Flower Fairies and Fairy Cakes

The real Spiderman

2012-01-17T11:07:00.002Z

Betty has been invited to her friend's Spiderman party, and they have specified that invitees must come dressed as Spiderman. Although we have a dressing up box brimming with fancy dress outfits of mainly fairies, princesses and ballerinas, we do not have a Spiderman outfit.

Being a firm believer in making kids' costumes myself, I got to work. I found some old clothes that vaguely matched the colours of Spiderman, I got out my black marker pen, and I chopped up an old holey pair of red tights. Both Betty and I were pretty excited about the outcome, and she proudly modelled it for Tom, who at the time smiled bravely and said 'lovely'.

However, when the kids were in bed he confessed that he found the outfit 'heartbreaking', and was worried that Betty at five is too old to wear homemade outfits, and that she would get teased for wearing a cut-out pair of toddler's tights on her head (with the leg holes sewn closed so they accidentally resembled ears), in an altogether unconvincing outfit.

I totally disagree with him. If Betty were actively into Spiderman, and dare I say it, a boy, every little detail might then be important, but she isn't, at all. And she thoroughly enjoyed making the costume with me.

However, this was a battle that Tom won. Basically he got rather emotional about it and told me how the whole episode may be somehow related to an unresolved childhood issue of his own, where he was teased by his peers for wearing clothes from C&A instead of labelled outfits from Tony Pryce sports.

So Oliver from Mega Fancy Dress (supplier of all things fancy dress) very kindly sent us a top notch Spiderman outfit for Betty to wear to the party. When I asked Betty which outfit she wanted to wear, she opted for the one with the professional finish.

Well, it does have a flashing red spider on the padded breast - I can't compete with that.

2011: a year...

2012-01-02T18:42:00.001Z

Barely into January, I breathe a sigh of relief as I drag the moulting Christmas tree away. A tumultuous year has finally staggered to an end...

Perhaps the most memorable thing that happened was letting our beloved car roll down our sloped driveway and down a 20ft drop at the bottom. Needless to say it was a write-off, and I couldn't look Henry (the vacuum cleaner) in the eye again - I held him solely responsible.

The car wasn't the only thing to be written off. After many hysterical phone calls to the manufacturer, our brand new fridge freezer was finally carted away and replaced with another one; it had become infested with an unidentifiable substance, which no amount of bleach could destroy.

I then broke my wrist and seriously damaged my coccyx. It was at this time that my children decided to go and get themselves a very bad bout of chickenpox each, on Betty's much anticipated 5th birthday too.

My broken wrist meant that I was unable to do quite a lot of things, including changing nappies. This meant that two year old Dolly had to start using the potty pronto, and she did it admirably. Within two days she was a pro.

Speaking of chickens: we also acquired four ex-battery hens this year. Tom finally finished building the shed and coop, less than three years after construction began. Two hens have subsequently died of unknown causes, and been slung over the hedge. I can't say I'm too sad about it. They were vicious chickens with an evil glint in their eyes, and they scared me a lot. Having said that they did manage to produce a lot of delicious eggs, though most of them got broken in transit from coop to house (thanks to Dolly).

To go with all these eggs, we had many fry-ups, and as a family we probably consumed around 624 sausages over the course of the year.

Betty starting school was by far the most emotional thing to happen in 2011. Where she has embraced it wholeheartedly, I still haven't quite come to terms with the fact my first-born isn't at home with me and making glittery play dough, day in and day out. And her new way of talking doesn't sit pretty with me either, you know, where every sentence goes up at the end. I don't like the whole having to wear black shoes thing either.

To get me through the trauma of starting school, I treated myself to a smartphone. And it indeed became my new baby; I protected it, held it close to my bosom, and wouldn't let anyone else touch it. As an added bonus my new phone had a sat nav (I had been wanting one for ages but Tom refused point blank to get one, banging on and on about the lost art of map reading). During 2011 Tom had at least 23 animated arguments with my phone while on long car journeys.

This was also the year that we went digital. We were the last place on the planet, but when it did finally happen it caused much excitement (even for telly-phobic Tom who now gets to watch endless episodes of Family Guy). This did however mean that we had to cart three perfectly good TVs (one of which I'd had since I was little and was still going strong in analogue) off to the recycling centre. This wanton dumping caused Tom a lot of anguish for carbon-related reasons, but he consoled himself with the fact that he had just put 18 solar panels on our roof, was never going to get on an aeroplane ever again, and once even ordered a vegetarian main course in a restaurant.

Betty also did her bit for the planet by recycling about seven large cardboard boxes into a mini shanty town which occupied most of the living room. On the downside, environmentally speaking, she used about 32 rolls of sellotape. Still, it was quite a feat of construction.

On New Years Day 2012, I opened up my new Vax vacuum cleaner for a spot of spring cleaning, and wow, what a little beauty SHE is. I can even hoover with a broken wrist. She effortlessly glides across the carpet sucking up every tiny little speck - including the ones that have been there for many years. I was so excited about her capabilities I spent much of the day vacuuming. The whooshing sound it makes going across the carpet was enough to make my head spin. Tom wasn't happy about me using it on the car though.

It's a Barbie world

2011-12-18T14:09:00.001Z

Ever since Betty's birthday and the whole fairy princess cake fiasco, she has been into Barbies in a big way. So, when Betty wanted to spend the £10 that her great grandmother gave her for her birthday on a proper Barbie doll, I didn't have a problem with it. In fact, I was secretly thrilled, even though I was a fan of Sindy rather than Barbie.

When I was little, my Sindy doll was my life. I was obsessed with her, and she brought me an unbelievable amount of joy for many years. I was fascinated with her bendy legs that you could manipulate into virtually any position, I loved hacking at her hair, and crocheting her little woollen hats and dungarees with my mum.

I have such fond memories of my Sindy and the adventures she had. Her job in the bank where she would fill in lots of important forms and tick boxes, her love of travelling by train, her obsession with collecting stamps, and a passionate affair with Action Man. There were many secret ice-skating dates, and the two of them would spend hours galloping around on Sindy's horse.

Not once did I look at my doll with her skinny legs, blond hair, and big boobs, and aspire to look like her, or ever think that that is what women were supposed to look like. If anything I went in the opposite direction and spent much of my adolesence in big woolly jumpers, lumberjack shirts, Doc Marten shoes, no make-up, mousy hair, and non-existent boobs. Never did I think back to my glorious Sindy days and think that I had somehow failed for not looking like her, or for not bagging a boyfriend with abnormal muscles and revolving eyes.

Betty does not see them in this way either, and I very much doubt she ever will. To her, Barbie dolls are simply princesses in beautiful dresses. I have made sure that her dolls don't don skimpy outfits and instead she has a collection of pretty ballgown type dresses. I bought her a secondhand Sindy wardrobe on eBay, and Betty gets such joy from hanging her doll's dresses on the little hangers and arranging them all. She has spent hours making all of Barbie's other furniture (table, shower, bed, sofa) out of cereal boxes, margarine tubs, and corks. And she is very excited about the prospect of her and me sitting down and learning to crochet clothes together. Betty, who loves constructing and all things arty, is getting creative with Barbie.

So although the manufacturers should be ashamed of themselves for making a child's toy so tarty and pink, I really don't think little girls see her as a role model. They just see her as a toy, something to dress and undress, to perform hair cuts on, to feed rice crispies to, and to snog Action Man (sorry Ken).

Feeding baby Jesus to the ox

2011-12-10T09:41:00.000Z

I am a girl of traditions, and since Betty was born five years ago I have taken great joy in carrying on old Christmas traditions from my own childhood, and also creating new ones.

When I was a child, decorating the tree was right up there with the anticipation of Father Christmas sneaking into my bedroom with a giant bag full of presents. So I was thrilled that Betty had been nagging me for days about when we were going to put our tree up.

Despite Tom's suggestion to keep things simple, I made a real ceremony of it. On Thursday evening, there the tree stood in all its glory, ready to be adorned with a huge array of beautiful decorations; some we had made, some we had chosen together, some I have collected over the years, and indeed some from my childhood.

It all went beautifully for at least a minute. Betty in her pretty dress and plaits, cheerily singing Away in a Manger. The fairy lights twinkling on her delighted little face, as she hung the first few decorations on the tree. Meanwhile Dolly stood a couple of metres away contentedly playing with the nativity scene, and I watched on proudly, with my G&T, at my delightful children going about their Christmas acitivities.

Betty had hung about six decorations when she turned and clocked Dolly playing with the nativity set. She marched over to her and through clenched teeth said: 'You must not play with Mary and Joseph, they are not toys, they are just for us to look at,' and then swiftly snatched baby Jesus from Dolly's sticky little clutch.

Horrified that my daughter was probably parroting me, I calmly told Betty that Dolly was not doing any harm and to let her play with them. But Betty had the bit between her teeth and would not let it rest, and continued to get more and more irate with Dolly. Soon Dolly couldn't take any more and became inconsolable. All the poor kid wanted to do was feed Jesus to the ox, and make the two sheep kiss.

I shouted at Betty to stop, and she stormed off upstairs to her bedroom, and slammed the door.

There the tree stood, mostly bare, Dolly crying, and I knocked back my drink and poured another.

After a couple of minutes, Betty re-emerged down the stairs, walked over to a sobbing Dolly, gently put her arm around her, and soothingly said: 'What's the matter my darling, is mummy being horrible to you? Has she upset you?' 'Yes' said Dolly.

They defiantly marched off together hand-in-hand. I decorated the tree on my own, while my children sat on Tom in the other room and watched two cartoon pigs happily decorating a Christmas tree on TV.

The cat's farts

2011-12-06T20:40:00.000Z

I am finding this whole school malarkey quite hard. Betty (and Dolly) having chicken pox was really horrible, but despite her ailing, I was secretly thrilled about having her at home with me for a week, and not having our time together taken away by her education.

When Betty was better I had that horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach, and desperately didn't want her to go back. It sort of felt like the end of a holiday, but instead of happy frolics and the smell of sun-cream, we had had grumpiness and the smell of calamine. It was a week I still cherished though.

Betty went back to school. In the morning she protested a little about going on the school bus, and said that she didn't like the bus any more. This really upset me. I wondered why she no longer liked the bus, and I worried about it on and off all day.

The whole school went on a trip to the theatre. Betty sat next to a girl who she said tickled her all the way back. She said she asked the girl to stop but the girl didn't stop, and that it wasn't 'gentle tickling'. 'I just wanted to chill out on the coach,' Betty informed me. This really upset me. How dare an older girl tickle my daughter against her will?

Both my husband and my mum told me to get a grip.

And after not seeing Betty all day (they didn't get back from the theatre until 5.30pm), I desperately wanted to chat with her and find out about her day. 'I just want to play on granny's iPad now mummy' Betty told me. A disgruntled two year old Dolly, who was busy looking on eBay at mens' shoes at the time, handed the iPad over with a deep sigh.

The only information I managed to extract from Betty before she went to bed (apart from the whole barbaric tickling incident) was this:

'The cat in the theatre did loads of farts, and do you know mummy, cats fart much louder than me, and you, and daddy, and Dolly and granny...'

Wigwam

2011-12-05T13:06:00.000Z

Tipis have always been very popular in our household. Our next door neighbours have one in the field next to our house and Tom has spent many a happy hour in it with Betty and Dolly during the summer months.

During rather a desperate episode where we were housebound due to chicken pox, I tried to make the girls their own tipi, using bamboo and some sheets. It was utterly rubbish (I blame the broken wrist).

So we were all absolutely thrilled to receive this wigwam from Playhouses.co.uk - it is the real deal with wooden poles and canvas material. It is sturdy, weather-proof, and pretty spacious inside. The kids love it, I love it, and even Tom, who is often pretty scathing about the kids' 'paraphernalia', loves it.

However, it is currently situated in the middle of my sitting room floor, and I am a little nervous that it may be there for the entire winter...

Plaster blast

2011-11-29T19:15:00.000Z

Despite the strikes, I have been assured that my plaster cast will be coming off tomorrow - I am currently doing cartwheels, and swinging from the light shade.

Things I have missed with my arm in plaster:

driving
touch typing
washing up
washing my right armpit effectively
putting my hair in a pony tail
cutting up my own food
doing up my own shoe laces
being 2lbs lighter

Things I will miss when my plaster goes:

having a legitimate excuse to get the supermarket cashiers to pack my bags
having a legitimate excuse not to mop the kitchen floor
having a legitimate excuse not to do the school run
having a legitimate excuse not to brush my childrens' hair
showering with a plastic carrier bag on my arm

Santa and the Policeman

2011-11-25T11:34:00.000Z

My slightly jerky and distorted Christmas animation! It is Christmas Eve and Santa needs to deliver all the presents, but he gets distracted along the way and ends up at a fun fair, a zoo and a farm! Will all the presents get delivered on time? Starring characters from Happyland.

Labour of love

2011-11-20T17:35:00.008Z

The day before Betty's birthday, I was stuck at home all day on my own, still not able to drive, and I saw the next seven hours stretching out before me. So with one hand in a cast, and a serious case of cabin fever, I decided I could either lurk aimlessly around the internet, go back to bed, or set myself the challenge of making the most elaborate cake I could find.

I spent the next six hours solid making Betty a fairy princess cake. Certain aspects of the process proved problematic with one hand, such as kneading and rolling icing, breaking and separating eggs, and whipping egg whites. I ended up with egg dripping down into my cast and a very achy, probably even more broken, wrist.

Meanwhile, when we were away in Pembrokeshire a few weeks ago Betty saw this fake Barbie doll in a shop for £1.00 and asked if she could have it. I told her that she could have it for her birthday if she was very good, and then I snuck it into my basket when she wasn't looking.

The doll happened to be wearing purple which was perfect for my cake colour scheme, and so, feeling certain that Betty would not even remember the doll she saw in the shop, or indeed recognise it in its new legless form, and with its new cake dress on, I used it for my creation.

Tom came home just I had reached the final hurdle - I was having a mini meltdown because I couldn't screw the top of the icing pump on. 'I just want Betty's birthday to be perfect' I wailed.

With icing pump catastrophe averted, the cake was finally finished, and with just minutes to spare before Betty would be getting home from school. I could not wait to unleash it on her the next day - a little girl's dream cake. I gave myself a big pat on the back.

Betty then walked in from school with the beginnings of chickenpox.

She was very poorly the next day (her birthday) but to my delight she asked to see her cake. I ceremoniously brought it in with five candles burning and singing happy birthday, and proudly placed it in front of her. She had a look of utter disbelief on her spotty, calamine-stained little face. There was stunned silence for quite some time before she dutifully blew the candles out and said: 'But Mummy, that's the doll I wanted for my birthday, please take her out of the cake so that I can play with her'.

I sloped off back to the kitchen with the cake, painstakingly removed the doll, and ran her under the tap to remove the butter icing, replaced her legs and handed her to a relieved looking Betty. 'Would you like some of your birthday cake?' I asked bravely. 'No thank you Mummy' she said 'maybe when I am better'.

I have been eating my way through the cake, pretty much on my own, ever since.

Thank you Mum

2011-11-20T12:12:00.000Z

We have had a pretty grueling couple of weeks, and then to top it, Betty got chickenpox on her birthday.

Tom and I were at the end of our tether, and with me only having the use of one hand, and no family around to help out, we were finding things pretty tough; there have been arguments, tears, sleepless nights, and much angst. But my mum, who has very limited mobility and often tells me that she feels utterly helpless when she sees us struggling, well and truly saved us from going insane.

She may not have the strength to walk unaided, or cook, or drive, but my goodness she is worth her weight in gold. She has been sitting with a very unwell and ailing Betty for the last three days solid (night-times included), rubbing her back, reading her stories, cuddling her, and being unbelievably patient and calm with her. Betty and her granny have a very special bond, and care deeply about each other.

I cannot thank my mum enough for all she has done; she is utterly selfless, and generous, and kind. She is an amazing mum and granny, and I love her very much.

Betty's 5th birthday

2011-11-18T10:43:00.003Z

There has been mounting excitement from Betty about her fifth birthday since her fourth birthday. She has been doing a countdown for the last few months; 100 sleeps, 99 sleeps, 98 sleeps, and so on.

Her party had been planned, presents had been wrapped and purple fairy princess cake made (one-handed), decorations and balloons were waiting in the wings, the smoked salmon breakfast sat in the fridge, and her new pink glittery bike hid under blankets in the shed.

Heartbreakingly, little did we know, chickenpox was also waiting in the wings. With just one sleep to go, Betty came home from school with a fever, a spot on her cheek and an itchy back.

And so today, Betty's birthday, my darling girl is very poorly. With breakfast uneaten, presents half opened but not played with, party cancelled, and candles blown out through tears, it has been a pretty sorry day.

My darling, beautiful girl, I am so sorry you are unwell, it just doesn't seem fair. I promise that when you are better you will have a wonderful party with your friends, play pass the parcel, eat lots of cake, and get to play with all your lovely new presents.

You continue to make us so unbelievabley proud. We have watched in awe as you have embraced school life so enthusiastically, made lots of new friends, insisted on going on the school bus, learnt to read and write, drawn wonderful pictures, and all with a big smile. You are very kind and considerate of others, you have a lovely temperament, you are great company, and you are very funny.

Your mummy, daddy, and little sister love you very very much, as do many others. Get well soon my darling, and please don't worry, your birthday will just be a little later this year.

One-armed tedium

2011-11-06T19:27:00.000Z

Never again will I moan about the tediousness of household chores. Hoovering, sweeping, making a cup of tea, hanging washing out, and clearing away toys, with one hand, and a coccyx so excrutiatingly painful and bruised that you can't bend, let alone sit down, gives a whole new meaning to 'tedious'.

I fell backwards on Thursday afternoon, landed on my wrist awkwardly, heard and felt the bone snap cleanly in two, momentarily passed out, and then as calmly as I could muster I yelled at Betty to go and get her dad. Tom later told me that as he was being led through the house by a panic stricken Betty, he imagined seeing our car in the ravine at the bottom of our driveway (again).

So with my wrist in a bright purple plaster (for my kids' benefit, you understand) for the next six weeks, I am not able to do certain things, namely driving, washing up, and changing a dirty nappy. If Tom is going to work uninterrupted, Dolly will really need to buck her ideas up and start taking the potty training malarky a bit more seriously.

Dolly will also need to stop thinking that it is funny to use my cast as a drum, and stop telling me that she has filled her nappy the moment that Tom steps out of the house, sending me into a frenzy, when in fact the nappy is clean.

Earlier today Betty, who has been dressing herself for the last three years, asked me if I would get her dressed; I told her that I couldn't and that she had to do it herself. This came just after I had asked her to clear up all the bits of cut up paper, sellotape and beads she had left on the sitting room floor.

Betty retorted with: 'I cannot be the mummy round here, just because you have done that to your arm'.

Backfiring surprise

2011-10-25T09:00:00.000+01:00

I happened to be driving past Betty's school at home-time last Friday, so I decided to surprise my little darling by collecting her in the car, rather than meeting her off the school bus. I also wanted to demonstrate to the teachers that I do still exist and care.

I was greeted by her teacher who turned to Betty and enthusiastically said 'Look, isn't that lovely, your mum has come to pick you up!' This immediately made me feel like a neglectful parent. Betty gave me a big smile and took my hand, and began tugging me towards the car, eager to tell me all about her day, I imagined.

As I got dragged across the car park by a silent Betty who was probably too overcome with joy and excitment to talk, I had pangs of guilt and wondered whether, despite her insisting on the whole bus thing, I was damaging my child by letting her do it at such a tender age. Would she grow up with feelings of abandonment and neglect, and would it be soley my fault if she turned to a life of crime?

These doubts were short-lived. As soon as we were safely in the confines of the car and out of her teacher's earshot, Betty turned on me: 'Why are you here Mummy? I was really looking forward to going on the bus with my friends, you've ruined it now'. 'There is always tomorrow,' I reasoned. 'Tomorrow is too far away,' she retorted stroppily. She made me promise I wouldn't do it again, and it took a KitKat bribe to get her to be nice to me again.

The secret club

2011-10-12T21:51:00.002+01:00

Almost from Betty's first day of starting school (six weeks ago) she has been nagging us to let her go on the school bus.

I had reservations, mainly because I thought she was too young. I felt that she needed her mum or dad to walk her up the playground to her classroom, hang her coat up, put her book bag in the right place, and make her squirm by trying to sort her hair out, wipe the porridge off her face, and kiss her goodbye in front of her teacher.

To make myself feel better, I reasoned that Betty taking the school bus would mean I would avoid having to awkwardly manoeuvre my people carrier in amongst the Range Rovers and BMWs in the miniscule school carpark. I also wouldn't have to face thin and glamorous mums every single morning and afternoon, who all stare at my greasy hair and protruding stomach and probably wonder whether or not it is safe to congratulate me on my impending birth (it's not).

This school bus is pretty tame - it's a little minibus, and the journey from our house to the school is about two minutes, along a country road, including a Postman Pat-style railway bridge. So after a lot more nagging from Betty, and Tom telling me she would be absolutely fine, I finally agreed.

Betty has been going to and from school on the school bus since Monday - my innocent sweet little girl got on the bus at the end of our driveway at 8.33am, and then got off the bus again at 3.33pm about ten years older.

I have been finding cryptic notes written by older kids, in Betty's book bag, which mainly consist of random letters or pictures. When I ask Betty what they are or who wrote them, she tells me she is in a secret club with five other children, and I am not allowed to know what they say. Aside from the secret club, one note was clearly meant for me and said: 'Can S come to my house for tea?' When I asked Betty who 'S' was, she told me that she is her new best friend, but is NOT a member of the secret club.

Using my best detective skills I have worked out a couple of their rules; whenever Dolly tries to enter a room, Betty barricades the door and says: 'You can only come in if you call me Princess'. Trousers are also a big no-no - Tom, Dolly and I all got chastised for this.

Tomorrow the whole school are going to Cardiff to visit a Hindu temple. Betty has been worried because a member of the secret club has told the other members that, inside the temple, they will have to walk barefoot across fire and do yoga in front of everyone. It broke my heart a bit that this evening Betty was frantically searching for my yoga dvd so that she could practice.

Sadly, Betty is no longer a member of my secret club - the club where its members would make play dough, play with Megabloks, paint pictures of rainbows, and watch Peppa Pig - instead she has been poached by some six year olds.

Caught out

2011-10-08T11:10:00.000+01:00

At around midday yesterday, I was happily driving along in my car, relishing my child-free morning, and enjoying listening to MY music in peace.

I was on a narrow country lane and thinking about the gorgeous winter coat I was about to buy for myself, when I had to pull in to let an oncoming minibus past.

As it passed me, I realised that it was the school minibus, and that Betty was on it with her classmates. They were coming back from a morning out at another school. It's one thing for your four-year-old to be at school and playing with beads and plasticine, but to meet her out and about, and doing things independently of you, is very weird.

I burst into tears (I don't think the minibus passengers saw). And I didn't stop crying until I had reached town and had my new coat in my arms.

Competition giveaway - ELC Wooden Tea Shop worth £100!

2011-10-04T13:23:00.007+01:00

This fabulous wooden tea shop is a brand new ELC product! It is double sided - with the tea shop on one side, and an oven to bake the cakes in on the other side. It also comes with a cash register with pull-out till, some cookies and a baking tray.

ELC are offering this gorgeous product as a competition prize to one of my lucky readers!

All you have to do to enter is follow/join this site with Google Friend Connect (in the sidebar to the right), and then leave a comment at the end of this post telling me what the last cake you baked was. (Mine was a 'miracle' chocolate sponge cake that you make in a tea cup and bake in the microwave for 1 minute 10 seconds - I had high hopes for it, but it was like a bullet, and pretty much inedible)

The competition will close on Tuesday 18th October at 9pm when all entries will be placed into a draw and a winner picked out. Please remember to leave your contact details (either email or twitter id) so that we can contact you if you win.

To increase your chances of winning you can also post your answer on my Twitter page (and follow!), which will mean you'll be entered into the draw twice!

Good luck!

(UK residents only)

Over-ambitious fairies

2011-10-02T20:47:00.001+01:00

Having battened down the hatches a week ago ready for the winter that is going to be 'twice as bad as last year', this sudden freak weather made us think we might want to go camping. However, on Saturday morning Betty announced that she was 'far too tired from having to go to school, and really needed to rest at home' this weekend.

Both Tom and I were quietly relieved. As much as we love tents, it was exhausting even to think about getting out all the camping paraphernalia that had been slung up into the loft some weeks ago.

So instead we stayed at home and were impressively attentive towards our kids; a done-in Betty and an annoyed Dolly (Goldilocks the goldfish had just pegged it). We did lots of sedate crafty type things, like these Plaster of Paris fairy cakes which I was pretty excited about. I perhaps became a little too protective over them, though I did allow Betty to hold them as long as I was around to supervise.

The girls have been leaving random items such as felt tips, mud, and now fairy cakes (to my horror), for the fairies who come and have parties in their den at night. In return the fairies leave a little surprise. In fact they are getting more and more ambitious with the ways they say thank you. It started with little trails of glitter (fairy dust), and beads, but being slightly obsessive fairies, they quickly upped their game.

Betty was sitting in her den this morning admiring the latest fairy thank you gesture - a throne carved out of a butternut squash. Inspecting the slightly shoddy workmanship she wondered if the hens had eaten half of it, and so told me to ask the chickens if they had attended the fairies' party the night before. I don't know why she thinks I can talk 'chicken' but I asked them anyway, and one hen replied with a cluck. Betty gave a knowing nod, and informed me that they had indeed attended the party. I couldn't help thinking that putting chickens and fairies together at the same party was surely a recipe for disaster.

Slightly flummoxed by the new vegetable throne addition to her den, Betty asked: 'If I make the fairies a thank you card do you think they will leave me a chocolate croissant, and then maybe a big pink bike without stabilisers?

Germ control

2011-09-23T13:51:00.000+01:00

I am completely neurotic about germs. When out in public I will not touch the buttons on a pedestrian crossing, or shop door handles, or the keypad on cash machines, or anything else that the masses might have put their grubby mitts on. I will always use my sleeve. And I would certainly never touch the flush handle in a public toilet, or the taps, or the button on the hand dryer, without using a piece of loo paper.

I had mild panics about Betty starting school and the fact that my 'germ control' would be out of my hands. And sure enough, just two weeks into the term Betty, who is not a sickly child, got a sickness bug. This has only further fuelled my anxieties about all the grotty germs lurking at school. Lots of little people, clumsily wiping their bottoms, not washing their hands properly, holding hands, sticking their fingers up their noses, and into their mouths, and then sharing each others sandwiches.

The vomitting occured just before we were about to leave the house for school on Tuesday morning, when Betty complained of a stomach ache. I naturally thought she was making it up, and ushered her towards the front door. She then promptly projectile vomitted all over me. Meanwhile a bemused Dolly watched on from the car.

Betty sobbed and begged me not to send her to school. Crikey, she must have a really low opinion of me, I thought to myself. I calmed her down, mainly by helping her identify what was in her sick and why it was the colour it was, and soothingly assured her that I would not be sending her to school.

I naively imagined her staying in bed all day, with a flannel on her head, sipping water and watching DVDs, leaving me to get on with all the work I had planned on the only full child-free day I get a week.

After twenty minutes of lying tucked up in bed in her pyjamas, Betty had basically made a full recovery. I walked into the room expecting her to be ailing, but found her making a den, wearing nothing but her gold tights and ballet shoes, and eating her way through a packet of chocolate biscuits. And it wasn't even 9.30am.

By 10.00am, although relieved that she was suddenly better, I think both Betty and I were wishing she was back at school. 'You are driving me nuts,' Betty told me.

Hooves beat along the quiet lanes

2011-09-20T14:39:00.001+01:00

'When I turn into a grown-up, can I ride a foal Mummy?' Betty asked me as we drove back from the pub along the narrow country roads. 'Yes of course you can learn to ride a horse when you are a little bit older,' I replied, through gritted teeth.

I have had many run-ins with horses in my time, and don't particulary like them very much now. The combination of the subject of horses and the fact we were driving along a remote country lane, took me right back to a Christmas when my best friend and I thought it would be fun to foster a horse over the holiday period. This meant proper responsibility - feeding, mucking out, and riding...

Weirdly I really didn't mind the feeding and mucking out bit, but was absolutely terrified of the riding part. The one thing that made it slightly more bearable was that my friend and I did it together; one would lead the horse and one would sit on it.

On Christmas morning my friend announced that she was far too busy opening presents for horse duties and that I had to go it alone. I was pretty annoyed about this. Not only was the whole looking after a horse for the Christmas holidays her idea, but also I was desperate to play with my new much anticipated midi hi-fi.

As I rode Simba, the horse, down the remote country lane, with not a single soul in sight, we began our decent down a fairly steep hill. A couple of seconds in I felt a very weird sensation, and one I hadn't experienced in my limited riding experience. I quickly realised, to my absolute horror, that we were now sliding down the icy hill on Simba's hooves. I glanced at him to see if he seemed in control of the situation, but his eyes looked big and frightened. I, in turn, was terrified.

Skidding down the hill, and landing in a heap at the bottom with a chestnut horse lying on top of me, possibly dead, and no one being around to rescue us (because they were all in their nice warm houses opening presents and drinking sherry), and dying of hypothermia, and all on Christmas morning, was what went through my head.

In fact, none of this happened. We probably slid for all of a second before the horse regained control, and we turned around and slowly walked back to the paddock. But this, and many more subsequent horse incidents have put me off horses for life, and I have been dreading the day when my kids would bring up the whole 'I want a pony' thing.

Save the Children - No Child Born to Die campaign

2011-09-18T21:36:00.000+01:00

Children are dying from causes we know how to prevent or treat. That’s why lots more doctors, nurses, midwives and community health workers are needed in the poorest countries. We can stop millions of children dying. The No Child Born to Die campaign has helped secure a massive increase in funding for life-saving vaccines. Now we must take the next step to ensure children don’t die simply because they are too poor to see a doctor or nurse. Half of the 8 million children who die each year are in Africa, yet Africa has only 3% of the world’s doctors, nurses and midwives.

Join the No Child Born to Die campaign to ensure that no child dies because they can't see a health worker - help to save children's lives by signing this petition.

The world leaders are meeting at the UN in New York on 20th September - please support the campaign by calling on David Cameron to play his full part in solving the health worker crisis.

Take a few moments to sign the petition, blog about it, put it out on Facebook and Twitter (#healthworkers), anything to help spread the word.

Housework confession

2011-09-12T20:04:00.000+01:00

The low autumn sun really shows up the dust and dirt and cobwebs in my house. And then when the sun goes down, the dirt seems to disappear with it. So in the evenings I slump onto the sofa with my wine and kid myself into thinking that just because I have thrown a hoover around for a bit that my house is immaculate.

Due to the nature of my job (raising children) I find my cleaning standards have slipped somewhat. After a day spent washing up, sweeping food off the kitchen floor, wiping all the surfaces, picking up toys and random objects up off every floor in the house, cooking, looking after my kids, making beds, and hanging washing out, seventeen times over, I have no remaining energy to do any actual cleaning.

So this is the bare-minimum-cleaning routine I have found myself slipping into, I am ashamed to say:

I only clean the downstairs bathroom when I know we are going to have visitors, who might need to use it (I am highly embarrassed on the occasions when I get caught out with a surprise visit)
I only clean the the upstairs bathroom when I know people are staying the night, as they will need to use the shower
I only hoover the downstairs rooms about once a week - normally on a Thursday night after Tom and I have had a takeaway curry and spilt pilau rice and poppadom crumbs all over the carpet
I only hoover the upstairs bedrooms when I am in a bad mood, as I find it is a good way to let off steam
I only clean Tom's office when I know that he has a business meeting in there, or a piano lesson, or a Tai Chi drinks reunion (although in actual fact Tom should clean his bloody room himself)
I only mop the kitchen floor when our feet are actually sticking to the tiles or when Betty tells me it is looking 'disgusting'
I only dust the TV and the windowsills about twice a year
I never clean skirting boards or windows or door ledges or under the beds

I am currently sitting back with my glass of wine in the darkness and congratulating myself on a clean house.

Starting school and the Gurgle blog awards

2011-09-10T20:32:00.000+01:00

Betty started school on Tuesday, and survived the week without a hitch. She even picked up a little certificate in the Praising Assembly on Friday for 'her enthusiasm about school life and being a pleasure to have in the classroom'. And while Betty was very cool about it, I was jumping up and down with uncontrollable joy and insisted we went out for a celebratory dinner. I had to stop myself from framing the certificate (it is now stuck on the fridge instead).

However, I felt a neglectful mother, because during Betty's first week at school, I went to London to attend the Gurgle blog awards on Thursday, which meant I wouldn't be around on Thursday afternoon/Friday morning. Again, Betty was very cool about this, but I was not, and I thought about her constantly while I was away. I couldn't wait to get home and see her and Dolly. Tom told me later that Dolly had taken my absence pretty hard and asked him a couple of times 'Where's my best friend mummy?' Which just about broke my heart.

But, the Gurgle awards were great fun. I took one of my best friends, who lives in London, and we had a fab time. Having gone for dinner in Pizza Express, we wandered up and down Dean Street in our ridiculous shoes, and could not find the Soho Hotel anywhere (which is where the awards were being held). Finally we rocked up, about an hour late, sweating like pigs, just in time to down some wine and miniature burgers. And before the ceremony had even begun I had no choice but to change into flip flops which I happened to have in my bag, much to my friend's combined disappointment and embarrassment.

We met the lovely Gurgle team and Mothercare staff, and some lovely bloggers. I wish I had got to meet more bloggers, but it all seemed to go so fast. I was absolutely thrilled to win the 'Mothercare Loves...' Gurgle blog award, but I was far less thrilled at having to stand next to the lovely Myleene Klass and have my picture taken. It really knocks the confidence, standing next to someone so immaculate, beautiful, thin, funny etc. When I got home I tried to do a bit of tinkering on Photoshop to make the photo look better - I changed it to black and white for a start, to disguise my red shiny glow, and I tried to get rid of my double chin using some blurring out tool.

Anyway, all in all this week has been very emotional, nerve-wracking, hectic, and fantastic. Now we are about to go to an Onion Fayre, which I am told is the place to be, of a grey drizzly Saturday, and I get to spend some quality time with my girls.

Not just a one-off

2011-09-06T22:36:00.001+01:00

Today, having:

not slept all night
deliberated over blue v grey school tights between 2am and 4am
woken up to the alarm (for the first time in years) having just got to sleep
considered whether to phone the kids in sick and get more sleep
woken the kids up
meticulously packed their lunch boxes with an array of impressive food items
given them a proper hearty breakfast, as opposed to their usual Cheerios
got them dressed
felt surges of pride towards them
taken hundreds of photos of them in their uniform
bribed them with sweets to stand still, hold hands, and say 'cheese' while smiling nicely
joined the scrum in the school car park, trying to find somewhere to park
nervously walked Betty into her new classroom
stopped myself from bawling
stopped myself from begging Betty to come back home with me
clocked that I was fatter than all the other mums
realised that I had forgotten to brush in all the Batiste dry shampoo on my hair
walked Dolly into her pre-school
stopped myself from bawling
clocked that I was fatter than all the other mums
taken some paracetamol
moped around, hoping that my kids were ok and having a nice time
ran to the loo a lot
re-joined the scrum in the car park, and made an embarrassing hash of trying to reverse the new people carrier
cursed Tom for not removing the attention-grabbing pod from the roof
tried to extract information, in vain, out of both girls about what they had been doing all day
eavesdropped on a conversation between Betty and Dolly about what they had been doing all day
carefully removed school uniform and folded it up neatly
uploaded a photo onto Facebook of the girls in their uniform
unpacked bags and lunch boxes, and washed flasks
prepared a special celebratory 'first day of school' supper
taken some paracetamol
got the kids to bed
wondered whether wine with a banging headache was a good idea...

I slumped into a chair, breathed a huge sigh of relief, and thought 'thank goodness that's all over with'. I have been so focused on 'the first day' that I think I subconsiously thought that that is all it was, one day, before getting back to staying in bed for as long as we liked, and having tea and toast in front of CBeebies, wearing nothing but gold sparkly tights and tiaras all day (the kids not me) and all meals casually merging into one.

It slowly dawned on me, as I lay in an exhausted and emotional heap, that we had to do the whole thing again tomorrow... and the next day... and the next...

Thank you for the summer of 1990

2011-09-04T21:27:00.000+01:00

Who would have thought that exactly 21 years later, I would be writing about an ex-boyfriend (who I will call R) on this blog - an ex-boyfriend who I hadn't seen since our summer teenage fling back in 1990 - one of the most memorable summers of my youth.

It was the summer that I left school. The sun shone a lot, and my friends and I, and R, spent most of our time at the river having bbqs, swimming and laughing a lot. I will always remember that summer. I will always remember being besotted with R - the new boy in town... the boy that I bagged... the charming, confident, funny boy from away, the boy who told me that he would love me forever.

He then broke my heart, but in a very kind and gentlemanly way, in a way that made it impossible to hate him. He had had a profound effect on me during that summer, and then it was over and he had run off with a school friend of mine. And being a fickle teenager, I quickly moved on to somebody else too, and all was forgiven and forgotten.

I didn't see him again, or so I thought. Unknown to me he grew metre long dreads (having always been a short back and sides kind of guy) and so, without realising it, I probably bumped into him on countless occasions during my visits back from London.

Then last week I found out that in July, he was in a fatal motorcycle accident not far from here, and died at the scene of the accident. I haven't been able to stop thinking about him ever since. I find it hard to articulate why I can't stop thinking about him, specially as I haven't really given him a second thought for the last 21 years. Perhaps it is because although I don't often think of that summer, I never forgot, and I held the memories firm, and now I feel that part of me and my past has been altered, and will never be the same again.

After some Googling, I found a Facebook page that has been set up for everyone to post up pictures, video clips and memories of R. This is how I found out about the dreads. And apart from the dreads, he looked exactly the same; the same sparkly face, just 21 years older. The comments were unbelievably touching, and utterly heartbreaking to read. He was obviously very well loved by his family and all his friends, and he was still the charismatic and funny boy I remember all those years ago.

If only I had known about the dreads, I may have recognised him in the local Co-op and sparked up a conversation with him. And I would have been sure to point out to him his very dodgy hair. It makes me feel very sad that I will now never get the chance, but perhaps if he hadn't died, I wouldn't have thought about him for another 21 years. Who knows.

I am raising a glass to you R, thanks for the summer of 1990. May you rest in peace. x

A place of my own

2011-09-02T12:51:00.000+01:00

When we lived and worked in London, in dreary, crowded offices, Tom had romantic ideas of living in the countryside, and having an office in our house that looked out over rolling hills, a winding river, and apple trees. A room that would be his sanctuary, his quiet space, where he would sit at his late grandfather's old antique desk and write his first novel about the end of the world. The walls would be lined with his vast book collection, and a piano would sit along the far wall, along with his array of guitars.

Tom fulfilled his dream, and he now has this office, where he works from home, plays his piano, and listens to weird music. And before we had children he began his first novel.

Two children later, the novel is still unfinished, and his room has slightly changed form. Despite having a playroom in our house, his space now has toy shopping trolleys, ride-on bugs, and glittery fairy pictures lining the walls, and plastic tea sets and lego strewn across the floor. It also has two miniature beings whizzing across its long wooden floor on scooters and bikes, and bashing at his beloved piano, at will, with no consideration that 'Daddy has to work'. The kids aren't totally to blame though, as I too have now claimed part of his room, and have planted my own desk in there, because I also wanted to sit in a nice place and write, while staring out at the fields.

Despite all this, I believed that the set-up of Tom and I sharing an office was working, and felt a little bit smug that we seemed to be the ultimate, modern day, cool couple, who could sit and write/work together in harmony, while the kids were at preschool/school.

However, Tom recently announced that he finds my presence off-putting, that I tap the keyboard too loudly, that I sigh and tut a lot, that I make him feel self-conscious with my comments about his telephone conversations with his work colleagues, and that he indeed needs to work alone.

I coolly suggested that he invest in a garden office, where he could sit in peace once more, and watch his pumpkins grow, and gaze adoringly at his chickens, while getting some work done, and finishing that novel.

This is a sponsored post

Le Toy Van Noah's Ark - Competition Giveaway!

2011-09-02T10:32:00.001+01:00

This gorgeous Le Toy Van Petit Ark Shape Sorter arrived yesterday from TheWoodenToyShop.

The ark is bright and colourful, as are the eight pairs of animals, and Noah and his wife. That age-old question came up: 'What was Noah's wife called?' Betty asked me. 'Erm, Mrs Noah' I told her. She gave me a withering look, and said: 'That's not right Mummy, I will ask my new teacher next week'.

This toy also doubles up as a shape sorter - the sides of the ark have cut out slots which match each pair of animals, and one end of the hull slides off so that once the animals have been posted through the holes they can be retrieved again. It also has a removable roof and ladder, and a carry handle.

TheWoodenToyShop are offering this fabulous ark as a competition prize to one of my readers. All you have to do to enter is leave a comment and tell me what you think Noah's wife was called, so that I can go up in my four-year-old's estimations. All comments will then be entered into a draw, and a winner picked out.

The closing date will be Friday 16th September at 9pm. Please remember to leave contact details within your comment so that we can contact you if you win.

Good luck!

Blowing dandelion clocks in slow motion

2011-09-01T11:21:00.000+01:00

Tom thinks he sometimes gets a bit of a raw deal on this blog. I tell him that it is all in jest. But in his honour, I wanted to document what he got up to with his girls last weekend...

He took them on long walks with big bags, and collected hundreds of blackberries. He spent hours with them at the chicken coop, collecting eggs and letting the chicken run free so that the girls could chase them. He spent an afternoon with Betty putting about a billion miniature foam balls back into a washed bean bag. He picked bunches and bunches of Sweet Peas with them and got them to place them in vases all around the house. He did loads of cooking with them: they made blackberry and apple crumble, plum jam and a big roast dinner using all our veg from the garden that they picked themselves. He prepared breakfast for them using the jam that they had made together. He took them out in the rain with their umbrellas because that's what they love to do. He did some gardening with them, drew pictures, made up stories, took them shopping, and tended to them in the middle of the night.

He danced barefoot through sun-dappled meadows with them, blowing dandelion clocks in slow motion, with the sounds of 'Why do birds suddenly appear' drifting through the air.

Meanwhile, I spent time putting up shelves, cleaning windows, clearing out the shed, and taking stuff to the rubbish dump.

A vacuum cleaner revelation

2011-08-28T10:55:00.001+01:00

After letting my car roll down our steep driveway and down a 20ft vertical drop at the bottom, we had to set about getting a new car. Tom saw this as an opportunity to down-size, but I saw this as an opportunity to up-size. We now have a people carrier.

So the people carrier now lives at the bottom of our driveway, and is parked sideways on, so that should Henry ever get his grubby little nozzle on the handbrake of our new purchase (which is highly unlikely, as he has been banished to the house), the car ain't going nowhere.

Tom quite rightly pointed out that as I had already cost us a small fortune, I wasn't really in a good financial position to start demanding a new vacuum cleaner, when Henry was still perfectly capable. So as a compromise, and unable to ever let Henry outside again, I bought a £7 portable car vacuum cleaner, on eBay.

My new vacuum cleaner arrived yesterday, and I was gagging to get outside and suck up all those crumbs that have accumulated over the past few weeks - a dustpan and brush doesn't really do it.

As soon as Tom knocked off work, I charged outside weilding my new friend, and plugged her (notice it's a her not a him this time) into the cigarette lighter - she is powered by the cigarette lighter - how cool is that? I attached the clever little nozzle that gets those difficult to reach bits between the seats, and I was in car-cleaning bliss.

Ok, so she looks and sounds like a budget hairdryer, but she sort of does the job, and she certainly doesn't have it in her to sabotage the car. And there is the added bonus of being able to vacuum the car as we drive along - no sooner have the kids eaten a biscuit, or Tom a scotch egg, I am there with the vacuum cleaner, practically sucking the crumbs out of their mouths.

Emotional trickery

2011-08-27T08:50:00.001+01:00

Dolly and I are lying in bed this morning, after she woke me up AGAIN in the middle of the night.

Me: Would you like a cuddle?

Dolly: No, I would like a rice cake

Me: You can't have a rice cake in bed

Dolly: Pleeeeeeeeeeeease

Me: What would you like to do today?

Dolly: Eat rice cakes

We both continue to stare at the TV in silence.

And then....

Dolly: Mummy, you are my best friend (said while stroking my cheek)

Me: Really? (I say with an air of disbelief, but I'm secretly thrilled)

Dolly: Please can I have a rice cake?

Living on sunshine

2011-08-25T09:24:00.001+01:00

After months of lobbying from Tom, I finally agreed to the installation of solar panels on the roof of our house a few months back. The thing that convinced me was the security of having a back-up electricity supply if the power starts going off in the next few years (as Tom tells me it might)… especially living in the middle of nowhere as we do. Heaven forbid if I were to ever miss an episode of Eastenders.

The builders arrived and the panels went up in three days. With all my health and safety alarm bells ringing, Betty and Dolly had great fun playing around the scaffolding. Although when the scaffolding was still there after a week, I made a stroppy call to the scaffolding company and told them of my concerns (Dolly had tried to scale the side of the house more than once), and that it must be taken down immediately.

It’s been pretty sunny since the panels were installed back in March and it’s very satisfying to put the washing machine on when the sun is shining knowing that it costs nothing. I even allow myself the odd use of the tumble dryer, only when the sun is shining mind. Tom sometimes makes himself a random cup of tea when it’s sunny ‘just for the sheer satisfaction of it’. It seems to make Betty happy that our electricity comes from the sun - and she has an impressive antennae for spotting other buildings with solar panels on their roof - this makes Tom extremely proud.

We obviously don’t get all our electricity for free, just when the sun is shining, so the panels do nothing for our night storage heaters. But because we’re both at home all day we get to actually use the free electricity, unlike in some houses where people are out at work all day, so over the past few months our bills have gone right down.

We received our first cheque for nearly £200 from the government feed-in tariff the other day which was the icing on the cake, and Tom was walking on sunshine (boom boom).

Solar panels aren’t right for everyone (you need a south-facing roof and the initial financial outlay is rather a lot), but they are working great for us and we’d definitely recommend that other people look into solar panel installation.

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Starting school: A sinking feeling

2011-08-24T08:31:00.000+01:00

Despite the rocky start to the Summer holidays (namely writing my car off by letting it roll down a bank into a ravine), August has been such a fabulous month. We bought a new car (far nicer than the old one), and have been on several jaunts around the country, from the mindblowing Camp Bestival, to camping with family and the hilarious Kevin Bishop for four days on a farm in Dorset, to becoming free-spirited and smelly at the Wilderness Festival, to being tourists (and nostalgic) in London for a few days.

I cannot believe that August is already nearly over. The week after next Betty starts school. This gives me a sinking feeling. This is because:

Firstly, my sweet baby girl is about to embark on a very grown-up thing - the education system, and she will be in it for many years to come, and for five whole days a week. She will get attitude, learn unsavoury vocab, develop awful dress sense, and probably start to hate me.

Secondly, we will lose our freedom to a certain extent; no more visiting great grandma for lunch on Thursdays, no more going on holiday whenever the heck we like, and no more just being able to hang out together at home on weekdays, and get on each others' nerves, and argue about what we are going to have for lunch.

Thirdly, going into town yesterday to get Betty's new school shoes, and fighting our way through all the other parents and their slightly depressed looking kids (that was me thirty years ago) trying on shoes, made me realise that we are now part of the school pack - the pack who have to do these grown up things every term (or at least every year) for the next twelve years or so, like get school uniform ready, buy pencil cases and rubbers and exercise books and lunch boxes and bags - we are no longer in our own exclusive pack where we get to wear whatever colour shoes we like.

Our Summer of fun and freedom is coming to an end, and soon it will be back to routine and serious things like spelling tests and getting up early, and making sure we have edible food in the house for packed lunches.

But Betty is very excited about starting school. In fact, she cannot wait to start, and told me the other day: 'Please Mummy, no more camping, I just want to go to school and do my letters with my new teacher'. Of course I share her excitment and enthusiasm, and on the one hand I feel excited and happy about this new chapter, but I still can't help that sinking feeling.

Unfamiliar memories

2011-08-22T22:06:00.000+01:00

Our last night in London, we jumped on the bus and went to Parliament Hill. The kids hadn't been going to sleep until about 10pm for the previous three nights and so we decided to keep them up late, to teach them a lesson they wouldn't forget in a hurry, and save ourselves the heartache of trying to get them to go to sleep.

We decided on Parliament Hill because it was a beautiful sunny evening, and it is the place where Tom proposed to me about eight years ago. We wanted to show the girls the place where their Mum and Dad sat sipping champagne out of plastic wine glasses, gazing at the sparkling diamond, feeling utterly elated and dizzy from the moment, while fat men flew kites in the background.

As we strode up the hill, we passed many familiar landmarks (the Mandala pub, Tanza Road, the memorial bench), and it filled me with nostalgia and now slightly unfamiliar memories of being in my twenties, and spending long lazy afternoons here with my friends picnicking and drinking cider. Then a few years later the memories of Tom and I throwing frisbees, flirting, and talking a lot of rubbish to each other,while building on our friendship, which would eventually turn into marriage, and a Betty and a Dolly. Who would have thought.

Every time we go to London now, my former pre-children life seems to slip a bit further away. I found it almost impossible to remember the sense of total freedom and independence that I had when I sat in the very same park, a park that hadn't changed at all. It was all reassuringly the same, yet felt alien - like I was some kind of fraud for thinking I did exist then - a much thinner, younger, carefree, less serious, less stressed me.

I watched my girls dancing freely on top of the hill, while posh Hampstead types walked past and gave them admiring looks. The wonderful views of London were behind them, and Tom was photographing them, and I felt very happy, and very proud.

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace

2011-08-19T10:28:00.001+01:00

Seeing London through the eyes of a small child is such fun. While Tom and I wander around feeling nostalgic but happy to be back in London for a short while, Betty and Dolly give us that excuse to become real tourists. And instead of getting excited about visiting old haunts (ie pubs, cafes, markets, parks etc) we find ourselves getting excited about merely getting on the tube, or spotting black taxis and double decker buses, or seeing big buildings and statues.

Betty was almost beside herself when she saw a poster of Kate Middleton in her wedding dress on the wall of a tube station. 'Look Mummy, it's the beautiful princess who got married on the telly!'

So this morning we are off to see the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace, and if the queues aren't too long we may go on a tour of the palace itself where 'the dress' is on show. I have secretly wanted to go inside the palace for years.

We are also going to go on a double decker bus, eat sushi, and go on the boating lake at Regents Park, and today, the sun is shining - London in the sunshine is just the best.

In the Wilderness

2011-08-16T17:53:00.000+01:00

Tom has been smelling like a trout lake for the last three days, and I have been smelling like someone who hasn't had a shower. When we got home yesterday afternoon after our stint in the wilderness, we almost had a physical fight over who was going to have the first shower, and who was going to scrub the tired and cranky kids. It had been three superb days of slighty stressful fun.

I have put on about a stone in weight, because we have been living on a diet solely of pie and chips and cider, apart from the one ostrich burger Tom bought me when I entrusted him to go and get lunch while the girls and I watched The Flying Seagulls show. He was severely reprimanded for this error of judgement.

Tom did a Chi Gung class in a yurt ('even waftier than I expected', was his verdict), he sat on a hay bale in the middle of the field and played a piano, he went on half a foraging expedition (terminated when Dolly's Hula Hoops ran out and she insisted they return to the main site), and he swam in the lake every morning. Betty threw a pot, made a fairy crown and a felt butterfly, and learnt the art of stone balancing. Dolly spent a few short but specatular moments bashing some drums with a clown on stage. And I made sure there were enough nappies, snacks, and warm clothes at all times. I was almost tempted by the 'gong bath' but was put off by the constant gawping audience, and the giggling kids pointing at the poor person trying to get healed.

The festival had a Boutique Babysitting service, which was absolutely fantastic. Their tent was so warm and welcoming that I would have quite liked to spend a bit of time there myself. And the staff really went the extra mile. I took the kids along to have a look at their tent, and they loved it - in fact it was their favourite part of the whole festival. The lovely lady said we could leave them there til 11.30pm if we liked, at no extra charge.

So we dropped the girls off with great excitement and a tremendous sense of freedom. We could go and watch a gig, hang out at the masked ball, eat fine food, listen to a talk, drink cider, anything we liked. We ended up sitting in silence in a beer tent opposite the babysitting service, eating pie and chips and watching for any signs that our children might want us to come and get them. The pressure became unbearable after about an hour: we collected them and went off for an early night. We lay there smugly in our sleeping bags, listening to people stumbling around in the dark trying to find their tents and tripping over guy ropes throughout the night. The sun had not yet gone down when we'd gone back so we'd cleverly avoided that problem.

On the last night Betty and Dolly dressed up in their fairy/princess costumes and rocked out to Mercury Rev. Tom had promised to take Betty dancing all weekend and this was the moment. There was a fabulous atmosphere, it wasn't raining, and for a while we were all completely chilled out and happy.

It all went tits up when Betty and Dolly, in their excitement, accidentally bashed heads, so we bundled the wailing pair up and started making our way across the field towards our tent for another early night. Then the opening strings of the song 'The dark is rising' drifted across the site, and lured us straight back to the gig. Tom had wooed me with this song ten years previously, in a flat in Bayswater, and now here we were listening to it live, in the company of a couple of miniature humans who looked like us.

Wilderness, is a new three-day festival of music, food, theatre, literary debate and outdoor pursuits located among the lakes, forests and ancient parkland on Oxfordshire’s Cornbury Estate - a weekend of freedom and inspiration for all free-spirited festival lovers.
http://www.wildernessfestival.com/

An audience with Jo Whiley at Camp Bestival

2011-08-02T21:28:00.000+01:00

Betty and I have just got back from a full-on, but fabulous weekend at Camp Bestival which is held at Lulworth Castle in Dorset. Persil very kindly invited us to the festival to take part in their 'Pass on the Love Picnic' campaign. Tom and Dolly stayed at home (we decided that, at two, Dolly was a bit too young to appreciate the full glories of festival life), and so we invited a friend and her little boy to join us instead.

Persil organised for me to interview Jo Whiley (who was fronting the campaign) at 3pm on Saturday. I think Tom was quite in awe of me, and the fact I was going to meet her. 'She is amazing, I LOVE HER' he said excitedly beforehand.

At 2.45pm on Saturday, I sat drinking my tea, watching a magic show with Betty, my palms sweating. At this point I hadn't slept or showered for two days. I had white powdery hair from all the Batiste I had been putting on it, a ruddy blotchy complexion, dirty fingernails, and grass stains on my jeans. All ready to dazzle one of the country's top DJs.

The interview took place in a corner sectioned off in the Persil tent, where Jo and I were asked to sit on tiny kiddie chairs - this was fine for Jo because she is very light and narrow, but me being a somewhat wider and heavier load, I balanced precariously on the seat while desperately trying to remember the questions I wanted to ask her, and attempted to disguise the fact I had forgotten to take the gum out of my mouth.

So there Jo sat, looking fresh-faced, clean, immaculate, cool, and downright amazing. As I gazed at her, my mind went momentarily blank. Being the lovely lady that she is, she put me at my ease, and asked me about my blog, and my children. As I babbled away about the ages of my children (and was about to mention the fact that Betty liked butterflies and fairies whereas Dolly prefers rocks and mud), I had to stop myself short; she was not here to interview me, I was supposed to be interviewing her, and so we began...

Having had a stressful two days with Betty in tow (mainly because I was neurotic about accidently losing her)I asked Jo how she manages her children at festivals, whilst working, and trying to have a good time, and she said that she is lucky enough to get a lot of help from either her husband or her friends. I was sorely missing Tom at this point. She said she loves having her kids there with her, as when she is not working, she gets to spend lots of time with them, doing fun festival things.

I had spent the last two nights in a tent, on a 45 degree incline, with no showers to speak of, and I was desperate to ask Jo about her festival digs, but I restrained myself in case it embarrassed her to highlight the comparison between her no-doubt luxurious surroundings and the crowded slope where I was camped.

Instead the conversation turned to Camp Bestival and how fantastic, and child-friendly it is - there is so much geared towards kids of all ages, and also towards adults - and with so much going on, it is totally mindblowing. And Jo talked about Persil's 'Pass on the Love' picnic - where children are invited to bring along an old unwanted (but clean) cuddly toy, place it in a big basket, and pick out a different one to keep. Betty picked out a giraffe, which she has named Jeremy, and who now sleeps in her bed with her - so like Jo, I think the campaign is a great idea.

I finished the interview by telling Jo that she looked amazing (and prayed that she wasn't getting wafts of my sweaty Birkenstocks). I asked her how she always looks so good: 'Good hair and make-up!' she replied. She also said that she goes to the gym a lot (she would have to with a figure like that), and enjoys her time in there, and that being in her line of work there is that incentive to look your best. I, perhaps naively, inwardly consoled myself with the fact that if I was a celebrity, I too would look like Jo, and enjoy going to the gym.

As I shook her smooth, cool hand, I thanked her very much for chatting to me, and blurted out: 'MY HUSBANDS LOVES YOU', before we parted.

Jo Whiley is warm, friendly, and just lovely! - thank you to Persil for setting it up, and inviting us to be a part of this fab campaign and a truly fantastic festival.

'DJ and mum-of-four Jo Whiley hosts the first 'Persil Pass on the Love Picnic' at Camp Bestival this weekend. Mums and kids were encouraged to hold a picnic and bring newly washed soft toys for another child to love - for fun family picnic ideas and more visit www.netmums.com/persilpassonthelove'

My vacuum cleaner wrote my car off

2011-07-27T21:38:00.001+01:00

I have been in a severe state of shock since last Thursday.

Having got back from Betty's 'farewell assembly' at her pre-school (emotions already running high), I decided to clean the car out - a rare event it has to be said.

Betty and Dolly were having their dinner with their grandpa who was visiting, and I was outside with Henry (the vacuum cleaner), rigging him up to the extension lead.

All car doors were open, mats were out and shaken, and Henry was happily whirring. I vacuumed the driver's seat, without a hitch, then shoved the nozzle down between the passenger seat and the brake handle to try to get to a rogue Shreddie I had spotted. The next thing I knew the button on the handbrake went 'PING' and my car started rolling away from me. Bloody Henry, whom I have previously referred to as my 'saviour', let the frickin handbrake off. Normally this would not have been so much of a problem as being the neurotic person that I am I ALWAYS leave the car in gear on our slopey driveway. However, just 30 seconds before, I had pushed it into neutral to vacuum out all the crisp/biscuits crumbs inbetween the gear stick.

I dived out of the way, got knocked by the open door, and was pushed into my father-in law's car, then I watched as the car, who also decided to knock into my FIL's car, then went careering off down the driveway and down a steep bank at the bottom and into the ravine (as the recovery man referred to it) at the bottom. I watched in absolute horror, car doors flying clean off as they hit trees on the way down, and my beloved car disappearing out of sight.

In my hysteria, I scrambled down the bank into the bog where it lay, and through a mangled doorway, I began sweeping off the remaining crumbs from the driver's seat.

Thank goodness no one was hurt. A complete freak accident, but a shocking experience all the same. The car is a write-off. I was hysterical. I have been beating myself up about all the 'what ifs?' ever since.

Once I had calmed down (only yesterday) Tom, who has been amazing throughout, commented: 'You've got to laugh, it is all rather slapstick'.

Henry got dragged down the hill with the car, but amazingly he survived and still innocently whirrs away as it nothing has happened. However, as irrational and callous as it may sound, he needs to go.

Stealing and lying

2011-07-21T12:42:00.000+01:00

I tell my kids white lies on a daily basis, and rarely feel guilty. I think they are needed in order to run a functional, less stressful life: 'No we can't go to that fairground, it is for children over ten' or 'No we can't get the paddling pool out, there is no water left in the taps'.

However, recently I got caught out by Betty, told a white lie to save my bacon, and felt awful about it. She is a hoarder, and can make her Easter egg supply, for example, last months. I am a chocoholic, and if there is chocolate in the house I find it very hard not to eat it. I do have morals though and draw the line at stealing from a four year old.

The other night, however, one minute I was watching Eastenders, the next thing I knew I had devoured an entire egg, from Betty's collection.

Despite my prayers that she might not notice the missing egg, she of course noticed the very next day. 'My very very very special big egg has gone' she said with tears rolling down her cheeks.

'It's ok' I said, 'The Easter Bunny must have come back to collect it in the night, because it has been there for so long it became mouldy, and he didn't want you getting sick'.

Betty eyed me suspiciously. I felt wretched. And although fairgrounds will continue to be for over ten year olds, and our taps will conveniently run out of water when it suits, I will never ever steal from my children, and then lie about it, again.

Progress reports

2011-07-19T12:15:00.000+01:00

One goes in...

'Dolly has started here without any problems, she has settled in very well and is quite easy going. She needs a little support at circle time and lunch time as she does like to be on the go. She is confident with staff.'

And one comes out...

'Betty is a very confident, capable and independent child. I feel sure she has enjoyed her time here, just as much as we have enjoyed having her. She is now ready to move on to 'big school'. I am sure she will do very well. We will all miss her'.

And while I held the two progress reports in my hand and sobbed pathetically, Tom was strutting around punching the air, with his chest puffed out, thrilled at these particular lines:

'Dolly has helped in the garden, weeding and composting'.

'Betty loves being out in the garden and making sure we do the composting'.

Dressed to impress

2011-07-17T09:51:00.001+01:00

We went to a fabulous wedding in Somerset on Friday, and got back yesterday evening. The return journey should have taken two and half hours, but instead it took five. Tom ignored our new lady friend and me, thought he knew better, and took a wrong turn. He now feels he needs to make amends, and last night he put the kids to bed, and cooked supper, and this morning I am getting breakfast in bed.

Anyway, the wedding was great - apart from the embarrassment of Betty sitting on a hay bale and sobbing inconsolably, and saying 'But this isn't the same as the other wedding we went to - where's the carpet? I want to take my shoes off and dance on a soft carpet - I want to be at the other wedding we went to'. This went on for some time, and when the groom overheard and looked hurt I considered throwing in the towel and leaving. Instead I bundled her up and took her for a walk around the grounds to explain that not all weddings were held at the same place.

Miraculously our little chat did the trick, and Betty became accepting of the carpetless circumstances. She got her second wind, asked for her Snow White dress to be put on, and took ownership of the dance floor til the party finished (one woman was so taken with Betty's dancing that she went up and kissed the startled little performer). Meanwhile Dolly wandered around asking everyone if she could have a swig of their champagne, and if she could borrow their phone, because she wanted to play a game.

Before the Snow White dress came out, Betty and Dolly were wearing matching Stella McCartney dresses (we have a friend who occasionally sends us these wholly inappropriate garments for our kids). Dolly took exception to her frock and spent the day angrily trying to rip it off. And Betty didn't want to wear her leggings underneath because she said she preferred the 'pretty colour of skin'. And before we'd even got into the actual wedding they both had massive grass stains on their knees and pig slobber on their hands which was wiped down the fronts of their dresses.

As we walked up the grand pathway towards the wedding venue, Betty said: 'But Mummy, when are you going to get changed?' So with me sporting Primark's finest, coupled with Birkenstocks, and my children in their designer wear, they looked like they didn't belong to me. The only thing that gave it away was the fact that Dolly was in a pair of Clark's Doodles beach shoes.

During the day, I caught up with some old school friends, a few of whom I hadn't seen for years, and we had a merry old time. I saw a bloke I was at school with and we happily chatted away for quite some time, until he said: 'I have absolutely no idea who you are'. When I told him, he said: 'No way! I totally didn't recognise you - mind you, women do tend to lose their looks as they get older'.

By the end of the night I was telling anyone who would listen: 'I write a blog you know - you must read it - it is absolutely amaaaazing hic', while spilling red wine all over the white jacket I was wearing (on loan from a friend).

Lucky Bamboo from Interflora

2011-07-16T12:48:00.007+01:00

Interflora recently got in touch and asked if I would like to receive a bunch of flowers - a lady always likes to get flowers, but I decided to choose something for my fabulous husband instead. After a good look around the Interflora website I found a Lucky Bamboo plant which was absolutely perfect for Tom - as he is weirdly obsessed with bamboo. The plant came quickly, it was nicely packaged, and presented, and Tom was really chuffed with it. It now sits on the windowsill of his office.

I have to admit, I always thought Interflora was just bunches of flowers, but this is so not the case - they have all sorts of plants, flowers, and gifts on sale, from their vast array of Orchids to their gorgeous Hydrangeas, and Olive trees.

For more information visit their website, and check out their London and Nottingham florists too.

You can also find them on Twitter and Facebook

New lady friend

2011-07-13T16:20:00.000+01:00

We Buttons had to drive into central London last week, for a function which was being held near Tottenham Court Road. To help us negotiate the busy roads (Tom had forgotten the A-Z), we had an additional passenger in the car with us - a calm lady with a deep soothing voice, a lady completely unfazed by my children's backseat antics, and Tom's blatant rudeness and hostility towards her.

After a long journey on the M40, with the help of the lady, we effortlessly cruised down Marylebone Road, and Tom began warming slightly towards her, and commented that perhaps she was quite useful after all. It was at this point that Betty declared that she did not like the lady's silly voice. I defensively told Betty that this lady was about to single-handedly revolutionalise our experience of driving through a city. In protest, Betty talked over the lady whenever she tried to direct us.

When Tom misheard direction from the lady, mainly thanks to Betty, I could almost sense the lady inwardly tutting, as she announced for the third time in three minutes: 'Please do a U-turn at the next junction'. 'I am not doing a bloody U-turn on Marylebone Road, it is dangerous, and it is illegal,' Tom told the lady. But it was when she coolly told us yet again to go the wrong way down a oneway street that Tom began shouting, and demanded that she get out of the car. 'Why are you shouting Daddy?' Dolly asked him. 'I don't like this ridiculous lady,' he replied. 'She is a funny lady,' Dolly said.

I think the lady could sense the tension in the car, and began to sound a bit exasperated herself, as she announced for about the 56th time that she was 're-routing' us.

Just as we were literally a minute from our destination, Tom and the lady had yet another argument, so begrudgingly, and at Tom's insistance, I muted her. We then drove round and round without her, and eventually parked up, and walked for about half an hour to our destination.

Competition giveaway - BigJigs wooden fairy and pirate skittles

2011-07-13T16:01:00.005+01:00

I have another fabulous competiton prize up for grabs from WoodenToyShop.co.uk. These wooden skittles by BigJigs are absolutely gorgeous!

Both the fairies and the pirates are colourful, detailed, and each one individual, and all with happy smiley faces. Betty has taken ownership of the fairies and Dolly of the pirates - this is very in keeping with their characters so everyone is happy. As well as being functional skittles (which is of course a fun game in inself) they are decorative, and would make any shelf or windowsill look cheery, when not in use. Having said that, my children have informed me that their new wooden friends will be living in their beds.

Fairies and pirates were a big part of my childhood, and are a big part of my children's world. I used to believe that fairies were invisible to all humans (apart from babies), but were always there, fluttering around. I would talk to them, be enchanted by them, and leave them little treats like sheep's wool or Coco Pops in the hole in the garden wall where they lived. And throughout my primary school days I always maintained that the 'nit fairy' was solely responsible for keeping me nit-free, and would pull them out of my hair when I was asleep.

To be in with a chance of winning your own pirate and fairy skittles, I would love to hear about your childhood memories of fairies or pirates or both, in the comments section below.

The competition will close at 9pm on Wednesday 27th July 2011, when a winner will be picked out at random. Please remember to leave contact details so that we are able to contact you if you win. Good luck!

The Mumsnet Rules

2011-06-23T21:31:00.001+01:00

The Mumsnet Rules is a big purple book (Tom commented that it looked a bit like the Bible), full of loads of parenting advice, tips, and anecdotes taken from postings on the site.

I have never been onto the Mumsnet website, I feel blogging has always given me everything I've needed in terms of an online parenting release/therapy. So I must admit that I felt irritated at the patronising and unnecessary jibe at blogging mums on the first page: '...when do they find the time and how bored must they be to write these blogs? Why do they never post about their bad days? But let them blog - we all have to get through the day somehow' - I personally don't see that there is a whole lot of difference between a mum who posts on a blog and a mum who posts on Mumsnet. As for never posting about bad days... well, I thought that's what mum blogs were for, to let off steam about the horrors of parenthood.

Having said that, I did think that on the whole the book was well-observed, funny, refreshing, and at times informative. The general vibe of this book is: don't beat yourself up about not being the perfect cake-baking parent, don't sweat the small stuff like whether your baby has reached her 6-week smiling milestone, do what you want to do, and don't worry about what other parents think - as they quite rightly point out: 'you are not six'.

The following sections (for example) struck a chord and I found myself nodding in agreement wholeheartedly:

You don't have to go to baby groups - I forced myself to go to baby groups when Betty was a baby; mums and tots, baby yoga, water babies etc, and hated every minute of it. I came to my senses with the arrival of Dolly, who is now two, and consciously made the decision to never put myself through the same pain again - she has never been to a group in her life.

It's OK to do controlled crying - I have always been a believer in controlled crying, and children thriving on routine - as a way of keeping everyone in the household happy and sane. I used to be embarrassed to admit this, but again, when Dolly was born, I sang it from the roof-tops.

Avoid loud (otherwise known as performance) parenting - this made me laugh, because as much as I hate it, I often catch myself doing it 'Yes Betty, you are absolutely right, that leaf HAS fallen from an Oak tree... and WHAT ELSE falls from an Oak tree?'. And I know a few people, one in particular, who is a fine culprit for performing loudly and relentlessly for their public, and it can be cringeworthy: 'Yes, you can have that one sweetie, as a SPECIAL TREAT. Then you will be having lots of lovely free-range organic brocolli later for supper, won't you?' And so on.

And the section 'You don't have to have family meals' almost changed my view on this. I have always believed that it is important for a family to all sit down and have lunch or supper together, as a social thing, and as a time to share stories of the day etc. Yeah right. This rarely happens, specially with small kids. Mealtimes can be excruciatingly painful, with arguments, tears, telling-offs, and food not being eaten. So as the book points out, why bother?

I would have found this book much more useful about four years ago, when Betty was a baby - the things discussed in this book would have felt more current and relevant, in what was then a crazy, sleep-deprived, daunting baby existence. By the time you have had two (or more) children, through bitter experience, you learn, or work out most of this stuff for yourself, and you naturally stop caring so much, thus making you a far more relaxed and seasoned parent. Having said that, I have a child who is about to start school, and so I found the section on starting school informative and helpful - and to avoid the whole school gates bitchiness and the fear of being pointed at for being too fat and not driving a 4x4, I shall send Betty on the bus.

The book is packed full of rules and advice, some of which I agree with and some of which I don't. As with all these guide books, what is right for one child/parent isn't necessarily right for another. However, this book has the advantage of being laugh-out-loud funny, unsentimental, and it keeps it real.

The Birkenstocks' journey

2011-06-21T22:50:00.003+01:00

They spent the first year of their life in London; frequenting the bars in Notting Hill, hanging out in the BBC canteen, and picnicking in Hyde Park. They were in their prime, and despite the wine stains, quite cool.

In 2003 they moved to the countryside, where the new terrain took a bit of getting used to. In their new environment they were something of a rarity, and although they relished being different, they missed their pals back in London.

It didn't take long for them to get back in their stride; they began walking up muddy mountains, wading through rivers, and frequenting the local pub. They happily started making new friends, and were delighted when others just like them started moving into town.

They went on to have many adventures; they went on a 15 mile trek in Cuba, they paddled in the sea in Italy, and they walked around many chateaus in France.

On a couple of occasions they were met with much hostility, once at a wedding, and once at a dinner/dance. But they stood tall and strong, and proudly danced for a good five hours, anyway.

In July 2005, they finally got the recognition they deserved, and although this time they were sadly not present (not for want of trying), they were mentioned in not one, but two speeches at the best, happiest wedding in the world, by two speakers who had become very used to having them around.

It was a sad day for them during the Summer of 2010; barely intact, they were begrudgingly put away, to make way for a much newer, shinier pair. Although they welcomed the much needed rest, they missed their trips to Sainsbury's, the playground, the soft play centre, and even the chicken coop, where the hens seemed to take exception to them being on their turf.

However, just three days later, they gleefully waved goodbye to the newer, shinier predator (who were now happily frolicking around on eBay), and they were back! And still to this day, although they are weary, they just keep on going.

Written for Josie's writing workshop

Competition giveaway! - BigJigs Wooden Cake Stand Set

2011-06-20T22:27:00.005+01:00

We opened up a parcel from WoodenToyShop.co.uk, and pulled out cake upon cake (12 in total) of the classic, old school, wooden, variety: Battenberg, angel cake, bourbon, custard cream, and a swiss roll, to name but a few. Gorgeous, colourful, fun cakes, with a fabulous cake stand to arrange them on - perfect for a pretend birthday party (of which we have many). Betty kept saying things like: 'What's this cake Mummy?' - and I would proudly tell her, and 'Grandma gives us this cake doesn't she?' Indeed, most of these cakes and biscuits can be found in grandma's cupboard - and this is one of the reasons why I love this product!

WoodenToyShop.co.uk have kindly offered another of these fab cake stand sets to one of my readers as a competition prize.

All you have to do to enter is leave a comment, saying what your favourite cake or biscuit from your childhood was/is.

The competition will close on 4th July at 9pm, when all entries will be put into a draw, and a winner picked out. Please remember to leave contact details (email or twitter id) so that I can contact you if you win. Good luck!

Crying in the playground

2011-06-19T21:36:00.000+01:00

Betty went to school for a three hour induction session last Thursday morning, the first of five, in preparation for September.

As I was walking back down the playground, having just dropped her off in her new classroom-to-be, I saw the Head Teacher. 'Is Betty OK about it all?' she asked me. 'Yes, she is absolutely fine - really excited' I said.

'Is the school uniform skirt, blue or grey?' I asked her, then burst into tears.

Still whimpering, a barrage of questions then came out of my mouth: 'Will Betty have to wear black shoes?' 'Will she need to bring her own pencils?' 'What time does school start in the mornings?' 'Do the reception class have their playtimes on the big playground with the big kids?' 'Do they have homework at this age?' 'Does she really have to come to school?' 'Do parents often cry like this?' The Head Teacher was warm, empathetic and reassuring in her response.

When I went back to pick Betty up at midday (after a fractious few hours of Dolly having a meltdown, and insisting that she too wanted to go to school), I asked Betty how she had got on. 'I played in the big playground, and I made a new friend, and I really like my teacher, but I really don't want to wear grey tights Mummy - please can I wear my gold sparkly ones?' she said.

With a huge lump in my throat we drove home. We spent the rest of our Thursday making purple glittery play dough together, and then going to the playground, and having an ice-cream.

No handbrake turns today

2011-06-17T23:14:00.000+01:00

After a couple of hours at the supermarket with an unusually impeccably behaved Dolly, when we got to the top of our driveway, I rewarded her by letting her sit on my lap at the wheel, and 'drive' us the rest of the way home. I somehow knew she would relish this.

There she sat with two hands firmly on the steering wheel, she checked her rearview mirror, did some movement with the gear stick and then assertively said 'Go Mummy'.

I know that Dolly has only just turned two, but it took me right back to the days when I first learnt to drive. My brother, who is 18 months younger than me, taught me in a field when I was 14 (which made him about 12). This is what us country folk did back then - we didn't have anything else to do, other than terrorise sheep in fields by skidding and bombing around, doing handbrake turns, with windows down and some dodgy 90s track blasting out; 'All That She Wants' by Ace of Base springs to mind - I seem to remember listening to this song a lot in my Electric Blue Ford Escort car - the love of my life.

I very slowly took my foot off the brake and we began sedately meandering our way down the muddy track. 'GO FASTER MUMMY' Dolly bellowed. 'This is quite fast enough my darling' I said.

I want to live in America Mummy

2011-06-15T12:14:00.000+01:00

I sit at the kitchen table eating my toast, and look up at a picture on the wall of Dolly at around 7 months old - cute, and smiley, and relatively tame. I reminisce fondly about her baby days; her being content with just a teaspoon to play with for hours on end, while gazing at me and Tom lovingly, and smiling sweetly at her sister.

'MUMMEEEEE' shakes me rudely from my thoughts. I see Dolly, standing at the world map poster on the wall. 'I will live here' she says, pointing at North America. 'I will live here' she says again, as if labouring the point, and still pointing at America.

When I got to about 17 years of age, I had hankerings to move away from my hometown, onto to somewhere more exciting. Dolly has just turned two.

'And you, and Daddy, and Betty will live here' Dolly says, pointing to the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

I don't care what the weatherman says...

2011-06-13T21:01:00.000+01:00

Having camped many times in my life, I would describe myself as a pretty seasoned, unfazed camper. I have experienced: being woken by a massive bird sitting on my chest, the car accidentally dragging the tent half way across the field by its guy ropes, not being able to remember which tent is mine, large bear-like animals poking their noses into the canvas in the dead of night, tent/music rage, being attacked by midges, tent burglary, and most weather conditions, including getting drenched, and getting half baked in the early morning sun.

So there we were on Saturday night, us Buttons, all lined up in a tired, snug, little row, in our tent, listening to the sound of the waves, our faces glowing from the cider, and the sunny warm day spent on the beach, playing in the sand dunes. And I couldn't help but feel a little bit smug that we had ignored the weatherman's warnings, and made a last minute dash to the coast. All was perfect. And off we all went to sleep, in sandy, cosy, slopey airbed heaven.

At 3am I woke to the sound of rain lashing against the tent, and the wind ripping through it, blowing and bending it this way and that - rather vigorously I have to say. And I could hear the waves crashing against the rocks just 50 yards away. Tom and Dolly were snoring soundly. I looked over at Betty and her eyes were wide open, not blinking. 'Betty' I whispered 'Are you ok?' 'I'm a bit scared' she replied. 'It's ok my darling, it's just a bit of wind and rain' I told her. My heart was pounding, I was sweating like a pig, I was terrified. I kept thinking about my friend's 12 ft trampoline, and how just a few weeks ago, the wind managed to blow it clean over her garden fence and onto the main road some distance away. I imagined our tent being the trampoline (with us in it) and the main road being the sea.

I lay there, holding Betty's hand, and trying to think of a survival plan, if the tent indeed took off and landed in the sea, or collapsed and suffocated us all, or if the tent poles came free and knocked us unconscious. I had just accomplished the first part of my plan, which was to find a form of light (my trusty mobile phone) in order to be able to see during the rescue operation, when a huge gust of wind swept under the tent and lifted us a couple of inches into the air. Now convinced we were in a hurricane, I shook Tom awake, and told him he was to transport our children to the car. 'Don't be so ridiculous' he said, and promptly started snoring again. I shook him again and aggressively whispered in his ear 'We are in severe danger, we need to get out'.

While Betty got more frightened, and I pretended not to be, Dolly slept on, and Tom was outside whacking tent pegs back in. When Tom reappeared he coolly said 'It's all fine, go back to sleep'.

As we drove out of the campsite at 4am, with a befuddled Dolly, and a shell-shocked Betty, up to their ears in wet tent parts/sleeping bags etc, we saw many battered tents and campers dotted about the place. We also saw that one family had given up on their tent completely and hurled it into the bins as they made a dash for cover.

Doctors and nurses

2011-06-08T22:07:00.000+01:00

Betty's doctor's kit has been getting an airing recently, and she has spent many a happy hour fixing us all.

Betty to me:

'What have you hurt? Your ankle? Did you hurt your ankle in the desert or the woods? Is it the ankle on your arm or your foot? Did you fall over, or get a splinter from a tree? Right, take Calpol tonight and when you wake up. Stick this in your mouth and bite it [a thermometer] it will make you much better. I just need to count your teeth before you go. You have nine teeth, that is great. That's lovely, thank you - can you go home now please - go on off you go. N-E-X-T'.

Tom has also been treated by Dr Betty. They spoke intently for a while as Betty took Tom through the diagnosis: He had been doing Tai Chi balanced on the side of a boat and fallen into the sea, where 100 crabs had attacked him on the head and the knees. Apparently Betty had treated his knees but said that his head would take a while longer to heal up.

Meanwhile 'Nurse Dolly', who was supposed to be assisting the doctor, was wandering around with an unidentified piece of furniture that looked like it had been ripped off a chair, and was bashing it against anything in her path.

Competition giveaway! - Pabobo Carousel Lamp

2011-06-07T13:22:00.005+01:00

Pabobo sell a selection of gorgeous lights for children. They recently sent us the Barbapapa carousel lamp (pictured) to try out.

It now sits on Betty's bedside table - the colourful Barbapapa images spin around, and it projects patterns onto the wall and ceiling. It gives off enough light to be able to turn the main light off and read the bed-time stories. This lamp is a real novelty, and Betty and Dolly, of course, love it.

Pabobo are also offering this lamp (which retails at around £45) to one of my readers as a competition prize.

All you have to do is leave comment at the end of this post, by 9pm on 20th June. All comments will then be entered into a draw, and a winner picked out. Good luck!

Please remember to leave your contact details (name and email or Twitter id) so that I can contact you if you win - thanks!

One out of five

2011-06-05T22:18:00.000+01:00

I have talked a lot on this blog about 'Duckie', Betty's longstanding cuddly friend. I have written about the stresses of only having one Duckie, with no back-up to be found anywhere on the planet, despite my best efforts. I have guarded that duck with my life for over four years, and despite a few minor mishaps, he has remained safe. Half the Button household breathed a large sigh of relief recently when the duck went into semi-retirement, and was no longer a key player in Betty's life.

Determined not to make the same mistake twice, I watched Dolly like a hawk when she was a small baby, to see which of her cuddly friends she was forming a bond with. It turned out to be Rabbit (pictured right). I was thrilled as I knew exactly where I could buy more rabbits who were exactly the same, and I did just that. We now have five identical rabbits in our possession. One would think that this would solve all the problems and disperse the usual anxieties of Rabbit either getting: lost, covered in food or chicken shit, singed by the fire, mangled by the lawn mower, painted blue, left out in the rain in the back of a toy tractor, or stolen by a bird of prey.

Things inevitably failed to go to plan. I think it all went wrong when she discovered that there was more than one rabbit knocking around the place - she spotted three lone rabbits whizzing around in the washing machine on a 90 degree wash one fatal breakfast time (this was not very well executed on my part). She refused to go to sleep with fewer than two rabbits in her cot, then upped the stakes to three, until I sat her down and gave her a stern talking-to.

Things continued OK for a while until Dolly decided that there was only one particular rabbit that she was happy with. She can tell from a million miles away if I am enthusiastically wielding the wrong one at her. You might be forgiven for thinking that THE rabbit would be the original rabbit that she formed that bond with in the first place, but it's not. She is inseparable from her rabbit of choice (it is the most-used, worn one, the one that most resembles a rag).

So, it turns out that I continue on this journey of guarding a child's comforter with my life, and have four redundant rabbits, all of which permanently live in the washing machine in an attempt to wear them out.

All by myself

2011-05-31T23:43:00.000+01:00

After our holiday I needed a break, so as soon as we arrived back home I booked both kids in for an impromptu day at pre-school. This was Dolly's first time going for a full day (and my first day on my own for several years), and so when I dropped them off, I was apprehensive; but by the time I had reached my car, having left them stabbing some play dough with scissors, I was over it.

I sat at the wheel, engine revving, MY music playing, and my mind racing. Desperate not to lose a single minute, I frantically went through all the exciting things I could do for the next six hours - it felt like the sky was my limit. Some time later, realisiung that I was still sitting in the pre-school car park, I aimlessly drove away.

I ended up at Sainsburys, half an hour away. I glided into the parking space, turned the engine off and sat in my own thoughts, for about twenty minutes. I then simply got out of the car, locked it, and effortlessly walked to the shop entrance, with my tiny bag over my shoulder, my arms swinging freely by my sides, and the Postman Pat ride not even getting a sideways glance.

Once inside, I slowly ambled up and down the aisles, with the trolley so light and undemanding, it practically pushed itself. I saw things on the shelves I had never noticed before - lovely grown-up treaty things, all of which seemed to jump onto the conveyor belt at the till, and I casually browsed through a magazine while I waited my turn to pay.

I got back to my car, and with just one door to open, in I got, as quickly and as easy as that, and popped my little bag of shopping next to me on the passenger seat. I sat for another twenty minutes in silence, just because I could, and then drove away calmly.

This time I ended up back at home. I wandered freely round the house for a bit, and then I had chocolate for lunch. It was all very liberating. I wrote a few tweets, sent a few emails, and then sat on the sofa and read a magazine. Then I did a bit of hoovering.

Celebration Sunday

2011-05-29T09:58:00.002+01:00

Sundays have always been, and always will be, a slightly odd, lethargic day of the week, with Monday looming, and you still hankering after Saturday. You wake up and try and have a lie-in like in the old days, watching telly in bed and eating peanut butter on toast, while flicking through Heat magazine looking at pictures of size 6 celebs banging on about their berry and cider vinegar breakfasts. Then the miniature beings appear on the scene, in their pyjamas, bright eyed, and say 'What are you watching this for? Come on, let's put CBeebies on'. Then they start jumping up and down on your head, shouting 'We want to go to the playground!'

What a contrast with your fomer life, being able to do whatever you liked with your Sunday. Most weeks, of course, you would eat cold sweet and sour pork in bed, with a hangover, watch Friends til lunchtime, and wonder what virtuous thing to do for the rest of the day. Often the best idea you could think of, with your wine stained lips and MSG dripping down your chin, is a trip to the local swimming baths, followed by watching the omnibus edition of Eastenders, and eating an entire box of Maltesers.

It's true, you rarely get a 'real' lie-in these days, but your kids make Sundays go round. They say, and do that funny thing, and they have such energy and enthusiasm. They make you think that Sundays aren't so bad after all, in fact it becomes a day to be positively celebrated.

Now please excuse me while I get back to drinking my tea in bed, and having my arms wrenched out of their sockets by a two year old.

My new baby

2011-05-27T16:30:00.000+01:00

I have got a new phone. From what I can work out it can do virtually anything - even things I previously only ever thought possible in my wildest dreams. It is a far cry from those jolly little Nokias we all seemed to have about ten years ago, where texting and phoning were the only things on offer (that, and the thrills of Snake of course). I am obsessed, blown away, in love...

Gone are the days when I would happily let my kids use my phone as a toy just to get some peace, and then not be able to find it for days. This phone gets locked away in a cupboard during the day - I cannot take any risks - specially with Dolly who would track it down and sabotage it within seconds.

Tom asked me if he could look at it the other day. I reluctantly handed it over, but experienced the same feelings as when I handed over my precious newborn babies to visitors for the first time - I didn't take my eyes off it for a second and all I wanted to do was grab it back immediately and clasp it to my bosom.

Tom is concerned, and had to phone me up the other evening just so that he could get to talk to me. 'I think you are spending too much time on that thing and not getting your priorities right' he said, his voice trembling with emotion. 'Yes I know' I agreed, feeling a little bit annoyed that he had interupted me from an international GPS experiment, 'I feel like I have been really neglecting my laptop since I got this phone'.

Souvenirs

2011-05-26T10:40:00.000+01:00

The following items did not come on holiday with us, but came back with us:

Tom:

Several bamboo canes dug up (by him) from the roadside near a cheese-making shop
A ridiculously massive slab of cheese, from the above shop
A mint plant, secretly dug up (by him, using Betty and Dolly as diversion aids), from a herb garden open to the public. He said something like: 'Well if they will charge £6 entrance fee...'
Two big sacks of dried seaweed from the beach [for the chickens apparently]
Three large potted plants of mint of different varieties - paid for this time
A large potted black bamboo plant which cost 30 bloody quid, and was placed in between Betty and Dolly on the way home, and when it wasn't poking them in the eyes and making them cry, they were tearing it apart.
A job lot of tent pegs
Some cuttlefish shells
A book entitled 'Why office work is bad for us and why it's good to fix things'

Betty:

A red spade
Shells
Stones
Sand

Dolly:

A blue spade
A toy truck
A stick

Dictatorship

2011-05-22T12:52:00.000+01:00

At the beginning of our holiday, I felt quite smug, thinking that we Buttons were becoming a functional family at last. By that, I mean that we have now left the baby days behind us: no more being bound by milk feeds, nap times, early bedtimes, regular meals, random unfathomable crying, incomprehensible chatter, and cumbersome baby equipment/toys/babies.

While packing up the car before we left home, Tom remarked that the car seemed unnervingly empty: suitcases check, kids check, food check, buckets and spades check, and ready for the off, just like that, easy.

On the holiday, instead of putting the kids to bed at their usual time, and then spending a bit of time whispering to Tom in the sitting room next door, getting bored and going to bed at 8pm ourselves, we spent long evenings in the beer gardens of Pembrokeshire. Betty and Dolly happily ran around and played together, with only half the time being taken up with fights breaking out between them, while Tom and I were able to kick back with our drinks, and have a conversation, or just stare blankly into space. We were beginning to feel far more free, in that if we wanted to all sit round the kitchen table eating fish, chips and mushy pea at 10 o'clock at night, then that's what we did (only on holiday mind).

However a few days in, it became abundantly clear that the kids getting older doesn't necessarily equal things getting easier. With their blossoming maturity also comes them having their own (very forthright) opinions about, well, everything: what they wear, what we eat, where we go and what we do. Where we used to be able to bundle them in the car and do what WE wanted to do, and they would be none the wiser, we now have a little dictatorship going on in the back seat of the car yelling 'WE WANT TO GO TO THE BEACH', and they whinge and sulk and say 'I'm booored' if the beach hasn't been factored into our immediate plans.

Don't get me wrong, I love the beach, but by the fifth day on the trot, being in the rain and wind, watching them get cold and wet and dirty, with Tom next to me annoyed that he's going to have to carry an angry, shivering Dolly, two buckets and spades, and four layers of discarded clothing up a slippery cliff path back to the car, things start to get a bit wearing.

A far cry from feeling more free, Tom and I have been feeling pretty trapped; trapped at the beach, trapped in pasta and sausages, and trapped in 'let's not let Mummy and Daddy even go to the loo without having an opinion about it'.

I tried to have a reasoned conversation with Betty about the whole thing, and she replied: 'But Mummy, I know that this holiday is for grown-ups too. And I really don't mind you taking me to grown-up places and things, like churches or houses. I will let you do that Mummy'.

No prizes for guessing where we ended up this morning.

I am a finalist!

2011-05-18T11:15:00.000+01:00

It's 4am and I am sitting in the kitchen of our holiday cottage, in the dark. The rain is lashing outside and I can see the flickering of the lighthouse - it is all very romantic. I am writing this post now because it is the only chance I will get, in peace, to do it - Tom disapproves of me having my laptop (and phone) on holiday, Dolly would want to break it, and Betty would want to use Paint. Up here in the Welsh hills there is no internet connection so I will have to wait until the morning to publish it (when we all go to a cafe I sussed out earlier, that has Wi-Fi, under the pretense of having a full English, to keep Tom happy).

Yesterday we all went to a museum. A little bored with looking at Welsh farm machinery, and clocking two whole bars of signal strength on my phone, I had a sneaky look on Facebook. I noticed that the MAD blog award finalists had been announced, and was interested to see who they were. I clicked on the link, but my phone started wavering in and out of signal, and Tom was heading my way with a child under each arm, shaking his head. The odds of successfully getting onto the website were against me. However, a few more hasty clicks of my phone, and there I saw it - my blog in the list of finalists! I wasn't sure if my phone was playing mind games with me - these new phones can pretty much do anything nowadays - and if it was real or not, and then my signal completely disappeared again.

With mixed feelings of nerves and excitement, and still unsure what was going on, I told the other three Buttons we were leaving to find a Wi-Fi connection immediately (it so happened that I had my laptop in the boot of the car). We screeched into the carpark of a very posh hotel and in I charged, looking slightly crazed, clutching my laptop, leaving my bemused, slightly irritated family in the car.

Back in civilisation, I was now able to get onto the MAD blog awards website with ease. And to my absolute genuine astonishment, there I was, listed as a finalist in two categories: Family Life, and Pre-School Fun.

I would like to say a huge big THANK YOU!!! to all those who nominated me - I am so totally thrilled, and touched, and it was totally unexpected!

Now there is just one last thing to do... I would really LOVE it if you could now go and vote for me to win in one or both of the categories!

VOTE HERE!

I really do need to go back to bed now, where Betty is lying star-shaped across the mattress, after waking from a bad dream (about a 'rusty old light') in her own bed.

The ace of spades

2011-05-17T12:45:00.001+01:00

Every single time we go away on holiday, we forget to take the buckets and spades for the kids. Their sandpit at home is now jam-packed with all the ones we have had to buy, in every colour and size. This time I was determined not to forget, so asked both girls to go into the garden and choose a bucket and spade each, from their collection, and leave them on the doorstep; which they did.

Our first afternoon on the beach yesterday, we realised that we had packed the buckets but not the spades. 'This is progress' Tom said. I took Betty and Dolly to the carpark beach shop and they chose yet another spade each, and while we were there, on a whim, I bought a massive toy shovel for Tom.

For the next couple of hours, Betty and Tom happily dug and built, Dolly carried unnervingly large rocks around the beach, and I took photo after photo of them all without them even realising, with my large zoom lens - a purchase necessary to get nice photos of my kids, and my husband. Tom accused me of 'papping my own kids' and later when he looked back through the photos he despairingly said it was like watching the afternoon in real-time.

Towards the end of the afternoon, I put the camera away and took part in the beach activities. I noticed that when Tom wasn't doing his Tai Chi to the sea, he had been busy building an extraordinary sand construction- it was a large elevated star shape, totally symetrical,and with cleverly balanced rock towers at each point - a man with a large spade on the beach, and a personal rock carrier (Dolly) is unstoppable. He remarked on how much he loved his new spade. Meanwhile Betty had dug an impressively large hole.

I decided that as the beach was deserted, I would go for a 'run'. But as I headed off towards the shoreline, I heard two hysterical children (mine) running behind me, laughing at my 'funny running'; and they soon over took me, still laughing. The three of us stood at the edge of the sea in the soggy sand. Tom was drawing giant letters in the sand with his giant spade. A gentle wave came towards us, about an inch high, and while Betty let it ripple over her toes, I saw the look of panic on Dolly's face (normally the action hero). And instead of turning around and walking away from the wave, she just fell backwards into the water. A cross, soaked, fully clothed Dolly with a sea-drenched nappy hanging down to her knees, marked the end of our afternoon on the beach. When we arrived back at the holiday cottage, Dolly proudly produced the original spades from the washing machine.

http://www.tots100.co.uk/2011/05/16/tots100-blog-hop-become-a-worlds-apart-toy-reviewer/

Mother's ruin

2011-05-11T22:21:00.000+01:00

Dolly has got her very first morning at pre-school tomorrow; these are the thoughts I have had in the last hour:

Gin without tonic is hard on the stomach
I've now got to make two packed lunches instead of just one
My nose feels hot
What the hell am I going to do tomorrow with no kids, for three whole hours?
This sausage stew I just made is disgusting
I hope Dolly behaves herself tomorrow
Perhaps Tom and I could go for a long leisurely breakfast with newspapers
I will find an empty house very weird
I can so see why women keep having babies
I need another gin
I will need to start thinking about getting a job
There are bits of dried mud all over the carpet
Maybe I should have another baby
I wonder if Dolly will miss me
An iPad would cheer me up
This gin is horrible
Betty will look after her

Under investigation

2011-05-11T07:25:00.001+01:00

One of the chickens' redeeming features was that they were producing delicious fresh eggs every morning - that, and the kids and Tom love them. But they have now stopped laying.

Our farmer friend suggested that it may be magpies or rats coming in and stealing the eggs. He then went into animated detail about how to train rats to turn against each other, thus producing one killer rat who keeps all the other rats at bay. 'Oh right' was all I could muster in response. He also suggested that the hens might be laying the eggs and then eating them themselves - and if that were the case he would 'wring their bloody necks' for us.

I wondered whether Betty and Dolly had traumatised them by trying to stab them with a garden fork (it's a game). Or whether the culprit might be the bogeyman who lives in the hedge with his axe - you know, the one that terrifies me at night when I am home alone.

I was eager to set up my camcorder in the coop and catch whatever it was, but my mum told me it might scar me for life if I saw what went on in there, away from prying eyes. I am unsure exactly what she meant, but I promptly shelved the idea anyway.

Yesterday (while Tom was out) I did an experiment and I kept them locked in their little house until lunchtime, so that, firstly they would get bored and lay some eggs because there was nothing else to do, and secondly we would be able keep the egg-stealer out, and thus work out whether it was someone/something stealing the eggs or if the chickens just were not laying. When I let them out at 1pm there was one egg, four really angry hens, and a very hot, smelly hen house. I was none the wiser.

My friend came over to identify how old the chickens are - she can do this by looking at their legs - she said that the smooth, slender appearance of their pins meant that they were all quite young and should be in their egg-laying prime.

So, in a last ditch attempt to get to the bottom of what the heck is happening, I have just placed some shop bought eggs in their laying box - if they disappear then there is an egg-loving criminal mastermind at work, and if they don't disappear then the hens were never laying the eggs in the first place. The suspense...

Never again

2011-05-08T20:48:00.000+01:00

I recently convinced myself that taking our kids to a very large theme park would be a good idea, and on a bank holiday, what's more. Tom was harder to convince, but we ended up going anyway.

Once on site, I insisted that Betty and I went on the first ride we came to. We queued for an agonising hour and twenty minutes, behind a lady that Betty couldn't take her eyes off. I feared she was going to give loud judgements on what this lady was wearing/saying at any given moment, and get us beaten up. When we finally got to the front, I rationalised that to queue for this long, the ride must be bloody amazing. 'Hold onto your hat' I told Betty, as our carriage pulled away. 'Why are we going so slowly?' Betty asked, 'Is the ride broken?' I was embarrassed, and even more so when literally 30 seconds later we were back at the beginning, and I had to break it to Betty that after all that standing in a line it was time to find something else to do. 'Isn't this all such fun' I said faux-cheefully. Betty looked intensely annoyed.

From then on, the day just got worse: Dolly got bellowed at by another child who said 'I don't want you here, go away', Betty became increasingly frustrated/upset that she couldn't go on most of the rides, Dolly lost her sacred rabbit comforter, my new shoes were killing my feet, Tom had gone into a depressive state and wouldn't talk, it was hot, and busy, and Betty got temporarily lost. It was at this point, once we had found her, all of us in tears, tensions at an all time high, we decided to throw in the towel and go home.

As we sat in traffic on the M25 in uncharacteristic stunned silence, Tom announced: 'I am taking out that National Trust annual membership as soon as we get home'.

[This is not a sponsored post]

Defeated at this job

2011-05-06T09:06:00.000+01:00

I saw a friend on Tuesday evening; she said: 'So... two things happened today...' I asked her to write it all down and share it:

I keep waiting for the moment, like in a new job, when I feel I have cracked this little job called parenting.

The other day my two-year-old locked herself in our new-ish car. I say locked herself because that’s exactly what happened – she waited for the exact right moment and having wiggled out of her car-seat (courtesy of four-year-old accomplice), crawled through the gap between the front seats, pressing the all-lock button as she went.

I watched, dry throated, as the windows all shut too.

The keys were in the ignition and I was locked out of the house with the four-year-old.

We banged on the windows, gesticulating dramatically while Issy selected the CDs she had been waiting to listen to, unencumbered by other passengers' chatter. She appeared to be laughing at us.

Having locked myself out on previous occasions I have a spare key with a neighbour so we did manage to get into our house and find the spare car-keys.

Phew. I pressed the button but no ‘plip’ – the keys in the ignition obviously override any exterior instructions. My heart began to beat faster – we were now in an official pickle.

Back, more comfortable, in her own car-seat Issy was still smiling along to the music.

Inspired I rang the dealership from where I had proudly driven my car months earlier.

Spluttering over my words, I explained to the nice man on the end of the line my predicament.

“Have you tried using the key in the lock?” he asked calmly.

Embarrassed, I realised how quickly I had forgotten the purpose of an actual key. Of course it worked, the door opened and Issy’s face fell. Her game was over.

“Thank you,” I said to the man.

“Is there anything else I can help you with today?” he professionally followed up.

“Well there is this matter of trying to lose a bit of weight…” I ventured, having regained my sense of humour.

“That, madam, I can’t help you with,” he cheerfully replied.

While I recovered from this frantic half-hour (it had taken a while for my neighbour’s husband to find our key) and made myself a cup of tea I let both girls play in their room. I reconstructed Isabel’s opportunistic strike in my mind, and convinced myself she had been planning it for weeks – she loves the car, and being in it unrestrained.

Tea made I realised how quiet things had got – rarely a good sign.

As I turned the corner into our bedroom I saw Bethan in the process of bathing her little sister, quite well as it happens.

Of course my mind ran into over-ride – scalding, drowning or perhaps, worst of all, hypothermia.

“It’s OK Mum,” Bethan said, “I didn’t let Issy use the hot tap.”

Having calmly pulled the plug and explained in controlled tones the potential to drown in 3 inches of water (or is it less?) I let Bethan get her sister out of the bath and put a nappy on her (the bit I dread most).

I felt defeated and like I'd failed but at least it was nearly the end of my shift.

Imparting wisdom

2011-05-04T21:32:00.000+01:00

After hearing the cuckoo for the first time this year:

Me: That was the cuckoo - this means that it is definitely Spring!
Betty: Why does it mean it is Spring?
Me: Because the cuckoo comes in Spring
Betty: Why does he come in Spring?
Me: Because of all the pretty flowers
Dolly: Cuckoo
Betty: Where does he come from?
Me: From far away
Betty: Where?
Me: There it is again... did you hear it?
Betty: Yes. Where is the cuckoo?
Me: In the woods over there
Betty: Why is he in the woods?
Me: Because that's where he likes to be
Betty: Why?
Me: Because he likes woods
Dolly: Cuckoo
Betty: But why?
Me: Umm.... because he likes trees
Betty: Likes trees? Why does he like trees?
Me: Because they protect him from the sun
Betty: Why doesn't he like the sun?
Me: Because it is hot
Betty: Where does he go in the Summer?
Me: Far far away
Betty: Where?
Me: To another country
Betty: Which country?
Me: One across the sea
Betty: So where does he go in the Winter?
Me: Another country
Betty: The same country as in Summer?
Me: I have absolutely no idea

Reproved

2011-05-03T13:28:00.000+01:00

Now that Dolly is older, long car journeys have become more bearable of late, and while the kids happily play with some plastic battery-operated gadget or other, and eat their way through copious amounts of snacks (starting from uber healthy to downright bad by the time we reach our destination), I mess around on my mobile phone and give mundane Facebook status updates about where we are on the M4 (purely for the novelty factor; I only ever write status updates on car journeys). And all is tranquil.

However, just as I had become lulled into smug feelings of happy-journey security, on our last long journey to London at the weekend, the kids' antennae came out and they obviously sensed me being far too relaxed for their liking.
.
There we were, about 2.5 miles into our journey, me happily telling my Facebook friends exactly that, Tom with his slightly gormless driving expression, and the girls smiling sweetly while they ate their raspberries. When...

'Mummy, I hate your music, please can you put our music on?' said Betty. 'No your music Mummy' said Dolly crossly. After trying to negotiate with them and teach them the concept of 'fair', I turned Lily Allen off and put on the 'The Wheels on the Bus' CD. Tom's expression went from gormless to despairing. To distract myself from the slightly crazed singers on this CD (which has probably been played about 50,000 times), I phoned a friend. 'Me talk phone' said Dolly crossly, over and over. 'Don't talk on the phone Mummy, I cannot hear my music' said Betty.

And this set the tone for the entire four hour journey to London. Even when they were gorging on chocolate, I couldn't scratch my leg, look in my bag, have a drink of water, gaze out of the window, touch my phone, talk to Tom, breath or think, without being severely reprimanded. That'll teach me to think that I can look at an old Tesco receipt found in the glove compartment, in peace.

I shall now be avoiding confined spaces with my sweet children for any length of time, and however much I love London, I don't love it enough...

A wedding commentary

2011-04-29T21:16:00.001+01:00

Through the eyes of a four year old:

I think the princess will be wearing pink with lots of pretty flowers around her head
I think the princess might be orange
Are we going to the wedding?
Would I have to wear white when I get married?
When is Daddy coming back with the Jaffa Cakes?
Is Westminster Abbey as big as our house?
I don't like those noisy people with flags
Is that the princess? [it was Carole Middleton]
I want to see the princess
Is that grandma on the telly?
Queens are not yellow Mummy
Is the princess arriving in one of those taxis?
Is the princess on that motorbike?
I wish I was getting married - I want to marry my sister
I really want a Jaffa Cake
Can I marry my Daddy as well?
And I want to marry you as well Mummy
What are those yellow things?
The princess is smiling and beautiful
I think the princess has got a bouquet of Buttercups
Is she holding the princess's dress so that it doesn't get dirty?
Is the prinesss married yet?
Why does that man keeping talking and ruining it? [the Bishop]
Is this what happened when you and Daddy got married?
Will the princess sit down?
I don't know that song, do you know that song Mummy?
Who is that man? [Elton John]
Is the princess's mummy singing?
Can I have another Jaffa Cake please?
Do you know mummy, I have been to a church before
I would now like to go to the palace in my Snow White dress
Your wedding dress was just like the princess's dress Mummy
What are they singing now? [her interest now waning]
Can I have pickled onions for lunch?
I am going to find Daddy

Wedding wallow

2011-04-28T21:45:00.001+01:00

So, Will and Kate are getting married tomorrow. I do keep wondering how Kate is faring under all the pressure and media frenzy. I almost went to pieces several times in the lead up to my own wedding, and we only had 150 guests watching in a little unknown village in the middle of nowhere. So with the world watching (bar my husband) I cannot even begin to imagine how she feels right now.

And with the wedding, of course, comes all the street parties - there are many celebrations going on around us - all of which Tom refuses to go to. I tried to form a royal wedding ally in Betty and enthusiastically told her that a real life prince was marrying a lovely girl called Kate tomorrow in a huge church, and that the Queen of England would be there too. I asked her if she would like to watch it with me on the telly. 'Will there be Jaffa Cakes?' she asked.

Just when I was feeling thoroughly deflated at the prospect of watching the royal wedding with an uninterested and fidgety four year old, while Tom and Dolly were out having a 'wonderful time', the phone rang. It was my grandmother. She asked me if I would like to go and watch the wedding with her on her TV. I wondered whether Tom had put her up to this, but I felt mildly lifted anyway. 'Shall I bring bunting?' I asked. 'No,' she replied. 'I miss Diana too much.'

I had a dream (by Betty)

2011-04-27T13:57:00.000+01:00

Do you know last night I dreamed of a car-house. It had lots and lots of stairs in it and all my friends were there too and it was very wobbly. We drove to the church because everyone was getting married and there was lots and lots of cakes and ice-cream and Jaffa Cakes and biscuits. And all our Mummys were in the car-house going up the wobbly stairs. And there were lovely beautiful carpets. There was an old lady who was really really not very nice and she was so so mean to everyone. The car-house turned into a train-house and the wheel was right on the top. Me and my friends went right to the top of the train house and we were just seeing if the Mummys were doing the good driving. On the train-house we went to the soft play centre. My friends amd I lived at the soft play centre.

Betty Button, aged 4

Happy Birthday Dolly Button

2011-04-22T07:31:00.001+01:00

I am not going to bang on about how fast time goes and how I cannot believe that my baby Dolly is two (TWO!) already - it is universally accepted that time takes on a whole new pace when you have kids, we all know that too well... I find myself constantly in a perplexed state, trying to catch up.

I hadn't yet woken up this morning, when Dolly snuggled into me (she had come into our bed in the early hours) and sang the following stream of conscientious:

'Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to you. Sunny out there. Spider. Betty kiss me. Betty's bed. Rabbit. Kiss me Mummy. Get milk Mummy. Lid on Mummy. Daddy's downstairs. I want to touch 'puter button. My picture'.

Her early morning chorus basically sums Dolly up: She is excited about her birthday, but, as always, wants everyone else to share in the joy and be happy; she loves the sun and pottering around in the garden - when outside she insists on wearing her pink wellies and skipping everywhere; she is ambivalent about spiders; she absolutely worships her big sister (but also sometimes pushes her, yells at her and pulls her hair); her rabbit is her comforter and she strokes it across her face while sucking her thumb (Tom thinks she now has buck teeth - she doesn't); she is a cuddly and kissy little girl; she is sensible and observant; she is obsessed with sabotaging my computer but always asks first if she can touch the buttons (I let her when it is turned off); and lastly on her song list, she has recently unleashed her creativity and feels very pleased with herself about a picture she 'put together' yesterday.

Dolly Button, we are all completely besotted with you (sometimes to your irritation) and are slightly in awe of you: your humour (and humouring), your feistiness, your willpower and your bravery - we feel you are a little bit too cool for us, but feel utterly blessed to have you.

Happy Birthday my darling, beautiful, funny, sweet girl - I hope you enjoy seeing the giraffes and 'phants today, and your Betty Birthday cake...

The demise of Duckie

2011-04-19T14:35:00.001+01:00

It is with great regret, and a tiny bit of relief, that I announce that Duckie and Betty, after a four and half year intense relationship, have parted ways. In a statement earlier today, Betty announced that Duckie was now happiest with his 'boy duck friend' resting in a little crib she lovingly prepared for them next to her bed.

He/she (the gender of the duck changed from day to day to suit Betty) hasn't been totally abandoned and is allowed to 'rest' in her bedroom, but no longer does he get to: be a player in all major decisions, go away on weekend breaks, watch CBeebies, partake in meal times, play fairies and princesses, and be breastfed, cuddled, squeezed, chewed and talked at, 24/7. And I very much doubt his little Christmas stocking that I dutifully made for him at Betty's request a few Christmases ago, to match her own stocking, will ever see the light of day again.

Although this is a time of great sadness (Tom is in denial about the whole thing) and we in the Button household feel this new development marks a huge transition in the life of Betty Button, this sadness also comes with a real sense of relief. The duck had become smelly, threadbare and discoloured and no amount of washing could remedy this. No longer do I have the stress of Betty coming to me (on a weekly basis, of late) to show me a new hole in his wing and asking if I can sew it up for her - it got to the point where there was no material left on his wing to actually sew up. And no longer do we have to live in fear of the duck getting lost.

That duck, who hailed from H&M on Kensington High St, has been in Betty's life since before she was even born and meant more to her than her own parents. Perhaps now, Tom and I will get the respect and love we deserve and crave from our first-born.

To mark the retirement of Duckie, and the end of an era, I leave you with a picture of him lovingly drawn by Betty, back in the good old days....

Home alone

2011-04-18T14:30:00.000+01:00

Tom and Betty went away on a jolly to visit friends last weekend - I really didn't feel like going (very stressful week) and so Dolly and I stayed behind. And for the first time ever, I spent the night in our house, with no other adults present.

I spent all of Saturday mentally preparing, and trying to hypnotise myself into not being scared of the bleating sheep, the rustling trees, and the people hiding in hedges. I had to wait until dusk when the pesky chickens had retired into their hut so that I could lock them up before I could retire to bed myself. Because I was on high alert, mine and Betty's newly-installed homemade scarecrow, next to the chicken run, gave me the shock of my life and with heart pounding I ran back to the house, locked all the doors, hid all the keys, turned all the lights on, took a swig of rum, and went upstairs with my new box-set of Benidorm, an Easter egg, and Heat magazine.

From my bed, I nervously watched dusk turn into darkness and kept giving myself pep talks. I reasoned that it would be pretty unlucky to get burgled on the one night I was alone in eight years. Plus, I wasn't actually alone, I had Dolly sleeping soundly in her cot next door, but she isn't even two yet and wouldn't be that much use during a break-in crisis - though saying that, with her Phil Mitchell thuggish tendencies, she would probably be a hell of lot more use than me.

Still I was scared so I decided to sleep with the lights and the TV on in the bedroom - I found a channel showing snooker, so decided that would be calming enough to sleep through. At 2am I woke to the sound of balls being potted, and Dolly crying. Spotting an opportunity to join forces against the unknown terrors outside, I went straight to her and asked if she wanted to come into my bed. She said 'no'. I took her anyway. I turned the lights and the snooker off and cuddled up to an annoyed Dolly.

Next thing I knew it was 6.30am, Dolly was fast asleep and as far away as possible from me in the bed, and it was light. I felt so unbelievably relieved we had made it through the night, and although I had had the help of Dolly, the medicinal rum, the snooker, and all the lights, and had hardly slept, I felt this was a real breakthrough.

In an hour

2011-04-15T09:33:00.002+01:00

7.50am - wake up with a start, and remember that I forgot to do an online Tesco shop yesterday.

7.51am - with no bread and fruit in the house, I lie there and worry about what I am going to give the kids for breakfast, and what I can fashion together for Betty's lunch box, without pre-school staff thinking I am a neglectful mother.

8.00am - still in bed, I brace myself for my little darlings to start bellowing 'IS IT MOOOOOORRNING?' in unison over and over until I go to them.

8.04am - 'IS IT MOOOOOOOORNING?' jolts me from my thoughts of Shreddies, the horrors of training pants, and rusty lunch boxes.

8.05am - unleash the children from their bedroom and put on CBeebies

8.07am - go into kitchen, put kettle on, wash-up, warm up their milk, make tea, prepare breakfast, make Betty's lunch, sweep floor, wipe surfaces/kitchen table.

8.20am - while the kids breakfast on breadsticks and raisins, I choose their outfits - preferred clothing is either in the wash, very creased, or can't be found.

8.25am - start the getting-dressed battle. Dolly cries because she wants to wear her pyjamas all day and Betty tells me that the dress/leggings combo I have picked out don't work together. Betty then goes into meltdown when I accidently brush her cheek, while doing her hair.

8.32am - I tell them not to make each other cry while I go into the bathroom, have a 30 second shower, spray some Batiste (dry shampoo) onto my hair and slap some Nivea on.

8.34am - I get dressed, and search for my shoes and my sunglasses (needed to help hide my white powdery hair). Dolly has hidden them again, and refuses to tell me where they are. [She will produce them just before bedtime later, true to form]

8.37am - search for girls bags, coats and shoes, and yell a lot.

8.39am - put some washing on, and look for a consent form and some money for a pre-school trip that afternoon.

8.40am - have three gulps of cold tea, and sweep up the raisins from the floor.

8.41am - try to get kids' coats on, and wipe faces.

8.43am - with breakfast unfinished I tell them to eat it in the car. I break it to Betty that what she is eating for breakfast is pretty much what she will be having for lunch (with the addition of some olives and a yoghurt).

8.44am - leave the house, kids coats under arm, and me wearing Crocs because I can't find my shoes (no standards), and Betty and Dolly wearing Crocs (because I don't have time to do up shoe laces/buckles, and can't find their shoes anyway).

8.45am - wait while Dolly (at her angry insistence) painstakingly clambers up into her carseat, gets legs caught in the straps, spills her breakfast all over car, loses a Croc etc.

8.47am - with all of us strapped in and engine going, Betty tells me her feet are cold and could she have some socks.

8.49am - I return to the car with the socks, and have to break up a fight over a plastic horse. Dolly tells me she needs a wee and I tell her to just do it in her pull-up nappy. Betty implies that I am a bad mother for not letting Dolly use the toilet. I ignore her.

8.50am - we pull out of our driveway onto main road and Betty informs me her bag with lunch in is still on the porch step.

Making amends with the hens

2011-04-07T20:10:00.004+01:00

Tom has been away for most of the week, and is back tomorrow. Normally I quite enjoy his absence, mainly because I get to watch trashy TV in bed, while eating crisp sandwiches, in peace. But since getting chickens, I now sightly dread him going away.

He gives me instructions on what I have to do with them, like: let them out at 7am, feed them, talk to them, don't kick them, find them worms, collect the eggs, and then lock them up again at night.

The first morning Tom was away I totally forgot about the chickens until midday, and I only remembered because Betty informed me, with basket in hand, that we were off to collect the eggs. As we neared the coop, I heard some very angry hen noises - there was no mistaking they were pretty pissed off. It sounded like they were throwing themselves against the hatch door in an attempt to get out. I feared they may attack me, so I went in armed with a big stick and bravely told Betty and Dolly to wait for me outside the coop. I opened the hatch and out they charged with an evil glint in their eye. I had stupidly forgotten to put out their food, and so they pecked furiously at my shoes and surrounded me in a menacing manner. I was terrified. I flapped my arms in an attempt to get them away from me, but they, in turn, began flapping their wings. 'Mummy what are you doing?' Betty called. 'HELP' I called back. I noted that Dolly was giving me a pitiful look.

I did eventually make it out of the coop, albeit a quivering wreck, and closed the gate firmly. They still needed food though, but there was no way on earth I was going back in there. So I grabbed handfuls of corn from the tub and threw it at them over the fence. The clucking now getting more ferocious, they seemed incensed by my actions and they refused to eat the corn. 'I need to collect the eggs Mummy' Betty said. 'We are not collecting the blinkin eggs' I said. I then frog-marched Betty and Dolly back to the house.

Now safely inside, Betty continued to go on and on about the eggs and insisted that she needed to eat one for her lunch. At that moment in time, I could not think of anything worse than eating an egg laid by one of those chickens - evil chickens who seemed intent on pecking and flapping me to death.

After a stern, but reasoned, talking to from Betty, and lots of sighing from Dolly, I began thinking a little more rationally about the whole thing. I concluded that it was unlikely they were killer hens and were just plain hungry. With my maternal instincts kicking in, I then had intense feelings of guilt, and so decided to cook up a proper wholesome meal for them by way of an apology. So an hour later, armed with an elaborate vegetarian pasta dish, the girls and I headed back towards the coop. I gently poured the food over the fence, and talked to them slowly and calmly. And while they appreciatively gorged on the pasta, I sent Betty in to collect the eggs.

Ambiguity

2011-04-05T11:31:00.000+01:00

Betty came home from pre-school the other day, and excitedly gave this picture to me. Genuinely impressed, and getting rather good at interpreting her creations, I said: Wow that is a brilliant crocodile!'

She coolly replied: 'It's a swimming pool'.

I remember when Mr Cartwright...

2011-04-04T09:00:00.001+01:00

After my third operation to remove endometriosis growths from practically every reproductive organ and tube I possess, I sat in the waiting room of the UCL hospital in central London and nervously waited for my name to be called. I felt relieved that the pain had gone, but terrified about what the consultant might tell me.

Mr Cartwright, my consultant, told me that although they had successfully removed the growths that had caused me so much pain, my fertility would probably suffer. I was 29 years old and was about to marry Tom.

'Does that mean I can't have babies?' I muttered. 'I don't know' he said 'You can but try'.

From when I was very young I always knew I wanted children. I didn't sit and think of names or plan where they would go to school or anything, I just had a deep-seated feeling that having children was for me, and totally right. The news that my chances were now seriously reduced crushed me.

Tom and I got married and naturally we got onto talking about trying for a baby. I put plans in place to start saving like crazy to be able to have some attempts at IVF. I made an appointment with a fertility doctor on Harley Street to discuss our options, and I looked into adoption. I really feared for what we were about to embark on, financially and emotionally. I feared even more about the idea that we may never have a child.

Unbelievably, one month after I had the coil removed, I woke Tom up in the middle of the night and told him I could see little animals dancing next to our wardrobe in the moonlight. It turned out I was pregnant!

A year after that initial meeting with Mr Cartwright, I went back to see him for a routine appointment, and in I proudly marched sporting my naturally occurring five month pregnancy bump. He seemed genuinely thrilled and even called through to the nurse who had looked after me and got her to come down from the ward to share in the joy. She knew how much it meant to me, and she welled up when she saw me.

I had this romantic idea that if i ever did get pregnant I would name my baby after this amazing nurse. However, her name was Elsa, and so Tom and I decided that having an Elsie and an Elsa in the house would be a bit weird, so we opted for Betty instead.

A chicken revelation (by Tom)

2011-04-01T08:07:00.005+01:00

As I stood outside my chicken run (the result of three years hard work, on and off) watching four new-to-us bedraggled pullets pecking around, I felt a very familiar but indistinct surge of emotion. The first time I had ever kept chickens! Why were they making that particular clucking noise? Were they good clucks or angsty ones? Were they happy in their new home? Was I hearing an angry or fearful noise? Were they desperate to scale the fence I’d so laboriously constructed?

Slowly, the thought crystallised that I was feeling pretty much exactly the same feeling of utter cluelessness that I’d felt shortly after the arrival on planet Earth of Betty Button. That feeling of being totally, viscerally responsible for another life, feeding it, keeping it warm, and happy, and safe, a feeling that I had assumed would not come around again until, or unless, grandparenthood descended.

I am glad to report that the feeling did not last long – these were ex-battery chickens, retail value £1, and given to us by the neighbouring farmer so we had even saved ourselves that four pound outlay. It really didn’t matter (apart from to the chickens themselves, and even then, after what they’d been through, it was 50:50) whether they keeled over and died right there, or were savaged that night by a crazy rampaging gang of foxes and badgers, or flew out of the cage to begin a new, free and short life in the field over the way. These were not actual human beings with a genetic link to myself and the rest of my family, in whom god or someone like him had placed a precious charge. No, these ladies could fend for themselves or they could face the consequences.

Thus, at least, ran the rational part of my brain. Yet the old familiar feeling niggled. I had just gone through the mostly enjoyable palaver of putting Betty and Dolly to bed, so perhaps I was feeling overly parental. I watched the hens strutting around, descended from jungle fowl, weird and bald from their lives in an absurdly cramped factory farm. I had thought I’d have a hell of a time herding them into the shed, up the crap ladder I’d cobbled together one evening, the sound of whacked nails echoing across the valley, but as I watched they took it in turns to scramble up the ladder and explore the inside of the shed. They seemed genuinely taken with the stick I’d wedged in as a total afterthought of a perch. I felt like cheering. Soon three of them were in. A fourth continued outside and I decided that this would be the problem bird. Things had gone too well and I had visions of cramming it into the shed only to have the other three escaping and so the Benny Hill style routine would carry on until dawn. But then, only a short while later, that last one stalked up the ladder and into the shed. I whipped away the ladder and closed the hatch. They were in. I braced myself for squawking chaos but none came. They were silent. Happy? Hard to say. Asleep? Unlikely at such short notice. But as I strode away from that chicken run, there was an undeniable stirring at a gut level, some atavistic satisfaction at having put a series of creatures to bed.

Pet deprived

2011-03-30T12:32:00.000+01:00

We were given a large lump of frog-spawn the other day. There it sat in a black bucket next to where we park the car, neglected for several days. I had totally forgotten about it, until the friend who gave us the spawn asked Betty how her tadpoles were getting on. Betty, understandably, had no idea what she was talking about.

I promptly cleaned out a large clear plastic tub I found in the shed, and filled it with water from the hose, and in sploshed the jellied mass. I was surprised to find that during its time in the black bucket the spawn was now literally hundreds of little tadpoles, some of which wiggled around in their new surroundings with delight, but most of which looked dead.

Betty has been absolutely beside herself with excitement about these tadpoles ever since, and has been looking after them very well. She has been giving them bread-crumbs, dock leaves, sprigs of rosemary, and twigs to eat, and a stone to sit on. She then went on to do a picture of the life-cycle of a frog which she has now stuck on her bedroom wall, referring to it when she needs to. If she is annoying me, all I have to say is: 'How many of your tadpoles have legs now?' and off she goes, and I don't see her for what seems like hours, while she tries to count them.

I was perplexed at her excitement - after some thought, I think she realises that because of my dislike of any animal-type creature, this is the closest she will ever get to having a pet.

The Cottage

2011-03-29T12:48:00.001+01:00

On Saturday afternoon, Betty and I threw our sleeping bags and toothbrushes into the car and headed for the hills for the night. We were off to visit my Dad who had travelled down from London to spend a night in the cottage - a holiday cottage he has rented for 40 years, of which the lease will expire later this year.

After an hour long journey winding our way up into the mountains along narrow single track roads, we arrived. We parked up, scrambled over the gate, and trudged up the muddy field with sleeping bags under arms. We crossed over the wide stream using the wobbly stepping stones, up a muddy bank, and finally got to the cottage. We saw a wind-up radio perched in the branches of a tree blaring out some local music station, and we saw lots and lots of daffodils.

We entered the cottage, and immediately felt the warmth of the roaring open fire crackling and spitting, and the familiar smell of fried onions and paraffin from the oil lamps filled the damp air. Betty shook her wellies off and slumped into the big old brown leather armchair next to the fire, and asked me for some food. Off I dutifully went to the kitchen where I saw my dad's old bow saw with its orange handle, hanging off a chair. I carefully placed it in the middle of the kitchen table. The large dresser in the corner of the room caught my eye and for the next ten minutes I became completely immersed in my childhood. I opened the cupboard door and found the old metal train set, the wooden bird puzzle, the Rupert annual, and a neat little pile of very old, slightly warped, musty smelling Ladybird books. 'The First Day of the Holidays' (about a pair of penguin siblings called Pen and Gwen, who didn't want to shell peas and instead found a motorcycle to go for a joyride on) particularly caught my eye. I hadn't seen this book for almost 30 years. The nostalgia started seeping in. I held onto the book and decided I would read it to Betty at bedtime.

Completely forgetting Betty's food, I went up the steep narrow spiral stone staircase - the steps were warmed by the fire beneath - and was immediately drawn to a painting (by me at around Betty's age) hanging from a cherub on the bedroom wall. It had faded with age, and I wondered what I was like when I was four, and what I'd been thinking about at the time. I looked at the bunk bed I used to sleep in and affectionately remembered another picture I had drawn, of a jar of Marmite, stuck to the bed rail for many years. I felt the mattress and it was hard and lumpy, and I couldn't believe I had never noticed this before. Memories of my dad kissing me goodnight, and the sound of the crackling fire and the kettle whistling early in the morning came flooding back. This is where Betty and I would be sleeping tonight.

Betty called to me: 'Mummy, I am starving' which quickly snapped me out of my reminiscence. I went back downstairs and sat in the armchair opposite Betty. I looked at her sitting there for the first time, in a chair, a cottage, a valley, that has always been so unbelievably dear and special to me, a place I rarely come to these days, but spent so many happy times here as a child at weekends and during the school holidays. A place that has been ours since before I was born, but a place that will no longer be ours very soon.

My Dad then appeared in the doorway holding a broken wooden rake, and said 'Hey there you two, cup of tea?' I suggested we all went to the local pub instead, before it got dark, and I wondered if the pool table would still be there.

I desperately wanted Betty to have a taste of everything I had experienced when I was her age at this magical place.

The following morning Betty and I woke to the sound of the crackling fire and the kettle whistling, and my dad clanking around downstairs. We toasted bread on the fire for breakfast, played in the treehouse, raked the grass, explored the stream, and I took lots and lots of photos of every little thing: the food cupboard with its wire mesh front, the ancient calor gas cooker, the wooden cabinet holding glasses, mugs, tins of baked beans and toilet rolls, the oil lamps (one in particular with its big white berry-like shade), the table with lawn mower underneath, everything. And when it was time to leave, I walked back across the stream, and down the muddy field, with Betty in one hand, and the Ladybird book about the penguins in the other.

Next Blog

2011-03-26T15:44:00.000Z

Yesterday, Tom had been out all day helping his pig farmer friend put up a new pig fence half a mile long, so was knackered and went to bed at 8pm last night. I have given up wine for lent, there was nothing on TV (which is quite a statement coming from me), and I had no one to talk to. I decided to start a new stripy jelly creation, but as each layer takes over an hour to set I felt there must be more exciting ways to spend a Friday night. Our house was freezing because the sun had been out and I had mistaken this for Summer, so I had turned off all our heating. So through boredom and coldness I too went to bed, half an hour behind Tom.

In bed, Tom was in a heavy sleep, but I was not in the least bit tired. So I sat up in the dark and turned on my laptop. I began typing out a blog post, but in amongst his thunderous snoring, Tom somehow woke up and told me off for making too much noise. Trying to think of things I could do that didn't involve actual typing, I cast my eye to the top of my blog page and saw the 'Next Blog' option. I figured a bit of silent mouse control and the odd mouse click would not be detected by Tom.

I spent the next two hours engrossed in the world of 'Next Blogs'. I think I must have looked at around 100 blogs, and I made myself give each and every one a chance (unless they were written in a language I didn't understand ie. not English).

I was surprised to find that the majority of the blogs I came across were Mom blogs, and most had very similar styles: a photo of an immaculate Mom and Dad and their two kids, all smiling big perfect-teeth smiles in some idyllic looking setting as the blog header; lots of swirling colorful fonts, and lots and lots of photos of their kids' trips to butterfly farms or play centers.

Every so often I would come across some fascinating reads: a blog that described a woman's lifelong obsession with women's pants, another woman's journey of adopting an Ethiopian girl, and a man writing about how he walks backwards everywhere and documents people's reactions.

When I eventually turned off my laptop and lay down to sleep, my head was buzzing with the information from all these different peoples lives. Annoyingly I didn't save any of the blogs to my favourites list, so they have disappeared into the big black blog hole, and so I will never find out how the walking-backwards-man got on during his upcoming trip to Snowdonia, for example.

Taking the fifth

2011-03-22T19:47:00.000Z

Betty woke at 5.30am the other morning claiming to be 'disappointed' with the temperature in her room. The commotion woke Dolly up. Tom stayed in their bedroom with Dolly, and sent Betty off into our bedroom, on the understanding that she would sneak into our bed and go to sleep quietly next to me (I was ill).

This was the conversation the following morning:

Tom: Betty, did you let Mummy stay asleep when you got into bed with her?

Betty: Yes Daddy, I did.

Me: You did not! You nagged me for an hour about putting the TV on and then you informed me that 'you were not my slave' when I asked if you could find the remote control yourself. You then went on and on about how Duckie [her toy duck] wasn't very well, and you became irate when I wouldn't switch the light on to find him some Calpol.

Tom: Betty? Is this true?

Betty: No Daddy, it isn't true. I let Mummy sleep. I was a good girl, I went straight to sleep.

Me: Betty! You did not! You are fibbing. You must not fib, it is naughty. I am taking away your treat today.

Betty looking panic stricken, thinks for a second

Betty: But Mummy, I can't know what I am saying.

Long pause

Tom to Me: I think she is claiming the fifth amendment... or maybe trying to make out that she wasn't of sound mind at the time of the utterance? We seem to have either a great lawyer or a criminal mastermind on our hands here.

On a plate

2011-03-18T16:18:00.000Z

A couple of blokes in fluorescent jackets and hard hats appeared in my garden early this morning. I shook Tom awake and politely asked him what the heck they were doing there. It turned out they had come to put scaffolding up at the front of our house, ready for the solar panel installation people on Monday.

The solar panels are part of Tom's save the world crusade, along with refusing to go on an aeroplane ever again, trying to stubbornly cycle everywhere on his electric bike, and having a go at me every time a lorry backs up our driveway and dumps on our doorstep 'more clutter that will only end up in landfill'. I had to put my foot down when he tried to convince me that we could get by (as a family of four which includes two small children needing large cumbersome carseats) with just a Smart car and an electric bike.

Of course, I have total admiration and respect for everything he is doing, and I agree that things certainly need to be done, but not necessarily at the cost of making things impossible.

Having solar panels is the latest thing, and while I was nervous about it because of the huge initial costs, I am actually really pleased because it has given me peace of mind, that when the world does go completely tits up, I will at the very least still be able to watch TV. Tom has been giving me pep talks for the last few weeks in preparation, and has told me that once the panels have been installed I am only allowed to use the washing machine and the kettle when the sun is shining, for example.

Anyway, after heaving Tom out of bed to go and see to them, I then walked across the landing, which has one large long window running across it, to get to the bathroom. I looked down and saw the scaffolding men outside, on the ground, drinking the tea that Tom had made for them and looking quite settled.

I had my shower, and then merrily strode back across the landing, with just a towel round my waist, like I do every morning, but this morning I came face to face with the two men , who were now at the window of my landing at first floor level. I was already halfway across the landing when I clocked them, and so it was too late to turn back, as I would have drawn more attention to myself. So I continued my stride, hunched over, and head down, and dived through my bedroom door.

Outside the bedroom I could hear my darling children shouting things through the window like: 'Look men, do you like our shoes?' or 'Hello men, would you like my mummy to make you some more tea?' As I got dressed, in a mortified state, I went over and over it in my mind, did they see me, or didn't they? There is no way they could not have seen me. I hung around in the bedreoom for as long as I possibly could, until Tom bellowed up the stairs 'Elsie, it's 10 o'clock, I need you to take the kids, I have to get to work, WHERE ARE YOU? I emerged from the bedroom, fully dressed, and casually took a photo of the men at my landing window as I walked past to go downstairs.

No sooner had this photo been taken than Dolly escaped into the garden chanting 'man, tea? man, tea?' and I had to run out after her to retrieve her and face these men in the flesh, when all I really wanted to do was disappear in a puff of smoke.

Telly tale

2011-03-15T20:24:00.000Z

We didn't have a TV until I was about 12, instead my mum would knit and paint and build dens with us. Thinking about it now I completely admire my mum for not needing the TV for a bit of respite from her kids, but at the time I resented not knowing what people were talking about at school. And where some of the other kids at school had fizzy drinks, Wagon Wheels and crisps in their lunch boxes, I begrudgingly munched my way through lentil stews and homemade soups. We drove round in a old Morris Traveller with the wooden framework, much to my embarrassment. I just wanted us to have a 'normal' car without wood on it.

One afternoon, I remember being picked up from school by my friend's mum in their Ford Sierra and going back to their house for tea. We ate potato waffles, mini frozen pizzas and baked beans, while watching Neighbours on the TV. We then had ice-cream with strawberry sauce and it wasn't even anybody's birthday. I was in my element.

When I got home I gave my mum a really hard time about everything; our 'hippie' food, our 'hippie' car and our 'hippie' lifestyle (we were by no means hippies but I was taking a stand). She finally relented and agreed to let my Dad buy us a TV, but said under no circumstances would she give up her Morris Traveller for a Ford Sierra.

My brother and I went to stay with my Dad in London for the weekend, and although we were excited about seeing him, there was one thing dominating our thoughts and conversation - we were going to choose our new TV. I vividly remember the excitement I felt when we stood in that electronics shop on Tottenham Court Road. We picked out our brand new Panasonic colour TV with remote control, and as a child, it was one of the best days of my life.

My Dad travelled on the train with us and the new TV back to my Mum's house. Our new purchase sat in its brown cardboard box in the luggage holdall next to our bags, and I spent the entire journey proudly keeping guard of it.

The TV went on to bring me much joy, and introduced me to many programmes such as Grange Hill, Blue Peter, Jim'll Fix It, Doctor Who, Lassie, Home and Away, The A Team, Dallas, and Eastenders, and my life was enriched as a result. Bobby Ewing became a big part of my life, as did the East End of London, and Summer Bay. I got to learn about different cultures (namely Australian), how to build almost anything out of toilet roll tubes, and thanks to the loveable Lassie I was able to put aside my differences with my own dog.

When I left home, after huge arguments with my brother about who was going to have custody of the TV, it went everywhere with me. It has lived with me in many different flats and houses, in many different parts of the country. And as I sit here and type this out, the same original Panasonic colour TV with remote control, now over 25 years old, sits in front of me, still blaring out Eastenders.

(This was written for Josie's writing workshop. The prompt was: Object stories.)

Jelly in the bin

2011-03-14T12:50:00.001Z

Both Tom and I were ill with the same thing over the weekend. However, he was the one convalescing in bed, and I was the one soldiering on. As a distraction from how rough I felt I decided to make a stripy jelly with the kids (pictured left). This creation took us all of Saturday.

As I coughed and sputtered and sneezed over orange and pink and purple jelly cubes and waited patiently for each layer to set before adding the next one, Betty remarked 'But Mummy I don't even like jelly anymore'. And it is a known fact that, like me, Dolly has never liked jelly. 'Ok' I thought, 'so you and your sister don't like jelly (although yesterday you loved jelly you fickle little four year old), but Granny and Daddy love jelly'.

Once all the layers had set, I began turning it out of the mould and the nerves and excitement really started to set in. Out glooped the jelly, and there it proudly wobbled, perfectly formed, in all its stripy glory. I placed it on the table and stared at it in awe. Jelly really is an exciting and versatile medium to work with. Betty sauntered up and said 'Why have you made that yucky jelly Mummy?' I ignored her.

It turned out that Tom was 'too poorly' to eat jelly, and Granny didn't want to catch my germs that were 'more than likely festering all over it'. So with no-one actually wanting to eat the jelly, I took hundreds of photos of it, then ate a token spoonful of it, before slopping it into the bin; rationalising that the whole thing only cost £1.20 and that it had helped take my mind off the feelings of wanting to stick my head in the oven.

I am now dreaming up my next jelly creation. The next one, when I am better (for I have now succumbed to my illness, kicked Tom out of bed, and am under the duvet), will involve Betty and Dolly's castle shaped beach buckets. Having researched how to create new and exciting colours of jelly, the possibilities are endless. For me, jelly is the new play dough.

Dolly mixture

2011-03-13T16:17:00.000Z

Dolly will be two next month. Her first two years have gone in a flash, and suddenly, it feels like overnight, I find myself not with a Phil Mitchell look-alike baby, but a feisty, independent and very pretty toddler. The term 'toddler' doesn't feel right when describing her, because although she is a little person who toddles, it feels too unsophisticated for her, or slightly patronising.

So, I have a little person who moves purposefully around, busying herself with making us all copious amounts of tea in her toy kitchen, and taking random items for walks in her toy pram; yesteray I noted she had strapped in a toy train, a felt tip lid, a toy sheep and a little metal tin. And her dolls had been placed in her oven.

When she is not making us all laugh out loud with her sheer, and very deliberate funniness (and subsequently laughing at her own jokes), she is either holding forth in an argument with Betty, being naughty and not taking the blindest bit of notice if we tell her off, demanding that my yoga dvd be put on 'I want yoga on' so that she can stick her nappy bottom in the air, or demanding cuddles and showering us with kisses. The kissing thing is always on her terms though - if I dare to give her a kiss without prior authorisation she gets stroppy and says 'No kiss Mummy'.

At not quite two years old yet, the little lady's vocab is huge. Compared (and I know one shouldn't compare but it's often all you have to go on) to Betty who barely uttered a word until past two, she is talking in short sentences. Having said this, this advancement must almost definitely be attributed to Betty actively teaching her to talk - Dolly mainly talks about farts, poos, sweets and chocolate.

Although Dolly mostly refers to me as 'Mummy' she does sometimes decide to call me by my name, perhaps when I am misbehaving. And where I am the one that can normally decipher everything she says, she often looks at me and says 'TART' and I genuinely cannot work out what she is trying to say. She cannot be calling me a tart, can she? Anyway, despite her thinking me a tart, she is a bit of a Mummy's girl and she looks just like I did when I was her age; it is a weird sensation looking at your child and constantly being reminded of hundreds of photos of yourself when you were little. She also has this thing of wandering around with nothing on but her wellies; something I used to do.

I could go on all day long about this gorgeous little specimen of a child, but will finish here for now, by saying the little tyke melts me about 100 times a day, and both Tom and I (and Betty, though she probably wouldn't always admit it) are totally smitten.

Redundancy

2011-03-11T13:30:00.000Z

Last Friday afternoon was Betty's first induction session at school. In the hours leading up to it I was an emotional wreck. I had an urge to listen to 80s music - the music from my own school days. I imagined walking Betty up the school playground later that day for the first time and I cried. I remembered walking up the very same playground on my first day of school. I thought about my childhood and wondered how and when I got to where I am now, with two children of my own, one about to start school, and the other not that far behind. I opened the cupboard to seek out my secret stash of chocolate buttons and they had gone. I cried.

It wasn't the physical act of taking Betty to school for the first time that was bothering me, for she is desperate to go and so ready for it, but the symbolism of it all. I have spent the last four and half years in a blissful little mummy bubble (ok, not always blissful I know, sometimes bloody hard, as this blog documents, but totally blissful in retrospect) and now it feels like I am entering back into real life. A life full of rigid routines that I will no longer have any say over, a life of my kids not being around nearly so much, a life of things becoming slightly more out of my control. I know that my children are still only four and two and not about to leave home, but suddenly life seems a little more serious.

No more whiling away the days making play dough, painting, throwing glitter everywhere, dressing up as fairies, having playdates, going to the playground, watching CBeebies. Well not with Betty anyway. Of course I still have my gorgeous delightful Dolly to do all these lovely things with, but both she and I will really really miss Betty's presence. And even my baby Dolly (who will be two in a few weeks) will be starting pre-school after Easter, and embarking on her own rapid flight out of the nest.

So with all of this going on, I feel emotional, and sad, but happy, and a little bit like I am heading for redundancy in my current job.

Our debut animation

2011-02-12T19:05:00.001Z

We were sent a webcam-based animation studio, and we had such fun with it - it is very addictive, and the possibilities are endless. Read full review here

Betty and the bridge man (by Tom)

2011-02-07T13:17:00.000Z

Elsie asked me to relay this slightly tragic tale.

Each day we cross over a toll bridge on the way to Betty’s pre-school. A man takes your money and gives you a ticket and then the barrier swings up. Pretty regular really. For some time Betty had been grilling me on why the man said a cheery ‘Good morning’ to me and my reply was a mumbled ‘Morning’. I told her it was because I was half asleep and didn’t really like the phrase ‘Good morning’ or some other such nonsense.

After several days of this exact same conversation I decided to throw it back at Betty. I wound down Betty’s window on the approach to the bridge and told Betty to say ‘Good morning’ to the man. This she did, incredibly loudly, and the man was quite startled, but also quite pleased I think.

This carried on for a few mornings until, pleased with the way I had shifted the onus of the greeting onto Betty, I decided to go a step further and got Betty to give the toll bridge man the money for the ticket. Betty was happy to do this and I told Elsie about the whole situation and for a while everyone was happy. After a while the man asked Betty her name and soon an entire conversation was taking place. Probably the pinnacle of this was as follows:

I would wind down Betty’s window and the man would say ‘Good morning Betty’, and Betty would say ‘Good morning’ and the man would say ‘How are you this morning?’ and Betty would say ‘Fine thank you’ and meanwhile the money-ticket exchange took place.

Then disaster struck. To this day I don’t know what caused it. First of all Betty decided the money was too cold and insisted I took back the responsibility of paying for the ticket. I did so, but, for a while at least, Betty and the man exchanged pleasantries. Then Betty announced that she ‘didn’t want to say hello to the man all the time’. She said she was happy to greet him on Saturdays, knowing full well that she doesn’t go to pre-school on Saturdays. I tried winding the window down anyway, thinking Betty would soften when the man greeted her. However there was a very awkward moment when the man said ‘Good morning Betty’ and Betty just stared straight ahead. After that I didn’t bother winding down Betty’s window.

For a few days, the man glanced at Betty’s window, perhaps thinking of the good times, but when she continued to stare blankly ahead he finally threw in the towel. Now they completely ignore each other and it’s very embarrassing. I have considered trying to explain to the man that Betty isn’t normally so aloof, but it feels like any excuse would just sound hollow, so I have just pretended that nothing ever happened. I have made an effort to say ‘Good morning’ myself in a slightly more cheery way. Possibly this is what Betty had intended all along, and the man was just collateral damage.

Rudolf's vomit

2011-01-08T09:10:00.002Z

I know that Christmas is done and dusted for another year, but to my horror, I am not sure that Betty is completely sold on Father Christmas. She is only four, but like most kids her age these days, she is pretty astute. So when she sees some joker badly dressed as Santa queuing up in the bank, or chip shop, or swigging from a Carlsberg bottle with his mates outside Pizza Express, the magic fades, and we can hear her mind quietly ticking.

There is hope, as she hasn't declared outright that whole thing is a load of rubbish, although I think this may be because she doesn't want to upset me, and goes along with it to humour us.

On Christmas Day I excitedly tried to engage her in a conversation about Father Christmas. The day before I had taken her to a small breeds farm where he visits every year. The set-up is lovely - you sit in a his grotto which is a hay barn, and he feeds his real-life reindeer through the hatch and chats to the children, knowing their names and ages etc.

Me: It was so exciting to see Father Christmas and his reindeer yesterday wasn't it?

Betty: Mmm.

Me: I was very excited to see him.

Betty: Mmm. Where was the reindeer with the red nose?

Me: Well, do you remember that Father Christmas said that Rudolf was having a lie down because he had eaten too many mince pies?

Betty: Mmm. Why did he eat too many mince pies?

Me: Because it's Christmas and he likes them.

Betty: Why does he like them?

Me: Because they taste nice.

Betty: Why was he lying down?

Me: Because he had eaten too much and probably felt a bit sick.

Betty: Was he actually sick though?

Me: No, I don't think so.

Betty: I think he was. What colour do you think the sick was?

So there you have it, my darling daughter was far more interested in the colour of Rudolf's sick than what presents the chip-eating, lager drinking, money bags that is Father Christmas, might have left for her under the tree.

Small steps

2011-01-04T10:34:00.000Z

On New Year's Day, I sat in Pizza Express with Tom, Betty and Dolly finishing my final mouthful of pizza and announced to Tom that I was going to get back to a size 10 in 2011 (an ambitious statement). I wanted to go straight to the shops and buy an exercise bike after we'd eaten . As I ate my way through an enormous portion of Tiramasu, I felt guilt-free, knowing that my diet was going to start just as soon as we left the restaurant, and that the blood-type diet (recommended by my very skinny sister) and an exercise bike were going to solve all my weight problems.

So with the bike assembled and proudly in-situ, I sat and stared at it in wonder and awe: 'Wow my very own excercise bike, why didn't I ever think of getting one before?' I then got to work and began to research on the Internet exactly what this blood type diet was all about. At first I was horrified to discover that being Blood Group O, foods such as bread, cereal, dairy, eggs, citrus fruits, and bacon, were all forbidden. Having worked out that I could eat mackerel and kale for lunch and supper every day, I was genuinely baffled about what I could possibly eat for breakfast, other than wine and chocolate, both of which are allowed in this diet. I discovered that a slice of bread is around 100 calories and an After Eight chocolate is only 35, which meant I could eat three of them for my breakfast, instead of my usual toast, which was now forbidden anyway.

Satisfied with what I could and could not eat, I stepped onto the bike, which I cunningly placed in front of a window, and began pedalling. As I sweated and puffed my way through 4 miles, while gazing out of the window and imagining myself gleefully cycling through fields and woods, I became a little bit obsessed with the calorie counter. I worked out that having burnt off 200 calories I could legitimately go and eat a further two breakfasts (aka six After Eights), and so I did just that.

At the same time as buying the bike I also bought an Abs Roller. I thought that for someone like me, who cannot normally do even one sit-up, this artificial aid would be the answer. Betty's frustration at seeing me lying on this contraption, huffing and puffing and failing to lift myself off the floor by even one inch was very obvious, and she marched over to me, pulled me up with the bar that goes across, really aggressively and fast, and when I was obviously completely done in and out of breath she said 'Come on Mummy five more then we'll stop'. My stomach, neck and back are now in agony.

And speaking of Betty giving me a complex, the yoga dvd that I was given for Christmas is a big hit with her. She insists on putting it on every evening before bed, and effortlessly and bendily carries out all the routines, while I sit on the sofa with a glass of wine, visualising a size 10 me, and watch her.

Christmas round-up

2010-12-31T10:33:00.000Z

The last couple of weeks have been lovely, and despite the snow and ice, thankfully all grandparents managed to visit and share presents and Christmas cheer. My mum got more than she bargained for, and arrived at our house on 14th December for her birthday, got well and truly snowed in, and couldn't leave til the 28th when the snow thawed.

The much anticipated Christmas Day came and went in a flash. I absolutely love Christmas day; spending a day at home, with just the four of us. The morning was spent discovering bulging stockings and empty sherry glasses by the fire and then opening them up in our bed together - Tom and I sat back with a cup of tea and watched Betty completely overcome with excitement, and true to form gravitated towards Duckie's stocking first (his orange bath salts were the hit of the day), and Dolly matter-of-factly pulling different items from her stocking, sometimes sighing, and often only half unwrapping them before getting bored and then trying to steal the duck's bath salts, just to wind Betty up. After a delicious breakfast, we then opened presents from under the tree. Dolly sniffed out some cheese from under the tree and I caught her hiding in another room, her little fingers desperately trying to unwrap it, meanwhile Betty was effortlessly carrying out a challenge set by Tom of bouncing on her new space hopper for a full hour. We spent the rest of the day eating amazing food, playing with new toys, totally relaxing, and revelling in all the excitement, and carrying out our special little rituals and traditions with our children in our home - it is indeed my favourite day of the year.

I also love the week following Christmas, where visitors come, and the celebrations continue. Sadly a lot of our visitors were put off this year due to the bad weather. My dad was one that made it through. He came laden with beautiful presents, and lots of his own homemade produce, including Victoria plum jam and sausage rolls, and copious amounts of chocolate.

After staying up til 2am with him, chatting and putting the world to rights, and then the girls waking him up early the next morning with their large Christmas cymbals and trumpets, we went for a bracing walk in dense fog down to the ice-ridden river. It was pretty spectacular. We then had a lovely lunch at the local farm shop, with Dolly donning a black eye (after falling on to the prong of a wooden boat) and slippers (we forgot to put her shoes on), and then sadly my dad went on his way. Not before Betty and I went to the cafe loo and Betty exclaimed very loudly: 'MUMMY!!! YOU ARE WEARING ENORMOUS PANTS! - THEY ARE HUGE!' And you know what four year olds are like, they don't tend to let things go in a hurry.

Last night, I sat down on the sofa in an exhausted heap, with a glass of wine and a pizza, and watched my new yoga dvd (to see what I am up against), given to me by a well-meaning family member, who I think may also have caught sight of my huge pants.

And now we prepare for our New Year's Eve celebrations. Our pig-rearing friends are bringing their own ham for us to feast on, other friends are joining us with cheeses and puddings, and hopefully, with the kids fast asleep in bed, we can ring in 2011 with gusto.

Happy New Year!

Emotionally blackmailed by a toy duck

2010-12-19T11:08:00.000Z

As I sat on my bedroom floor yesterday afternoon, wrapping presents, I had Betty's excitable words ringing in my ears: 'I wonder what Duckie will get in his stocking this year'. Duckie is Betty's comfort toy that she has been inseparable from since she was born, and many a blog post has been written about him.

She is more excited about what her toy duck is going to get from Father Christmas, than what she might get herself. This sets the tone for what her relationship with Duckie is all about. He (and sometimes Duckie is a girl, depending on the situation) means the absolute world to Betty. There are times when none of us are allowed to make a sound because Duckie is having a nap, or none of us are allowed to sit down because Betty has made some elaborate bed for him out of ALL the cushions and chairs in the house, or none of us are allowed to enjoy our shepherd's pie in peace because Duckie has decided he doesn't like it.

Duckie gets to blow Betty's birthday candles out with her, gets stories read to him, gets chocolate fed to him, and basically gets a hell of a lot of love and affection. I have to be honest, I sometimes find myself resenting that duck - the duck that can do no wrong, the duck that has everything, the duck that is more highly thought of by Betty than her own mum, or dad, or little sister.

Anyway, I sat on my bedroom floor yesterday, wondering what to do about the duck and whether or not he should get a stocking this year - a stocking that I made for him last year, at the same time that I made one for Betty and Dolly. I thought it would be a nice gesture for him to have a stocking too, but didn't think about the long-term consequences. Having set the precedent, this might have to be a tradition that will be carried through into Betty's adulthood. And what if Dolly suddenly decides next year (she is thankfully too young this year) that if the duck gets a stocking, then so should her (comfort) rabbit that she has been inseparable from since the day she was born? Well, it would only be fair (although I suspect that giving a stocking to a cuddly toy would be beneath her)

So what to do? Risk breaking my little girl's heart, and possibly ruining her entire Christmas, by not facilitating a visit from Father Christmas to her duck? Or accept the fact that I now have not just two lots of presents to buy (which is hard enough), but instead I have three, maybe four?

I finished wrapping the last of the presents for Betty and Dolly, and then reached up into the wardrobe and pulled down a little stocking. I then wrapped up a little bag of orange bath salts, a rubber duck, a tube of fairy dust, and a duck-shaped bracelet, and put them in Duckie's stocking.

Betty goes to Bethlehem

2010-12-14T19:15:00.000Z

I was particulary excited about Betty being cast as Mary in the pre-school nativity play, mainly for the reasons mentioned in my last post, but also because when I was a child, I only ever played the part of an Olive Tree, or some other static, non-talking object.

The weeks following the news that Betty was to play Mary, I obsessed over what colour and style Mary's head-dress would have been. I trawled through google images and finally settled on the right shade of blue. I fashioned a tunic out of an old sheet, hacked up an old blue pillowcase, and got Betty to try it all on. She remarked that she looked like a nurse, and Tom remaked that she looked like a nun. I rectified this by re-styling the head-dress, and subsequently cutting up an old fake pashmina hanging up in my wardrobe.

On the morning of Betty's nativity my stomach was in knots and I couldn't eat. I tried my damnedness not to let my nerves show in front of Betty, but she is an astute little lady, and after breakfast, as cool as a cucumber, summoned me to the sitting room. She calmly told me to sit next to her on the sofa, stroked my arm, whilst soothingly telling me the nativity story, asking me questions every so often to check I was listening: 'What were the colour of Joseph's shoes?' or 'How many donkeys were there in Bethlehem?' 'Shall we practice your lines?' I asked her. 'No Mummy' she said

We arrived at the village hall half an hour early. It was one of the longest half hours of my life - it felt like I was waiting for a really important job interview. Betty said: 'Don't worry Mummy' before breezing off to join the rest of the cast on stage.

The play began and Mary and Joseph belted out their two duets whilst having a bit of a fight over who was going to cuddle baby Jesus. And the shepherds were having an inpromptu hay fight behind them. Meanwhile Tom was chasing a wayward Dolly around the hall, and I was taking photos with a suddenly very loud camera (I am sure I saw Betty shaking her head at me at one point).

Once the (fantastic) performance had finished all the children rejoined their parents. Betty came towards me excitedly wielding a chocolate bar. 'You were brilliant my darling, well done, how do you feel?!' I said. But as far as Betty was concerned the play was now done and dusted, and all she wanted to talk about was this blimin bar of chocolate she had been given by her teacher.

Meek to Mary

2010-12-13T08:44:00.000Z

This time last year Betty went to a different pre-school to the one that she goes to now. At home she was a happy, confident child, who loved to make us laugh with her impersonations, comedy remarks, and theatrical antics - she was life and soul, and would never shut up.

However, I became so concerned about her increasing lack of enthusiasm and defiance about leaving the house in the mornings to go to pre-school (sometimes in tears), that I asked the play manager if I could secretly observe her to see if I could get to the bottom of things. I was shocked and upset to see a very timid, shy, and unconfident Betty - I didn't recognise her at all. It broke my heart.

I agonised for several weeks over what the problem might be, and what I should do. She was once happy to go, but now she was not. I thought perhaps it might be related to the birth of Dolly? Or maybe she was being picked on? Or she found it too noisy? Or she didn't like the decor? Or perhaps it was just her age and she would come out of it?

I spoke to the staff at the pre-school (who told me she was quiet, but happy), I spoke to family and friends, I spoke to fellow bloggers, I trawled different websites, looking for the right thing to do. Nobody could really give me answers, but the best piece of advice I received was to simply respect and listen to my child, and listen to my gut feeling. This wasn't rocket science, but these few words helped enormously, and the next day I nervously handed in our notice at this pre-school, knowing that with very limited places, it was highly unlikely I would ever get Betty back in if we were to change our minds. But as I walked away from there, I felt a sense of overwhelming relief (if a little bit anxious about having both her and Dolly at home with me 24/7).

Shortly after this, we found another pre-school, slightly further away, but immediately Betty fitted in, she was back to her recognisable self, and absolutely loved going. And fast forward one year, she was given the part of Mary in her first nativity play, and yesterday, she stood on the stage in front of a huge audience, totally unfazed, and belted out two songs with Joseph. This is something I would never have imagined her doing a year ago, when I peeped through the little square window of her old pre-school, and saw her sitting in the corner, too timid to speak during circle time, and looking a little bit sad.

The do's and don'ts for a fourth birthday party

2010-12-11T09:05:00.000Z

Do not go into meltdown when your child casually drops a bombshell, the night before her birthday party, following three months of meticulous preparation, by informing you she would ‘really really love’ a Peppa Pig theme.

Do bake the jam tarts, fairy cakes, chocolate brownies etc. at least two days before the party and then hide them away in an air-tight box. Slightly stale homemade cakes are more impressive than shop-bought ones. Alternatively, drop the supermum/domestic goddess routine and buy a load of cakes from the supermarket.

Do not think, after a couple of glasses of wine, that it is a good idea to eat your way through the aforementioned box of cakes during a particularly grueling episode of Eastenders. You will feel a particularly acute type of guilt in the morning.

Do hide away anything you would prefer not to get ruined, ie. the birthday child’s new princess fairy playhouse. Any boys attending will get confused and mistake it for a trampoline.

If hosting a party during winter, do not stick to the rule of inviting one child per year of the birthday child ie. four years equals four invitees. Half the invitees won’t come due to illness. Instead invite 20 children, and then you might get enough children attending to warrant a party.

Do treat yourself to a glass of wine (or, more cunningly, wine hidden in a teacup) during the party chaos. You deserve it.

Do not put your husband in charge of the music for Pass the Parcel. He will panic, forget all party etiquette and, amongst lots of eager and excited children, will accidentally stop the parcel with its final wrapping on his own dad.

Do put your husband in charge of the hotdog-and-chips party food. Try not to show your fury when he arrives home from the supermarket the night before the party with crinkle cut chips in batter (along with the extra batch of fairy cakes).

Do not believe the claim that the ‘Egyptian Mummy’ toilet paper game is suitable for 3-4 year olds.

Do not wait until it is raining before herding everyone outside to watch Chinese lanterns (billed as the Grand Finale) struggling to clear a hedge and float up into the sky.

Do remember to present the birthday child with her much anticipated hedgehog cake, and sing happy birthday.

Do not hold a birthday party next year. Instead, take the child to her favourite restaurant and give her a balloon.

Rocks

2010-11-28T11:23:00.000Z

This was a conversation between me and Betty, at 3am the other night:

Betty: Mummy, tomorrow I would really like to go on a picnic with you, Daddy, and Dolly, and Alfie and Rachel [her friends], to the desert.

Me: That sounds lovely my darling, now go to sleep.

Betty: So can we go on a picnic to the desert tomorrow Mummy?

Me: No. Go to sleep.

Betty: Why No?

Me: Because the desert is a very very very very long way away in a very far away country.

Betty: But mummy I really don't mind sitting in the car for a long time to get there. I was a good girl in the car all the way to London...

Me: London is just down the road, the desert is a very long way away.

Betty: But I love the desert. What is it made out of?

Me: Sand.

Betty: What is sand made out of?

Me: Rocks

Betty: You said the moon was made from rocks the other day. Why is everything made from rocks Mummy?

Me: It's not.

Betty: Are there rocks in the desert?

Me: No.

Betty: But you said that sand was made from rocks? And that the desert was made from sand.

Me: Yes.

Betty: Do you like rocks Mummy?

Me: Not particularly

Betty: So you don't like sand then, and going to the beach?

Me: I didn't say that. Go to sleep.

Betty: And you don't like the beautiful moon?

Me: Yes I do like the moon.

Betty: But you don't like rocks. Have you changed your mind?

Me: Yes, I love rocks.

Betty: I love rocks too. Can we go on a picnic to the desert tomorrow Mummy?

Betty is four today!

2010-11-18T07:47:00.001Z

For her birthday post last year I wrote about Betty's disappearing babyness. Well it's all gone now and I no longer look at her and cling to any remaining baby traits she might have. Instead I look at her and think 'Is she really only four?'

She knows every little road, T-junction, house, bend, within a 50 mile radius of our house. If I accidentally take a wrong turn, I don't know, say 35 miles away, whilst visiting her great grandmother, she is on it, before I am. 'Mummy stop the car, and turn around, you have got us lost again.'

She often points out to Tom or me, that what we are wearing 'looks terrible'. She then rifles through our wardrobe, tutting and shaking her head, and picks out a better contender to go with Tom's brown trousers, or my purple skirt. And the scary thing is she is always right.

She is obsessed with tights. If she is being naughty, I use the 'if you don't stop doing that you will not be allowed to wear tights tomorrow' line, and it works a treat, every time.

She loves to build dens, or rather 'nests' out of cushions and blankets and bean bags and chairs or whatever else she can find. I'm almost certain that she was either a bird in a former life (the way she pieces soft furnishings together is quite extraordinary) or she will become a builder in adulthood.

She now goes to ballet lessons and absolutely loves it. Before her first lesson I told her that she had to do what the ballet teacher told her, and that way she would become a ballerina. Betty told me 'But mummy, what can the teacher show me that I don't already know?'

She loves to write out all the letters of the alphabet, and can write her own name unaided, and she will often nag me to get out her writing books so that she can practice. Her artwork is also pretty mindblowing, as is her dancing and singing and sense of rhythm. (Yes, I am blowing my own daughter's trumpet, but it's her birthday, so I'm allowed.)

Tom and I visited the school that she will be attending next year, and met with the head teacher. We were introduced to her future teacher and shown her classroom. The words 'Betty' and 'school' make me want to shout 'NOOOOO' and sob into my pillow.

Betty is growing up unnervingly fast.

Happy Birthday my darling, gorgeous, funny girl - I hope your day is filled with fun and happiness. And I hope your hedgehog cake, party, and presents, all live up to your expectations.

Your mummy and your daddy and your little sister all love you very very much.

Pregnant v Fat

2010-11-11T12:18:00.000Z

We had friends staying for the weekend, and we took them to the pub on Sunday for lunch. Tom and I had an utterly relaxing and indulgent couple of hours, eating lovely food, drinking wine, and actually managing a proper conversation, without being interrupted every two seconds by children who seem to take exception to us doing just that. Meanwhile our friends chased Betty and Dolly round and round the pub. It was wonderful.

As we all walked through the bar to leave, feeling happy and full, I bumped into an old school friend. We had a chat about her children and then I pointed out my children, who were both now perched up on bar stools. She said 'And you're expecting again I see, how exciting!' 'No I am not pregnant, I am just fat' I retorted. However, she obviously thought I was having a laugh, and then said 'Oh come on, when's the little baby gonna pop out?' I then found myself desperately and rather pathetically trying to convince her that I was not up the duff.

Having finally convinced her, she tried to remedy the situation and asked how old Dolly was. I told her 18 months. 'Oh well, there you go, Dolly is still very young, which is why you haven't lost the baby weight yet' she said. I felt there was nowhere left to go with this conversation, so I grabbed my children and walked out, rejoining Tom and our friends in the carpark.

I have written before about being mistaken for a labouring lady by a midwife (A MIDWIFE!!) on the maternity ward, whilst I was being a birthing partner to my friend a few months ago. It is actually really rather crushing, that you are so fat you could feasibly be about to give birth.

Yesterday I bought some of those shaping knickers that come all the way up to your bra. I wore them today and my mum remarked: 'it is a definite improvement, you no longer look pregnant, just fat'.

Gone are the days...

2010-11-01T12:29:00.000Z

You are 25 years old, and you have a day job from 9am til 5.30pm. You get home at 6pm and you don't have to do anything if you don't want to - you can just sit and stare at the walls if you want. Or you can read a book, watch TV, chat on the phone to friends, have a nap on the sofa, or sit and listen to your 80s records whilst eating crisp sandwiches.

Your flat is tidy because it is only you and your flatmate who live there and you don't really have that much stuff that could cause a mess. Your flat is relatively clean - you clean about once a week (ok, maybe once a fortnight) but you are two women and women are generally pretty clean.

If you fancy a sandwich or a bowl of cereal or a Chinese takeaway for supper that's what you have. In the mornings when you are bleary eyed you just have yourself to feed, and sometimes you even skip breakfast and grab a croissant on the way to work. While at work you have your lunchbreak, which means you get a whole hour to go shopping or sit in a cafe with friends.

You go to bed at night, fairly confident that you will get a full night's sleep, only to be woken by the alarm clock at 7am.

Fast forward five years. You are married to a man, and you quickly realise that men (in your experience) are untidy and a bit dirty. Empty drinking glasses are left all around the house, as are dirty socks. Shavings are left all around the sink, and hair in the bath, and the toilet starts to take on a life of its own. The area around the cooker and the kitchen sink becomes a bit sticky, and crumbs litter the surfaces. Books, bits of paper, and garden tools are scattered around the house. And your laundry doubles.

OK, so things have changed a little bit, your house isn't as tidy and clean as it once was, but a little bit of extra cleaning does the job. You still go out to work, have your lunch hour, come home, and your time is still yours and your husband's.

Fast forward another five years. You have two children, and as with men, you quickly realise that children are untidy and dirty, a hundred-fold. Your husband now looks like a saint. You also quickly realise that if you want to stay on top of things and run an efficient household, and one that you are not ashamed to invite guests into, you have to learn the art of serious multi-tasking. You also learn that you can never ever stop with the tidying, and the cleaning.

You find yourself cooking, hoovering, making playdough, doing the laundry, washing up, wiping bottoms and clearing away lego, simultaneously. Gone are the days when you can just simply walk through a room, without having to stop and wipe peanut butter off the floor, or pick up some plastic fruit, or remove wee from a potty, or put the sofa cushions back in their rightful place. Gone are the days of skipping breakfasts, indulgent lunchbreaks, and peaceful evenings/nights. Gone are the days of silence, and sitting and staring at the walls.

But am I complaining? NO WAY. And would I ever want to change it? NEVER.

Supper slackness

2010-10-31T08:11:00.001Z

Late yesterday afternoon I was merrily chatting away to a friend of mine on the phone, whilst my children were brawling over some stickle bricks, when I realised it had gone way past their supper time. 'The kids are hungry and monstrous, I've got to go,' I said. My friend asked me what I was cooking them for supper and I told her cottage pie. She told me that she was so knackered she was going to give her child a carrot and some ricecakes with humous. 'Outrageous neglectful parenting,' I said, and put the phone down.

I dished up the cottage pie, and although both girls were starving neither of them would eat it. Betty wouldn't even try it and said just the look of it made her tummy hurt. Dolly, being the trooper that she is, had about three mouthfuls before pushing the plate away angrily.

They both looked at me expectantly, awaiting something edible. So, feeling a little bit annoyed (I thought the pie in question was perfectly ok) gave them a digestive biscuit and some ice-cream. I thought about giving them the trusted pasta and pesto combo, but frankly could not face yet more washing up, and also Betty saw me looking in the cupboard where the pasta and pesto are kept and said: 'Pleeeeease don't give us pasta AGAIN.'

Later on, when the girls were asleep, I phoned my friend and confessed about the biscuit and ice-cream dinner. She told me that I had made her feel so guilty that she had practically whipped up a roast dinner for her boy.

Baby haze

2010-10-08T23:05:00.002+01:00

One of my best friends has just had a gorgeous little baby girl, and she's in that hazy period of baby sick/poo, lack of sleep, and constant feeding - a period of not really knowing what's what in the outside world, and one that we all go through.

It reminded me of a time shortly after Betty (now almost 4) was born. I had braved going into town with her for the first time, and was feeling pretty euphoric about leaving the house, but also terrified that my uterus might drop out. Tom, Betty and I were wandering down the street and something caught my eye in the window of Woolworth's.

There in the window was a full set of Gracco baby equipment: pram, pushchair, carseat, highchair and baby bath. I stopped and stared. I blinked and stared again. Tom had wandered off. I called after him and said: 'Look, you get this whole set for just £40! - we spent a fortune on all our stuff, if only we'd known about this - it's unbelievable!' Tom looked at the set on display, and then looked at me. 'What are you more surprised about?' he said, 'the fact that you get the whole set for £40? Or that each item is so small?' I looked again and realised that the set was for a doll rather than a human baby.