me: 'that's lamb darling, it's lamb curry'
T (regarding bowl suspiciously): 'lamb? lamb? Timmy?'

His bottom lip began to wobble. I panicked. Thinking of the huge vat still on the hob, cooling before being transferred in portions to the freezer, I did what every mother in the same circumstances would have done. Distraction.

'Oooh look darling, there's a cat outside the window'

Momentarily distracted, he continued to wolf down his tea. I watched nervously, half expecting him to turn up his nose at any moment.

He didn't of course. In fact in the end he had seconds. He has obviously inherited his mother's fickleness rather than his father's hard-core vegetarianism.

Countdown

2009-09-04T22:16:00.004+01:00

We're officially on birthday countdown. In two weeks time I will have (gulp) a two year old, and I wonder, how did the tiny babe, barely seven pounds, suffering from post-ventouse cone head become my blonde-haired, passionate toddler boy.

The clues are there of course, the nose is the same, although he's grown into it, and those lips. But where does the rest of it come from? Less than three years ago there was a bundle of cells, how have I, have we as a family, grown it into this whole little person.

In the last two years my life has changed beyond recognition. I have new friends, a house full of toys and a previously undiscovered passion for the best bits of CBeebies. I am not the mother I thought I would be, but for almost every behaviour that disappoints me - my lack of patience and occasional resorts to fishwifery - there is something else that I'm proud of.

Two years ago T's life on the outside had not even begun, today he's played at toddler group, collected sticks in the park and politely asked for (and demolished) 'more nectarine please Mummy'. It's timely that his new favourite song is 'Happy Birthday', sung several times a day at top volume.

Heavily pregnant again, it's hard to remember how I felt two years ago today, exactly one week before my due date. Was I ironing babygro's (no, really!) or frantically trying to finish one of the home-made pictures I lovingly completed for the brand new nursery. Maybe I was nervous about the impending birth, obsessively rereading the relevant chapters in one of a large pile of baby books. Perhaps I was rubbing my bump, cursing the indigestion but secretly quite enjoying the pop, pop, pop of tiny hiccups deep inside my abdomen.

One thing is certain though, as the baby monitor snores by my side, I didn't know it would be this good.

It's a Hard Knott Life For Us ...

2009-08-31T16:02:00.005+01:00

AKA is it really possible to go glamping with kids?

This weekend started innocently enough. A friend, fresh from a sunny Whitsun break away, asked our mum's group whether we fancied a late summer camping trip. Well I was in the Guides of course, I'm handy with the square lashing and know just where to put my kindling for maximum impact. I've enjoyed many a festival, and managed to survive the great Glasto flood of 2005, so despite not having ventured out under canvas since T arrived we signed up straight away. And so it was that six families (including two pregnant mums) and their eight children trotted off to the Lake District this weekend.

I need to rewind a bit, it wasn't quite that simple of course. Finding a site that would let us pre-book and which was family suitable was a challenge, but Church Stile seemed to fit the bill. We dug out our old tent, tugged on the guy ropes and scratched our heads. Somehow even a giant double skinned dome didn't seem suitable for three plus bump so I began the search for a new one, as did many of my camping compatriots. I read up on glamping. In these credit crunch times, eco friendly families are going back to basics and putting their money where their tent pegs are. I looked at blogs featuring pictures of Bodened-up children frolicking in front of Cath Kidston teepees. They extolled the virtues of jam jars as vases and talked of vintage table cloths and mismatched china. I imagined that could be us, and rinsed off the multi-coloured plastic Disney picnic ware.

I should have known of course. The weather forecast was the first warning. As departure day drew nearer my claim that the long-range prediction of torrential rain was wildly inaccurate began to sound a little thin. My husband made 'not coming' noises, but undeterred I booked him a train ticket to join us after work on Friday, planning to greet him with a cold beer served in a warm field as the children entertained themselves with nature's playthings.

Oh dear.

It is only thanks to two of the wonderful husbands present on the trip that my tent got up at all. A dry run having been thwarted by the bleeding episode earlier in the week, it came out of its bag for the first time in the really quite muddy field where we planned to set up a mini village. My husband missed his connection, and a lack of mobile phone signal meaning we spent 90 minutes waiting on a freezing station for him to arrive. He stepped from the train, despite having been a mostly sunny afternoon, the heavens opened.

Oh the rain. It rained, and rained and rained.

I am taking full advantage of poetic license here of course. There was respite from the showers. Saturday in particular was a lovely day. We spent the day owl-spotting at Muncaster Castle and ooohing at the beautiful scenery. The company for the weekend was wonderful, I am lucky to have such lovely friends who in turn have beautiful children. The setting was picturesque, and T has probably never had so much fun. There are definitely some things our three days away have taught me though:

If your husband really really really doesn't want to go camping, but agrees to placate you, he will be miserable, whatever the weather
If your husband is miserable, you will be miserable, however hard you try not to be
When the only clothes that fit are your summer maternity wardrobe and it turns cold, you'll have to resort to interesting combinations. Black leggings, a cream skirt, two layered tops and blue wellies was the real low point
One Size 5 toddler nappy does not contain the wee of a pregnant adult human. When it's pouring down in the middle of the night it is far better to brave the outdoors than to have to exercise your poorly performing pelvic floor to pause mid flow to grab another one, the alternative being to pee on the floor of the tent
Asda camping equipment is cheap for a reason. Our 'table' was so shoddy that even a vintage jam jar of wild flowers would have keeled over, had I been arsed to bring one
A tent village defies all laws of physics, and sound travels huge distances in the open air. This is good when you're after the gossip and very bad when trying to whisper-argue with aforementioned grumpy husband
If your toddler wants to stand at the water's edge and watch the stream, there is a 95% chance that even if you are within a foot of him at all times, he'll still manage to fall headfirst into freezing water

There were good bits too of course. Watching the children play together (albeit in wellies and waterproofs), communal cake by lantern light and the pride I felt at actually having managed three nights on an airbed in my heavily pregnant state. We were definitely camping though. The mud that came off my legs in the shower this afternoon, back home and dry, is testament to that. More back to nature than glam in any way shape or form.

Next year though, with a stronger table, larger stove, more enthusiastic husband and (gulp) two children. Who knows??

I'm game if you are.

Vulnerable

2009-08-27T08:57:00.003+01:00

At points over the last seven and a half months I have been guilty of almost ignoring this pregnancy. With none of the SPD which made expecting T more painful than it might have been, a new job and a manic toddler I haven't had the time or, to be honest, the inclination to pore over the Mamas & Papas catalogue and indulge in daydreams about life with a newborn again. If it wasn't for the giant football up my jumper, the constant need for new bras (how big?!) and the bottle of Gaviscon on the bedside table, life could almost be carrying on as normal.

I'm not saying I'm ungrateful of course. Every day I remember how lucky I am to be able to complete my family when I want to. I say a silent prayer of thanks when the baby kicks (less angrily than her brother did, I wonder if this means a more chilled out baby is on her way?) and have a sneaky rub, gently pushing back on the tiny elbows or heels making a bid for freedom through my abdomen, whenever I can. But until now I've been lucky enough not to have to worry about my pregnancy.

Then on Monday, en route to the shower, it happened. I spotted blood. Not lots, but it was there, red and angry and for one moment the bottom fell out of my world. It is impossible to be rational in situations like this, but whilst T played with toys in the (empty) bath, safely out of the way, I called the hospital, my husband and put a friend on standby for childcare. As advised I stuck on a maternity towel and drank two pints of ice-cold cordial to encourage the baby to move.

After an hour or so of monitoring, a dignity-shrinking series of internal exams and swabs and a few tears, the midwives at the local hospital pronounced the baby was fine and sent me on my way with instructions to rest and come back if the bleeding, by now little more than spotting, got any worse. 'Just one of those things'.

When we returned from the hospital, and my husband went back to the office, T needed a nap. I joined him, and tried to sleep off some of the worry. When he woke, I asked what he wanted to do for the afternoon, and received the reply every Mummy in need of some TLC wants to hear:

A wee wee on the potty
Cheese toast
CBeebies on Mummy's knee

We spent the afternoon snuggling, and the next day, boy at nursery, my bump and I rested up and lazed about. As the spotting tailed off and eventually stopped I made a promise to myself to celebrate these last weeks as a pregnant woman and take some time out for just me and my girl.

Listening

2009-08-17T21:35:00.004+01:00

T moved rooms at nursery last week. I adore his childcare. Despite it not being our first choice, he has grown and thrived in his three days a week there for almost twelve months, and I wouldn't change it for the world. Well, unless I won the lottery of course.

The leap from the oldest room in the Kindergarten unit to the youngest in the pre-school unit has been a great one though. The nursery is split site, with two buildings straddling the entrance to the local park. The drop-off area for parents is outside the Kindergarten unit, and every morning since the change T has raced from my grip and clung to to the gates of his old unit, asking for his favourite keyworkers Nad-Nad (Nadia) and Kelly, before I've prised off his fingers and carried a wriggling parcel of screeching toddler to 'Big Boy Nursery'.

The new unit is wonderful. There's a much larger outside play area, a vegetable garden and even a suite of tiny toilets and wash hand basins, although T doesn't need any help with his obsession with 'wee wees' (more on that later). The activity is more full-on, and he's come home truly knackered every day, full of tales of dancing and with green paint in one ear.

It's hard on days like these, especially when his younger sister is trying to force her toes through my solar plexus in a bid for the outside world, to remember that of course T is still a baby. There remains so much to learn. Although his language has come on in leaps and bounds in the last weeks there are still comical errors.

This afternoon we made a swift trip to the supermarket to buy ingredients to make biscuits for the aforementioned keyworkers. Yes I know 'proper' presents to say thank you are probably in order, but I'm broke and like a project, so vanilla mixture with icing and sprinkles it is.

T didn't want to get in the car. Then he didn't want to get out of the car. Then he didn't want to get into the trolley. Then he didn't want to wear the waist strap unless he could fasten it himself. In a desperate attempt to save my sanity I offered him the contents of my shopping bag in turn ... he was distracted for around 40 seconds by 'holding Mummy's pennies' until he realised he wasn't allowed to throw each of my credit cards on the floor in turn. He was distracted by my phone for the same amount of time, before I refused to let him call his cousin A (currently on holiday in Spain, I'm not that cruel!) In desperation, I handed him the shopping list, a copy of Nigella's recipe to remind me how much butter to buy.

He held the scrap of cardboard in his hand, turning it over and over, studying my scrawl on one side, half a portrait of Tony the Tiger on the other. Then he held it to his ear. He was quiet, and I didn't click for a while that he wanted my attention, although he was trying to catch my eye. In the end, almost bouncing out of the seat in excitement, I asked if he was OK.

'Mummy, mummy, mummy' he said, my list still pressed firmly to his ear like a bad toy mobile, 'I'm list-ing, list-ing ... good boy!'

List, listen. You can see what he did there. How do you explain the vagaries of the English language to a boy who is not yet two, but thinks he is so much more?

Grey

2009-08-13T11:04:00.001+01:00

I have been AWOL for a fortnight now. I keep logging on, meaning to update and tell the latest tales of what’s been going on in our little family, but never quite getting round to it. I always have blogging down in my head as a happy activity, this site is somewhere to share the funny things that happen when a two year old and a burgeoning bump are jostling for their Mum’s attention, but for no real reason the last couple of weeks have been fairly grey.

I’m not being needy, honestly. I have no cause to be sad. In fact I have lots of reasons to be happy. Baby news from a friend, holiday plans and my sister’s upcoming wedding have all made me smile. I am eternally thankful that my pregnancy is progressing normally - baby growing, skin stretching, bra bulging. I rejoice in feeling tiny feet digging in under my ribs, and am much less tired than I was when carrying T.

So why the gloom? Well, can you blame hormones? It feels churlish to complain about nothing whilst others cope with life’s real challenges with dignity and aplomb. Perhaps biology is my ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card. Or perhaps I have caught a dose of toddler irrationalism from T. My bump makes me increasingly public property. Strangers on the street ask whether I know the sex of the baby, parents with buggies in lifts ask how I’m feeling, and the women in the local charity shop reach in for a sneaky pat. I love it, the extra attention, the knowing smiles from other bumps I pass in the corridoor at work, so why then do I feel utterly lonely?

I hate this feeling. If nothing else, it’s just not me. God willing, this will be my last pregnancy. I have nine weeks (and probably more than a few days) left to enjoy it, and it makes me cross that I’m not doing. I shout at T, I bait my husband into snapping at me. I get up, dress and go to work every day hoping that today the sun will peek from behind the clouds, slap me around the face with a wet fish and tell me not to be so stupid. Is this feeling nothing but an expectant mother’s indulgence? Maybe I need to be keeping busier, thinking less. My Mum’s voice echoes in my head … ‘I’ll give you something to really worry about’.

I hope to be back telling tales again soon. In the meantime if anyone knows of a magic enthusiasm tonic, please send it in my direction. I want my voice back, or a kick up the backside. Maybe both.

Things my parents have argued about ...

2009-07-28T20:39:00.004+01:00

OK this could be a really long post. My parents, who separated more than 20 years ago, really don't like each other very much. At all. A much shorter post would be 'things my parents haven't argued about'.

But anyway, this isn't actually a post about family dynamics, it's a post about books. I'll explain.

My sister and I were raised in a house full of books. Our teacher mother was obsessed with the written word, and had much more patience than I have with my own child. Although it was probably easier to resist the lure of the 42" flat screen babysitter in the corner before CBeebies was invented.

Emma Bradshaw posted this quote from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on her blog, and it instantly reminded me of life on Fairholme Avenue in our childhood home which felt as big as a castle. A castle with its own library.

The nursery shelves held books galore!

Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens and whales
And treasured isles and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants...

There were books to read ourselves, eyes straining under the covers in the gloam of Manchester twilights when we should have been asleep. There were trips to the library and sometimes, for a treat, to the tiny bookshop wedged into Urmston precinct between Boots the chemist and the pound shop.

Then there were books that were read to us. In later years my sister and I held each other and cried as Bambi's mother died, and begged my Mum to stop reading. Before that there were picture books. Dog-eared and with pages attached with sellotape we had the same stories read over and over again to us. Being a sentimental old fool, I've rebought many of these old favourites for T, the originals having been donated to my Mum's school in the years after we outgrew them, or finally consigned to the great library in the sky when the missing pages outnumbered the remaining ones.

Thus we have Meg and Mog, Peepo, Funnybones and of course the book which has become a bit of a blogging obsession for me, Dogger.

There is something about Shirley Hughes' illustrations which brings the simple story to life. I went to an exhibition of her artwork at the Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool a few years ago and saw the original Dogger, the toy the story was based on, locked in an airtight fishtank in the manner of a priceles antique. Smaller than I imagined, and definitely well-loved, he bore little resemblance to the picture in the book being 'pulled along on a lead made of string like a real dog'.

T adores the story, and unlike some of his other favourites (Meg and Mog's Touch and Feel Counting Book) it's a delight to tell. Bloody good job as we've heard it at least once a night for the last three months. But I don't mind. I sit by the side of his bed, reciting it by heart as he turns the pages and points out more and more detail. It's even Daddy friendly, allowing my husband to have taught his son to recognise a Dalek, part of the fancy dress parade montage in the section about the school summer fair.

In my childhood home though, an innocent tale of sibling love was apparently a source of marital discontent. The section where Mum gives Bella the money for two ice-creams, and Dave shares his with Joe? Joe wanted 'more in-between licks'. Apparently my parents argued over the inflection ... was it more, in-between licks or more 'inbetween licks'. Each parent picked their own side. Twenty years on, my Mum can still remember.

I find it hard to imagine any clearer sign that their life as a couple was nearing its natural end, and there's no contradicting that it was for the best. But this story is filled with such happy memories for me. As it's woven into the threads of T's childhood, the endless repetition almost guaranteeing he'll read the same words to his own first born, I can't imagine compromising this feeling for anything, and I'm sad that my parents' recollections are not as strong, or as comforting, as my own.

Poetry

2009-07-25T09:49:00.005+01:00

One of the last tasks in the final days of my old job was a difficult one. As part of the BBC's poetry season I was given a group of 10 sullen teenagers, some technology and an empty room for two days, challenged with turning them into poets.

I was actually pleasantly surprised by the group. They responded well to short work by Michael Rosen and Roger McGough, and argued that the example I'd found online couldn't possibly be a Haiku because it had just the wrong number of syllables, alright?

On my way out of the door that morning, laden down with resources for the first session, I'd grabbed a rarely used magnetic poetry kit from one of the kitchen drawers and added it to my bag of props. Now I divvied up the words, each student getting 10, and asked them to compose their own poems.

I realised just in time that I was probably risking a teenage giggle fest, and removed three letters from the pot, the magnet saying 'sex' was stowed in my wallet whilst the workshop continued. I didn't need to give the group any extra ammunition. I promptly forgot about it of course.

Fast forward to Friday, and I met a friend at the local pool for our weekly aquanatal session. The seventeen year old lifeguard collecting the fees shared some sort of hilarious anecdote with his friends as I scrabbled in the bottom of my purse for the correct change. Four pounds ten, fifteen, sixteen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Got it! I handed over a pile of silver and copper and waited for him to confirm I'd counted the right amount. The coins clattered into the till, there was a pause. Oh no, is it short? I rummaged in my bag again to find my purse, and unzipped it, ready to dig out the five pence or so I'd probably miscounted. The lifeguard studied what was in his hand. What's this? He held it up to me. Ah yes, that little magnet, those three little letters I'd removed from the kit earlier this week were there, stuck to the back of a 1p piece. Sex.

I went purple. The lifeguard's friends fell about laughing. She wants you mate! She's after you! It was a message! I tried to explain, but my garbled mutterings about poetry were lost amid the cackling. The lifeguard looked me up and down, taking in my giant bump, Primark vest and super sexy maternity leggings. My head drooped. I apologised, and grabbed the magnet from his hand, stuffing it back into my purse and making a dash for the changing rooms.

Accidentally propositioning someone? Now that's poetry.

Girls

2009-07-23T20:29:00.005+01:00

There is no denying that T has a real thing for the girls. I don't know whether it's because the majority of my friends have small pink children, but he does seem to attach himself to female persons with ferocity.

T quite likes men. He's always pointing them out, his favourites being 'man in van' and 'yellow man', for K our next door but two neighbour who works as a refuse collector and is often out and about in his high vis jacket. He adores my husband of course, and Grandpa. Other little boys though? Meh!

T has two cousins, C and A. A is 8 and the absolute apple of T's eye. He talks about her constantly, fetching her picture from the bookcase and asking to 'kiss A'. C, well when asked who we're going to see when we go to Essex to visit the outlaws T goes through the names in a list, counting them on his fingers as he goes ... Papa (Grandpa), Mama (Grandma), A. Then he stops. I prompt, who else? We look at the picture of two smiling siblings in school uniform next to each other. Who's that with A? Choo choo! C? Yes, choo choo. T plays with a big box of C's old trains at Grandma's house and, it appears, has been relegated to nothing more than a provider of Thomas-themed entertainment. He doesn't even have a name.

T's two best nursery friends, G and A, can do no wrong. I picked T up on Wednesday evening and, in the car on the way home, asked him what he'd done that day. 'Gave A a kiss' came the response. It must have been some kiss to be the highlight of eight hours of fun and play.

On Thursday evening he was playing in the garden when I arrived, and was so excited to see me he almost strangled himself trying to climb out of the window of the Cozy Coupe toy car for a cuddle two seconds sooner than could have been achieved had he opened the small plastic door and clambered out of the opposite side. The Mummy joy lasted only a few seconds though before he spotted G still playing away and demanded to 'get down'. He ran over, arms outstretched, they hugged and kissed and trotted off, hand in hand, babbling about something or other.

I know like many features of this toddler age (including insisting on cuddling his milk cup to sleep every night) this is a passion that will probably pass. Despite my previous rantings on people who stereotype the sexes, there are very few little boys who go to school still happy to be dressed in a tutu like their best friends. In the mean time though, I stand at the nursery door, peeping through the glass window, and watch him share books and toys with the people who, for now, are the centre of his nursery universe.

I do hope he loves his sister just as much.

You and Me Song

2009-07-19T08:42:00.004+01:00

Our house is full of family photos. There's the small, scrunched baby, eyes tightly closed, his face full of thought, cuddled up to a small blue teddy in a hospital plastic fishtank cot. There's the nursery portrait of a toddler who's changed so much more in the months since it was taken. There's even a rare photo of the three of us on a Welsh beach last year. I have a double chin on this one, but there are so few pictures of Mummy, Daddy and boy that it made the cut. I just try not to look at it too much!

T is confused though. When looking at pictures of himself, he says 'you!'

Who's in the picture T?
(pointing) Mummy ... Daddy ... and YOU!
Well yes darling it is you, but you don't say you, you say 'me' ... look, I'm Mummy and in the picture that's me!
Yes, Mummy me, Daddy and youuuuuu.

I assume this is a learning process, part of T's complex language development, and will pass soon. Has anyone who has been there and done that got any advice?

On the plus side, I've realised why he was getting so cross when I opened yoghurt pots, fastened his shoes and carried his bag in response to the command 'you do it!'

Sending me potty

2009-07-13T18:30:00.006+01:00

Try as I might, I have been utterly unable to distance myself from the Parenting Olympics. By this I mean the 'my baby's better than your baby' because s/he walked/talked/went to University earlier than yours thing, and the inference that because of the above I am a better parent/person than you.

I've been on both sides of it. Friends were agog when T got onto all fours and crawled at just over five months old. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intensely proud, and of course I didn't keep it to myself. Conversely, I more or less hid in the house when, for more than a month after starting to walk properly, he went back to his much loved crawling and resolutely refused to get to his feet again as his friends toddler happily around him. My exclusively breastfed baby piled on the weight in the early days, often more than a pound a week, turning mums of skinny minnies green with envy. Of course this came back to bite me on the bum when, between four and twelve months, he failed to put on more than a pound in total!

Try as I might to embrace the 'they'll do it when they're ready' mantra, there's nothing that makes you (by this I mean me of course) feel worse than a raised eyebrow at baby group when you say no little Johnny or Jimmy isn't sleeping through the night/cooking his own meals/solving sudoku's yet.

I thought I'd more or less passed the Baby Olympics stage though. T's NCT peers are all walking, and talking at about the same level. I'm quite happy being neither exceptional nor lagging behind. But there's something big and scary looming on the horizon, and like feeding, sleeping and even how many layers your baby is wearing, it's something everyone seems to have an opinion on. I'm talking potty training of course.

Now I'm being sensible about this. Come October I'm going to be changing lots, and lots, of nappies. I know toddlers have a tendency to take a step backwards, reminding you that they were the first baby here you know, once a younger sibling arrives, and T isn't even two until the end of September. I don't know what posessed me then to pick up a couple of luridly coloured potties on a trip to IKEA a few months ago.

Pick them up I did though, and they've sat there, mainly being used as hats/storage containers for toy trains/trip hazards to barefooted parents for more than a few weeks. That all changed thanks to Gabriella though. One of T's nursery cohorts (whom he endearingly refers to as 'babby') she's trained over the last month or so, and sits on the potty during the toddler room's regular 'nappy change' periods. Not one to miss out on a bit of one on one with his favourite girl, T has been asking to sit on the pot alongside her, and of course, is learning what it's for. Last week we had our first 'at home' potty wee. I did have a little glow of pride, until he put his hands in it and wiped them on me afterwards.

All this has made me wonder whether I should be rethinking the issue and planning to train T properly before the new baby arrives. I even wonder whether he might force my hand. Fighting to put his nappies on has become more and more of a strain, although he's always loved a bit of running about naked time, and he's started to remove wet and dirty ones himself if I don't have chance to get to them first. I have to admit that I've actually no idea how the whole things works, and the thought of days without leaving the house whilst he gets the hang of it fills me with dread.

This afternoon, after our music class, I took T to the library for a bit of distraction. The children's area is bright, with a small table and chairs, puzzles, floor cushions and accessible book cases for littlies to choose their own reads. There are also a selection of Bumbo seats. The library doubles up as HQ for the local Children's Centre and mums are encouraged to bring babes in arms from a very young age to foster a life long love of books. So far so good.

T was quiet. I'd left him pulling the dinosaurs out of an ELC wooden peg puzzle, and was rooting in the book bins to find a decent bedtime story. Then I heard a squeal. 'Mummy. Wee wee!' I looked up. T had pulled down his shorts and wedged himself into one of the Bumbo seats. He was in the process of undoing the velcro tabs on his nappy as I raced over to him and quickly explained that although they did look a little bit like a potty, those are actually chairs for little babies and not toilets for big ones! At that precise moment my mobile phone started to ring from the bottom of my bag, under a collection of Tesco shopping and the assorted accoutrements that make life with a small person more bearable. The librarians who had been watching my attempts to extricate T from the seat and dress him quickly with interest, now tutted loudly. Red with shame, I shoved T under one arm and (bag still ringing) headed swiftly for the exit.

Ignoring the fact I might not be able to show my face in the library again for a little while, today's fun reinforced that I might actually have to potty train on T's schedule, whether I'm ready or not. And, having looked carefully at both a Bumbo and his Ikea potty. Can you really blame him for getting confused? I am!

What's in a name?

2009-07-12T15:58:00.005+01:00

Naming a child is an awesome responsibility. 'This be the Verse' by Philip Larkin probably applies much more to little Adolfs than it does to Stevens and Bens. That's not to say all names have to be picked from the Top 10 of course - I was always the only Eve in my school, and it wasn't a bad thing - but there are limits.

One of the most monstrous celebrity names of recent years has been Katie Price and Peter Andre's daughter, 'Princess Tiáamii'. Peter said "I wanted to name her after both our mums and then I just woke up one morning and thought ‘I know! We’ll just put them together!'". I've obviously ruled out Barhris or Chrisra for our new baby, but creativity in child naming doesn't stop with making it up entirely course. A friend of a friend called her son Maxx, yes with two x's, to make it 'different'. It doesn't have the aural thrill of 'Princess Tiáamii' of course, but will create an added frisson of excitement on his cheque book in years to come.

We've been hunting for a suitable name for my growing bump. Having given our son an Irish name (phonetically spelt, not made up!) something that 'matches' would be the ideal. I'd originally wanted Florence, but its quintessential Englishness just doesn't go with T, or to be frank our appalling surname.

Then I found it. OK, I didn't find it myself, it was mentioned in passing on a thread on a baby name forum (yes, there are such things, and great entertainment to be had by reading them!) ... THE name. One of the only suggestions which my husband hasn't instantly dismissed (lets gloss over his ideas, including Clarabelle and Gertrude) it's grown and grown on me and I now have 'the fear' that someone else will somehow 'discover' it and 'steal' it before B-day. Yes, I realise this is ridiculous, but the pregnancy hormones seem to have over-ridden my 'rational' gene.

Then I panicked. What if the name, our name, HER name, had some hideous connotations I'd not previously discovered. What if I am planning to saddle my daughter with the same name as a porn star or brand of feminine hygiene wash? Perfect fodder for schoolyard ridicule. So I googled it of course.

Results included a group of libraries in New Mexico, a blog from a dedicated Australian knitter, photos of a sweet Swedish toddler and a famous sportsman's wife. Nothing too scary, although I suppose in the next 18 years there's plenty of time for that to change!

Co-sleeping, toddler style

2009-07-09T07:34:00.006+01:00

Way back in the beginning I posted about how much I loved co-sleeping. The power that came from having my little boy snuggled in close to his Mummy, the ultimate sedative. Well things have changed a bit since then.

We've all grown of course, T both upwards and outwards, me mainly outwards and in my need for a full night of uninterrupted sleep. So last night when I heard T wake as I listened to my Rainbow Relaxation (more on how the hypnobirthing is going coming very soon), I didn't mind too much when my husband brought him into bed with us, as I knew we'd all get more rest that way. How wrong could I be?!

There is no fun to be had in lying up against the bedside table, nose squished into the wood, as two boys, naked from the waist up, bellies rising and falling in synchronisation as they snore gently and (husband) not so gently, spreadeagle next to you, stealing all the pillows.

I got up and went to sleep in T's bed (I realise it's sounding a little Goldilocks now) where the matress was too thin to get comfy. I lay awake for almost an hour feeling very cross that we sprung for an, erm, sprung one and it's Not Very Comfy At All, before realising my pregnancy weight is probably equivalent to 10 toddlers, which might explain it. I was just drifting off when I remembered I'd left my mobile phone on charge, the handset under my pillow to deaden the sound of the morning alarm, stopping it travelling through the wall and waking T before I get my precious few minutes of morning to myself. Toddlers and wires don't mix of course. I had visions of T becoming tangled, hurting himself, and had to get up and remove it before I could settle.

My husband woke me at 4 am as he got up for work. His side of the bed vacated, I staggered into our bedroom again, grateful at last to be able to stretch out full length. T was still snoring. I fell into a much needed sleep, mobile (now fully charged) back under my pillow for the 7 am wake-up.

It never came of course. I came to when the light was still cold enough to indicate the hour was barely past six am. Something small pinged my face, and again, and again. I groaned and opened one eye. T had found my ipod on the bedside table, where I'd abandoned it at the end of the Rainbow Relaxation what felt like days ago. The pings were the earphones, being swung like a lassoo.

T looked inordinately pleased to have woken up with a ready made playmate next to him, just ripe for poking and prodding. He handed me the ipod.

"Mummy, mummy .... YELLOW SUBMARINE"!

My husband, and his mix tapes, have a lot to answer for.

Training

2009-07-07T22:04:00.010+01:00

We live in a Lancashire mill town that is full of noise. Surrounded by countryside, the birds begin to tweet at 4.30 am. The clock on the church at the end of the road chimes every hour, albeit five minutes late. In the days BC (Before Children) we'd often be woken at 10 am on Sunday mornings by the first tooting horn of the steam train on the heritage line run lovingly by volunteers and tracing a route through a line of local villages.

These days of course, we're up long before 10 am on Sundays. Despite all of the noise of the house we never miss the tooting though for T is obsessed - properly, utterly, passionately, madly - with trains.

There are worst things to be obsessed with of course. We have residents' passes for the heritage railway, meaning we can travel the entire route for less than half price (free for T) and making it an ideal lazy-idea day out. Standing in the garden and waiting for the toot which tells us a train at our small town station is ready to depart can occupy him for hours (well, half an hour maybe). And then there are the words. How many not-yet two year olds know what a piston, carriage, funnel and level crossing are. Well, I mean apart from the ones I see waving frantically from the vintage British Rail windows as we pause at the flashing lights and wait for the train to cross.

There is only one problem. I cannot bloody stand Thomas The Tank Engine.

I'm not adverse to children's brands entirely of course. We have enough In The Night Garden paraphenalia to open a small shop. I like the programme though. The colours, the pace and tone, the music, even the long unexplained absences of the Wottingers.

TTTE is completely different. The Rev W Awdry had a grand imagination, but the day to day goings on on the island of Sodor (which incidently must, according to accent, be located somewhere off the coast of Liverpool) aren't sufficiently interesting to keep T (or me!) distracted for more than a couple of minutes. Plus the newer TV versions of Awdry's stories are shown on Five as part of their Milkshake children's programming, presented by imbeciles who are at least 10 years younger than me. With adverts. Bah humbug!

The toys are hugely expensive. We have a small plastic helicopter with a rotating blade, it was a couple of quid. Paint him white, add eyes and call him Harold and he's suddenly a tenner. And have you tried the books? Yawn. I should have been suspicious when the library versions were still remarkably new looking, despite having been on the loan circuit for a couple of years.

All of this is surmountable of course. If T loved Thomas ('he's the cheeky one ...' - don't get me started on that theme tune) I'd be gritting my teeth and learning how to properly pronounce Skarloey. He doesn't though. Despite many generous gifts from Grandma and Grandpa - branded clothing, toys and DVDs - he's utterly unfussed with the whole thing, which (lets be honest) is quite alright with me.

Shaky amateur videos on Youtube though, with a close up of that piston on a wobbly zoom, clouds of steam enveloping the Handycam as the videographer coughs in the background. Those he can watch for hours.

Eating my words

2009-07-06T11:23:00.003+01:00

Ahem, given my moany post a couple of days ago I should probably be typing this with my head down in shame, but despite being convinced otherwise, I GOT THE JOB!

My new boss called on Friday to offer me the position, and apologised for the delay which had been caused by some negotiation over how to work round my pregnancy. They're v keen to have me on board, which is a good job as I'll only work for 10 weeks or so in the role before going off to have my baby. In fact they'll probably have to advertise for my maternity cover before I've even started!

The whole thing is nerve wracking. I have do actually do the job now, rather than just persuading them I can, and of course I want to repay the faith they've put in me. How to balance my increasing pregnancy and making my mark in a new role is going to be a challenge, but hey, I'm going to be a Mummy to two. How hard can it be?!

Melting

2009-07-02T16:02:00.003+01:00

I apologise for having been awol for the last week or so. It has been officially Too Hot To Blog. As an added bonus I had a job interview earlier this week, which threw up the whole question of what to wear as the temperature crawled towards 30 degrees. I settled on black maternity trousers, a smart maternity vest top and funky necklace and a much too small jacket over the top. I managed around 3 minutes, clutching a bottle of water, in the interview room, listening wiltedly (what do you mean that's not a word?!) as the panel introduced themselves before I asked whether they'd mind if I lost the jacket. They took pity on this tomato-faced lightly sweating lump and told me to 'take off whatever I wanted'. I stopped at the jacket, this being an interview for a senior management post, and was marginally less pink for the rest of the hour long ordeal, including, rather cruelly, a presentation to be delivered 'without visual aides'. Waffle aside, I came out thinking I'd done quite well. There were no surprise questions. I managed to shoe-horn almost all of my pre-prepared practical work examples ('tell me about a time when you were particularly creative') into my answers and definitely didn't feel like I'd embarrassed myself.

I'm not sure what the elephant thought though.
What elephant?
Well the one up my maternity vest top of course.

Before applying for the role I spoke informally to the team manager and told him I'm pregnant. I could almost hear him rustling the pages in the 'Book of Appropriate Things to Say' before finding the page which said 'of course you should apply, finding the right candidate, irrespective of circumstances, is the most important thing'. I did believe him, I'm very lucky to work for an organisation that's as family friendly and committed to staff development as the BBC. I knew though that the interview might be a challenge. The panel were unable to refer to my pregnancy. In the interests of fair selection, all candidates must be treated equally and asked the same questions. I felt ridiculous talking about how I'd approach my first six months in the job, knowing I have only three and a bit before starting maternity leave. But what's the alternative? At least the current set up prevents women being unfairly prejudiced. It did feel odd to say the least though.

I haven't heard anything from the panel, or HR, and the interview was Tuesday. This isn't a good sign, as the successful candidate is always told before the unsuccessful ones. I know realistically that changing jobs a few short weeks before going on leave for what I hope will be a full year would have been a strain, especially making a strong start during the period I should be winding down and handing over. But I'm also a little torn. At any other time this would have been my perfect job, I'd be on tenterhooks waiting for the phone to ring, clinging on to the slim hope that no news is good news. Why should this baby make me feel any different? I will have to go back to work, eventually putting two children in childcare for at least a couple of days a week, so why not to a job I am passionate about?

A kick from the elephant reminds me where my priorities lie. Timing is everything, and I have plenty of time to worry about promotion once my next major production is out of the way.

Eight Things ...

2009-06-25T11:28:00.003+01:00

Thanks to Muddling Along Mummy and All Grown Up for the tags. As with all these meme things, my disorganisation means I might be the last person in the blogging universe to complete this. I hope my eight things are still worth a read!

8 Things I'm looking forward to

1. Picking up T from nursery tonight and hearing about his day, even if much of his conversation still doesn't make sense

2. Catching up with friends and their children and getting sticky at McGuinness's ice-cream farm in Bolton tomorrow

3. My Alexander Henry bird seed fabric arriving, so I can get started on Amy Karol's Swing Swing Smock for the baby (I can't get in trouble for making clothes, right?)

4. Watching the new series of Ugly Betty on Sky+ (10 pm is way past my bedtime, especially on a school night)

5. Smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches for lunch

6. And looking further ahead, my sister's Hen Night (albeit a sober one for me) ...

7. ... the wedding, especially meeting my new Spanish extended family,

8. and a late August camping trip to the Lakes with good friends and their families

8 Things I did yesterday

1. Brushed up on some old skills at work, and realised I'm not quite as rusty as I thought I was. This is a very good feeling!

2. Emailed a friend I don't see often enough to arrange to meet up

3. Received lots of compliments on my dress (Topshop Maternity, via ebay, and a godsend for hot summer days)

4. Walked to the work carpark and realised I'd lost my car key

5. Walked back to the office (hot and bothered) to find someone had handed it in, and gave thanks!

6. Froze a couple of Mars Bars for the grown ups to chomp on after tea. Please Mr Dentist forgive me!

7. Chair danced (normal for me, highchair for T) along to 'Pet Sounds' as we ate our tea with the windows open and summer music on the stereo

8. Watched T 'read' one of his favourite books (Peace at Last) and make the correct sounds for each page, including snoring, aeroplane sounds, a ticking clock, a dripping tap and a hooting owl. It's like living with a Sound Effects CD!

8 Things I wish I could do

1. Sleep all night without having to get up to go to the loo

2. Reach the plate cupboards in our kitchen, instead of having to ask my husband to put away the crockery

3. Work closer to home. A 100 mile round trip commute is wearing me down physically, emotionally and financially

4. Increase the size of our house by 50%, leaving it in the same position, so we wouldn't have to move

5. Pop round to see my sister (who lives in Madrid) for a long overdue catch-up

6. Cook more creative vegetarian food for my husband. I just can't seem to get excited about non-meat dishes!

7. Start a craft project and finish it before starting another

8. Think before I speak, all of the time

8 Favourite fruits

1. Raspberries

2. Blueberries

3. Strawberries (only perfectly ripe British ones though)

4. Nectarines

5. Cherries

6. Pears (especially what my Grandma used to call 'slaverchop' ones, the really juicy type that dribble down your chin!)

7. Plums

8. Apples

8 Places I'd like to travel to

1. Cornwall

2. The deep Irish countryside

3. Barcelona (a city break with beach access and good weather, my perfect destination!)

4. Orlando (tacky but fabulous)

5. New York (to repeat the trip we took using our wedding vouchers, only this time without hideous early pregnancy sickness!)

6. Pembrokeshire

7. Australia (somewhere I've never been)

8. China

8 places I've lived

(Writing this makes me realise how provincial I am! Excepting my University years, I've always lived a maximum of 30 miles from my childhood birthplace)

1. Urmston (made famous-ish by Victoria Wood's fabulous Dinnerladies, as home to the erm, challenging, Babs)

2. Stretford (shabby suburb of Manchester, centre of my teen universe)

3. Sheffield

4. Prestwich

5. Chorlton-cum-Hardy

6. Withington

7. West Didsbury

8. Ramsbottom

Everyone I'd like to tag has already completed this, so I am going to be a chain breaker, sorry! I do love reading lists like this though, and hope I haven't bored you too much.

Shopping

2009-06-23T20:09:00.002+01:00

OK, I admit I might have a teensy bit of a problem. Over excited by the thought of having a small pink one in the house come October, I've done a little bit of shopping. My husband frogmarched me up the stairs earlier, and forced me, tail between my legs, to open the drawer where my ebay bargains have been squirreled away, waiting to be rewashed and hung on the line as we get nearer the time. The current total stands at ...

One pair of dungarees (Boden, very sweet, and cheap!)
Seven dresses (the small type represents how ashamed I am of this one)
Three pairs of trousers
Three tops
Three bodysuits
Two pairs of tights

There also might be a few things on order from the Boden Autumn preview (20% off with free delivery and free returns, Johnnie I think I love you) too, not figured in the above calculations. Oh, and the silky top and bloomer outfit I picked up in a Parisian sale, before we knew the sex, just in case we had a girl.

My husband was not impressed with my plan to buy T some lovely new things to 'even it up a bit'.

Oh dear.

Look into my eyes ...

2009-06-22T19:48:00.004+01:00

There are only 17 weeks until my second baby is due. Every day my bump becomes more wriggly, and the two stone (!!) I've put on means there's no denying I'm Really Quite Pregnant Now. Oh, and that one day relatively soon I'm going to be giving birth again.

My first labour didn't go quite according to plan. Despite months of pregnancy yoga and NCT classes, I failed to remember to keep calm and, yes, breathe. The first half was quick, the second half (after the major drugs) agonisingly slow, and T came into the world with the help of a no-nonsense surgeon with a medical vacuum cleaner, cone headed and letting us know, loudly, just how unpleased with the whole thing he was. I have thought a LOT about what I'll do differently next time (breathing being top of my list!) and planned a home water birth, hoping for a gentler introduction to the world for my daughter. There is no denying though that the thought of contractions, getting stronger and longer by the hour, is filling me with dread.

When I saw a hypnobirthing practitioner was offering a course of free sessions as part of her mentoring training then, I jumped at the chance. I'd investigated classes before, but to be honest the cost made them pretty much unaffordable for us, as did the childcare issue. This practitioner, living a short distance from my inlaws and offering a series of Saturday afternoon sessions, seemed perfect. Ignoring my husband's comments that the efficacy of the classes would be limited to me jumping up and making noises like a chicken whenever someone said a 'trigger' word, we nervously arrived for our introduction to the course this weekend.

I have to admit that I'd misunderstood the idea of hypnobirthing. I'd imagined that a combination of breathing, relaxation and visualisation techniques would be another weapon in my armoury against labour, joining the Entonox, TENS machine, pool and birthing ball in a mass attack on the contractions, a sort of charge of the light brigade as it were, not removing the pain, but putting up enough of a fight to get me to the finish line.

I was intrigued then to find out that this isn't the case at all. Hypnobirthing involves a total rethinking of birth, demedicalising and demystifying the process. Contractions become surges, effacing and dilating become thinning and opening and failure to progress/medical interventions are, rather euphemistically, referred to as 'special circumstances'. All of these terms serve to reinforce that giving birth is a natural process, what your body is designed to do, and that it doesn't have to be a screaming, agonising event. Over the next four weeks we'll (yes, my husband will have to suspend his incredulity for another few hours) reprogramme our existing thoughts and feelings about birth, learning that it can be 'comfortable', a fact which, if everything goes according to plan, should be a self-fulfilling prophecy when the day itself comes.

The figures speak for themselves. Of our practitioner's clients, fifty per cent give birth without any pain relief at all. A further thirty per cent use only gas and air, and the remaining twenty per cent experience 'special circumstances'. I've been furnished with a book to read, and a relaxation CD, which I'll need to listen to every day between now and giving birth. I've been ordered to stay away from 'traditional' books on childbirth with their talk of episiotomies, epidurals and assisted deliveries (all of which I know already very well) and to avoid the post-natal 'my birth hurt more than your birth' sharing that lots of mothers seem keen on. The remaining face to face sessions will teach me all I need to know for my upcoming delivery.

I can't help listening to the little niggle at the back of my mind, the one that can spot a Nigerian Lottery email scam at one thousand paces, that says that this might all be a load of bunkum. BUT what other choice do I have than to try? The thought of repeating my first birth experience makes me cold with fear. Surely even what my mother refers to as 'one of these newfangled ideas' has to be better than this? If it doesn't work, the rest of my armoury will be in reserve, backing up the infantry with their buzzing back pads and plastic mouthpiece. But perhaps there's just a chance that I might be one of the eighty per cent for whom hypnobirthing brings a better birth, and that's worth putting my heart and soul into, at any price.

Halo update

2009-06-16T22:06:00.006+01:00

A mini update on the Halo testing! We have been putting the buggy through its paces, with trips this weekend to Jodrell Bank in Cheshire, and the beautiful RHS garden, Harlow Carr, in Harrogate, where we met friends for a walk and picnic lunch.

I LOVE (yes, shouty love, capital letters) how easy the pushchair is to collapse and assemble, and it does fit in the boot without issue. I like the look (yes, I'm vain, and it does attract admiring glances). I'm getting used to the extra weight (not my pregnancy fat, it's a significant amount heavier than my Micralite) and now I've figured out both the brake and the swivel front wheels it's lovely to push.

I'm still not 100% sure that, if faced with it in a shop, I'd instantly have 'had to have it', but I am becoming more convinced that it might well be the answer to the 'transporting two' issue.

In the mean time, I have crossed my fingers that Silver Cross understand that a proper testing involves biscuit crumbs.

A full report will follow after some more pushing.