With apologies to his future biology teacher (TMI sorry)

'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 ...

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

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 ...

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

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?

'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

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.