Supper slackness

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

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.

Little boxes

We took the girls out for an evening meal last night. After our recent camping trip, Tom and I are thriving on the fact that Dolly (now 17 months) can now cope with being up later than 6.30pm, so we thought we would take the bull by the horns and dine out. It was a much anticipated dinner date with our children. We had heard that the food was good and that there was a lovely family atmosphere. As we pulled up after a hard afternoon's den-building on the beach, we were very excited to see a well-designed sign outside the pub-restaurant.

Despite our slight nervousness that the evening would descend into chaos, and knowing full well it wouldn't compare to an evening out with just the two of us (ie relaxing and indulgent), the girls behaved pretty well thanks to a few bribes - crisps on their plates before the meal arrived and felt tips and toy cars to shove across the table.

With hindsight (perhaps we were too busy trying to distract the little ladies to notice), the carpet should have sounded the warning bell. It was pure McPub. That and the soundtrack, which either was, or was the equivalent of, Best Love Songs Of The 80s Ever, on repeat until the end of time. When the food arrived, it was horrible. No more to say about it, just horrible. Even Dolly turned her nose up at it. I had two glasses of wine to numb the pain, and Tom (who was driving) had half a cider and kept shaking his head in despair at his overcooked trout. We were guttted, and the children cried.

It was the drive home that made the whole outing worthwhile. It was late, so both girls started moaning and whingeing. Clutching at straws, I turned on the stereo full volume, and out blasted 'Little boxes' (by Malvina Reynolds). We all laughed, and clapped along and heartly sang 'Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky tacky...' all the way home. It was a memorable moment and one that I won't forget. Our car was a very happy and jovial place.

Surprise movement

Betty breezed in from the garden informing me that she needed her bottom to be wiped. It transpired that she had decided to do a wee under a tree, but whilst doing it, in her words 'a poo popped out too'. She was genuinely amused by what had happened, as it had taken her by surprise as much as anyone, and so I could not be cross with her.

In the normal scheme of things, such an addition to my beautifully maintained lawn, the lawn where my baby Dolly roams around, often on her hands and knees, would have led to me going mental.

On this occasion, due to the sheer unexpectedness of the circumstance, I calmly went out with toilet paper, bleach, and scissors and removed the offending object from my garden, and no more was said on the matter.

Voice control

Betty hasn't stopped talking for the last 4 hours...

Me: Let's see if we can play the 'no talking' game for a while

Betty: But why do I have to stop talking mummy?

Me: Because you are giving me a headache

Betty: But I can't stop my voice, I have to leave it on

Me: Please can you stop talking just for a second?

Betty: No, my voice is still here

Fairy magic

'I just saw Tinkerbell flying through the sky' Betty says to me, barely being able to contain her excitment, at 2.30am. 'And she sprinkled fairy dust on my sweets!' she says.

We are all about the fairies in the Button household at the moment, and I am thrilled about it. When I was pregnant with Betty, it is exactly this age of fantasy that I most looked forward to.

Now I get to relive the magic of my own childhood, and watch as Betty becomes completely enchanted by moonlit fairy parties on the beach, where they dance around a sea onion (long story) in the stone circle that Betty made for them; and they put the pretty flowers and seaweed in their hair that Betty has left for them; and they use the little shells as chairs, and ride on seahorses; and sing and laugh and fly and drink Ribena.

Betty wakes up in the morning and says to me: 'Did the fairies have their moonlit party mummy?' 'Yes' I say, 'and they loved the onion you left for them'. 'What colour is their hair?' This is the question that occupies Betty's mind most of the time.

After a lengthy chat about the various different colours of fairy hair, she says 'where are the fairies now?' 'They have gone back to Fairyland' I tell her. 'Did they go back to Fairyland on the ferry?'

I had a dream...

We were driving along yesterday when Betty said: 'Mummy do you know that funny holiday cottage that has a grey roof?' 'No' I said 'Our holiday cottage has a red roof'.

She then went on to say...

'Last night I was in a cottage with a grey roof. I had two crocodiles on my fingers, and I was in a big bed with you and Daddy and Dolly, and I had a glass of water. There was a lift in the cottage, and in the lift was a climbing frame.'

'Wow', I said, 'it sounds like you had a dream last night' (desperately trying to work out how to explain the whole dream concept to a three year old). 'Yes Mummy,' she said matter of factly, 'I had a dream'.

Sisterhood

I have mentioned before how Betty and Dolly fight like chickens, over anything and everything, be it an old water bottle top, a stickle brick pig, an empty juice carton, or Tom's attentions. However, I wanted to write a little bit about how, when they are not brawling or yelling at each other, they are really lovely together.

Like when they chase each other around the house , or when they bounce on the sofa or hide in cupboards and under beds together, or tear around the garden on their tractors and trikes - all of which is carried out with hysterical laughter and squeals. They sing and dance and bash musical instruments and clap together. And sometimes they even sit quietly and play with stickle bricks or lego together, albeit for very short periods of time, before a punch-up breaks out.

If Betty really hurts herself it is normally Dolly she will go to for a cuddle,and Dolly often (not always) obliges. And sometimes Dolly will go to a wailing Betty first, pat Betty's arm, and give her a soothing look, and say 'dah?' And through her tears Betty will smile and nod her head at Dolly and say 'dah'. Then Dolly will stomp off (not annoyed, it's just the way she walks) and look for something to climb.

They also have a special language that they use for each other. This normally consists of them bellowing 'HIYA' at each other. Often Dolly will babble something incomprehensible and I will say to Betty: 'What did Dolly just say?' and Betty will tell me: 'Dolly says she wants to go for a walk to the river'. I listen to them through the baby monitor in the mornings and the conversation usually goes something like this:

Betty: Morning Dolly, did you sleep well?

Dolly: Yeah. Bamatatramaaa.

Betty: What did you just say?

Dolly: Bamatatramaaa.

Betty: Do you mean you would like your milk?

Dolly: Yeah.

Betty: Ok

Dolly: Mantbutadeeeedooda

Betty: Yes Dolly, well done

The most heartwarming thing to observe is that they really make each other laugh. One of them will do something silly just to make the other one laugh, and this happens several times a day. Like putting napkins or plates on the top of heads, or putting raspberries or olives on the tips of fingers, or putting mummy's sunglasses on upside down. They are so slap-stick my children.

And most importantly, they genuinely seem to care about each other, and look out for one another. Betty gets upset if Dolly gets a telling off and vice versa. And Betty really sticks up for Dolly if another child pushes her or snatches from her (only Betty is allowed that privilege).

I am under no illusions, most of the time it is fighting, but not always...

Polyphonic Dolly

Dolly has entered the incomprehensible babble phase. She often sounds like she is having fascinating conversations in a language entirely of her own invention. But it doesn't stop there. Even if I can't see her (because I'm driving, or cooking, or reading Heat etc) I can tell exactly what is going on by the noises she makes.

She will hold any rectangular object up to her head and mimic me speaking on the phone, that is, she emits a loud, monosyllabic and persistent tone, nods a lot, and frowns.

She will open up a book or magazine and 'read' the story. Her tone becomes varied and slightly higher pitched than normal, she points to the pictures, and grins a lot.  Being the neglected second child, she often spends hours in her cot happily reading to herself.

She makes a positively delighted sound and points her finger, when she sees a dog or a horse, or even better when she sees a rustling tree or a passing cloud.

She growls angrily if Tom, Betty or I are invading her space and she wants to be left alone to chew on her plastic dogs or eat her raisins.

She has started saying actual words too: ball, shoe, woof, cheese, Dadda, Mumma, hiya, and yeah, to name but a few. She even tried to say 'trousers' this morning.

She often chats so intently at you, I just wish I knew what the heck she was saying.

The astronomist and the swaggering action hero

During the first night of our holiday (at 3am to be precise), Betty claimed there was a whale in her bed so she came into my bed. Poor Tom had conjunctivitis so had been banished to the spare room. Above the master bed there is a skylight - it was a clear night and so Betty and I lay there looking up at the stars and watching the lighthouse light swooping past the window. It was very romantic. Betty sang: 'Is that the North Star, North Star...' (a la Peppa Pig astronomy episode). 'Yes, it might be, but there are lots and lots of stars all with different names' I said. Betty's eyes were wide (not something I particularly wanted at 3am) and then she asked: 'Mummy why are the stars in the sky?' 'Let's ask daddy in the morning' I said, 'now go to sleep'.

The following day, after a lengthy consultation with Tom, Betty paraded around saying 'the stars are in the sky because of the big bang'. We then took our little astronomist and Dolly, to the beach. The sun was out and the sky was blue but Betty insisted on wearing her swimming costume over her top and leggings. This was perhaps an indication that it was rather chilly.

I had the downright stupid idea of going for a swim in the sea. I went in as far as my knees (and that was only because a wave got me). I came out of the sea to be confronted with a Betty wielding a large, pretty disgusting piece of slimy seaweed at me. She then proceeded to chase me with the offending item across the beach to the point where she made me almost cry like a baby. Being chased by some vile seaweed, in my swimming costume, flab wobbling furiously, as people walked past, with me pathetically but slightly manically saying 'please stop Betty, I am serious, please stop', was a pretty ridiculous sight.

Despite my poor sea efforts, Dolly had other ideas. She went charging in, completely undeterred by the sub-zero temperature of the water, and the crashing waves that were well over four times her height. She thought she was invincible. Luckily she had Tom right behind her, lifting her up every time a monstrous wave roared towards her. She was seemingly annoyed at Tom's intervention. Similar health and safety issues arose when she kept trying to scramble up sharp, rough rock faces. At one point Tom said 'Dolly is hard work on the beach' in exasperated tones.

When Betty was not terrorising me with unsavoury sea produce, she continued to talk about the big bang theory, and cried at the mere mention of going in the sea. And when Dolly wasn't behaving like some sort of action-hero , she would elegantly walk across the beach, with a swagger not dissimilar to how a model might walk on a catwalk.

The lap of luxury

We have just got back from a week in Pembrokeshire. This holiday felt totally and utterly luxurious and indulgent and stupendous. We were just in a simple little cottage but after our last two camping expeditions, you really really appreciate basic things:

• like a solid stable waterproof roof over your head
• like having exclusive access to your very own flushing toilet and hot shower just a couple of metres away, and not having to traipse 500 yards across a wet muddy field, only to queue for 20 minutes and then to hover over a wet toilet seat and then get into a cold trickle of an excuse for a shower.
• like going to sleep at night in a proper sand/damp-free bed, without the overwhelming fear of getting wet or blown away in the night .
• like having four hobs to cook with (as opposed to one hob that keeps blowing out in the wind and is rather limiting in the cooking stakes) and the satisfaction that your kids are eating good hearty and varied meals as opposed to bread rolls and cheap sausages from the local shop every night.
• and having a kitchen sink with hot running water to wash up in, as opposed to a freezing cold tap in the corner of a field that sprays all over you when you turn it on, and being safe in the knowledge that Dolly's bottle is squeaky clean and doesn't have traces of cold sausage fat and grass smeared all over it.
• like having a fridge to keep things cold, as opposed to a cool bag, which keeps things cool for about an hour before the cheese sweats, the milk goes off and the fruit starts to smell.
• And having SPACE - space for your kids to roam freely and safely within the walls of your dry warm cottage, space for them to play without nagging you every two minutes, and space that means you are not having to retrieve them from other peoples tents every 30 seconds.

Camping was brilliant, and amazingly good fun, and I still stand by it being one of our best holidays ever, but we were certainly ready to holiday in the lap of luxury.

There were four in the bed...

Dolly got ill for the first time since she was born.  Betty then got ill.  Having two children ill at the same time is flipping hard work.

One evening, in the midst of the sickly chaos, and after some medicinal alcohol (for Tom and me, not our kids), we had the bright idea of dragging the spare single bed into our bedroom, and putting it next to our double bed, thus making one huge bed.  We then all got into bed together, and we were able to mop brows, administer Calpol, and hold sick buckets, all without having to get out of bed.

This was all very jolly (well, as jolly as it could be) for the first couple of nights, but the inevitable happened and Betty got rather attached to this sleeping with mummy and daddy arrangement.  And I strongly suspect she was well again several days before she actually admitted to being well again.  I swear her acting was worthy of an Oscar.  She would say: 'Mummy, I feel rather sick, get me the bowl' and 'please hold my hair out of the way' whilst she spat into the bowl.  She would hold a flannel over her head and dramatically say: 'Mummy you must get me the doctor' and 'I am unwell and must not get out of bed, I need more dvds to make me better' all said in gasping breaths.  And 'If I take very little bites, I think a sweet will help me'.

So last night I  made the decision to boot Betty out (Dolly had left the big bed several days before, of her own accord), and with the help of Tinkerbell, Betty's personal sweet-leaving fairy, she did sleep in her own bed without too much drama. 

And this is just the beginning...

Betty is playing with the purple ball, Dolly wants it. Betty won't give it to her because it's 'her turn' and so Dolly gets angry and yells. I try to persuade Betty to give Dolly a little go, just to get some peace, but Betty gets upset and says 'but I've only had it for a second'. Dolly is still yelling.

Dolly is playing with the drum, Betty wants it. Dolly is having a lovely time with it, but Betty is adament that she needs to play with it. I tell her to wait her turn. Betty tries to grab the drum anyway which makes Dolly yell. I pull Betty off Dolly and tell her off. Betty gets upset, and Dolly is still angry.

Dolly messes with Betty's Happyland fairground arrangment, Betty gets upset. Betty messes with Dolly's two Happyland plastic dogs, and Dolly yells.

And so on, about 200 times a day, every day.

Chocolate cake

We have just got back from our second camping stint in Wales.  Tom and I are feeling pretty hardcore - in the last three weeks, we have spent two and half of them in a tent.  I am too tired to write properly, but wanted to say that my girls have both grown up so much in the last few weeks of camp-mania. 

Betty is really into telling jokes and even made one up the other day: 'What do you call a horse with no legs?  Chocolate cake' (of course).  She is still seriously putting us through the 'Why?' wringer, and is also making up some fascinating songs at the moment. 

Baby Dolly has taken to bellowing 'HIYA!' in a chav accent to anyone and everyone who passes her, and has also added words such as 'ball, cheese, and woof' to her repertoire.  She loves pointing at dogs, the sea, and horses.  She is also becoming a bit tantrumy and stroppy.

Those lovely holiday feelings have evaporated.  Dolly is now ill, Betty is hyperactive, I am drinking wine, and Tom has hot-footed it to the local shop to get beer.  But Eastenders is about to start, and the baby monitor is currently silent, so it's not all bad...

Camp Wales

As we drove through the mountains in a torrential downpour on the way to our camping destination, Tom solemnly said 'suddenly camping in Wales doesn't seem like such a great idea'. Betty sang: 'We're going camping, we're going camping, way up high, pitter patter raindrops, pitter patter raindrops, we're wet through, so are you' pretty much all the way. I was fully prepared for us to arrive, then turn around and come straight home.

Tom and I had the obligatory 'how to pitch a tent' argument as we battled with the giant thing flapping furiously in the wind and rain. Meanwhile the girls were locked in the car, out of our way, yelling and fighting over the bag of crisps I had thrown at them to shut them up. In fact the stationary car became a prominent feature during our trip and the kids would insist on spending much of their time in there - I suspect because it was warm and dry, and they could listen to Lily Allen, and eat stale chocolate buttons and crisps found between the seats.

Having survived the first evening, by going to the pub up the road for supper, drinking lots of cider, and getting Betty and Dolly togged up in their waterproofs and making them play football til 10pm on the campsite, we all passed out til morning. The next day the rain continued so we jumped in the car and headed for the cinema in Swansea. While Tom roamed the city's art galleries with a sleeping Dolly on his back, I took Betty to see Toy Story 3 (her first cinema experience). Unfortunately, despite a wonderful time playing in the foyer, the 'scary baby on the big telly' was all too much for Betty, and half an hour before the end (much to my disappointment, as I was pretty hooked by the film) we had to vacate in a furore of tears and sobs and her saying 'I just want to build sandcastles mummy'.

Later that afternoon the rain stopped, the clouds and haze lifted and sunshine and blue skies came through. We were ecstatic. We dashed to Tesco to buy some sausages and charcoal and alcohol (which is pretty much a must when camping with small children). Tom took the girls for a walk along the beach, whilst I lit the bbq, put the sausages on and then sat back with a large glass of wine and a tube of Pringles and gazed at the sand-dunes. I was in camping heaven.

We ended up staying for nine days, and while it certainly wasn't always plain sailing (mainly because our darling sweet children seem to like brawling and making each other cry), I think it was the best holiday I have ever had. We played in the sand-dunes, swam in the sea, had bbqs on the beach with new-found friends, and old friends joined us for the weekend. We collected snails and shells, had lazy pub lunches, made life-size sand boats, went on long beach walks, found hidden rock pools, and sometimes Tom and I actually managed to read or have a proper conversation.

The camping trip had the added bonus of expunging the final traces of neurosis and Gina Ford-ness out of my approach to parenting. Normally the queen of clean and routine, I really let things slide. The girls didn't get a proper wash for days, and when they did wash I even let them into the campsite showers, and didn't go too mental when they sat down on the cubicle floor with all the dirty hairbands and other people's matted hair and dirt. I resigned myself to letting them eat fruit and veg that had perhaps seen better days, and I let Dolly eat sand on the beach, and encouraged Betty to do a wee on a sandcastle she had made. And I am not sure Dolly's bedtime bottle ever got a proper wash. Speaking of bedtime, what's that? Get me.

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

Play talk

At the playground:

Me: Go on, off you go and play, and stop nagging me for food

Betty runs off towards an older child on the slide

Betty: Hello, I'm Betty and I am three and a half. I love olives. I am wearing Crocs. You are wearing pumps, and they are green. Do you like my Crocs? I don't like your pumps. Shall we be friends?

Betty tries to take older child's hand.

Betty: Ok, we don't have to hold hands. Come on lets run over to the swings and lie on them on our tummies and spin around. I don't like your pumps. But I like your funny socks.

Dolly: Da daaaa.

Betty: Look that's my baby sister, she is called Dolly Pasta [she's not], because she loves pasta, and she is one and a half. Do you want to look at her?

Betty and older child stand over Dolly

Dolly: Grrrrrr

Dolly toddles off towards the rubbish bin.

Betty: Have you got any other shoes at home?

Silence

Betty: I think your pumps are quite nice really. Come on, let's run over there and be friends.

(Not a word came out of the older child's mouth for the duration)


In the car on the way home:

Betty: Mummy, did you like that big girl's pumps?

Dolly in a tent (by Tom)

We Buttons have been doing a trial run to get ready for our camping trip next week. To the great amusement of our neighbours we have crammed our giant 'Buckingham' eight-berth tent into the garden. After an abortive first night in which we lasted until just 10.30, Elsie and I had a council of war and decided that the way forward was for me to share with Dolly, while Elsie took on a night with Betty.
I was quite nervous about this arrangement and allowed Dolly four hours to come to terms with her surroundings before I ventured in. Over in the west wing, Elsie and Betty were zedding away happily. I crept into the compartment trying not to wake her up any more than she already was and Dolly immediately demanded to be taken out so she could roam around the compartment. I tried to talk her out of it but she was insistent. I plonked her on my bed and watched as she got annoyed trying to stand up on an airbed, in her sleeping bag.

Dolly and I were having a pretty cross exchange when Elsie appeared at the door with a large purple ball that looks and, bizarrely, smells like a blackcurrant. Dolly loves this ball. She spent a few minutes happily holding it in front of her. For some reason I started tapping it. Dolly started tapping it as well. Dolly and I lay next to each other on a slowly-deflating airbed, in a tent in the garden, at 10pm, taking it in turns to tap a giant plastic blackcurrant. It did not take me more than a few minutes to realise that this wasn't getting us very far towards sleep so I put her back into the travelcot and waited to see what would happen next.

What happened next was that Dolly started yelling, and pretty soon her big sister woke up and told her to put a sock in it. Undeterred, Dolly continued to yell and I put my fingers in my ears, cursing tents.

After a short while Dolly passed out, and I fell into an exhausted and uncomfortable doze. Every half an hour after that Dolly woke up and cried for a while before going back to sleep. This carried on for several hours until 1.30am when she just would not stop yelling. I don't know if she was too cold, or if the flapping fabric of the tent was too loud, or if the freaky bird noises were freaking her out, or if the moth that was caught between the fabric of the compartment and the tent outer was irritating her, or if she knew that she had a perfectly comfortable cot not ten metres away, or if it was a combination of all these things, but finally I understood that Dolly was not prepared to spend the night in the tent. I tucked her under an arm, snuck out of the tent and delivered her back into her cot where she gratefully zonked out. In the garden, Elsie and Betty slept on.
 
 
(The trial run we did with Betty over two years ago was a very different experience)

Technical blogging

Although I have been blogging for well over three years now, I have been rather left behind with the whole technology of it all.  I have been trying to remedy this and drag my blog into 2010. 

After a lot of tantrums and tears, I have finally added the 'Follow' gadget (or is it widget?) onto my blog, so if you are not following me and would like to, now is your chance!  I have to be completely honest though, what does 'following' actually mean? I have been going around the blogosphere and 'following' all the brilliant blogs that I read, and have been trying to get to grips with Google Reader.  From what I can gather it allows you to read all recent posts from all the blogs that you follow, in once place.  But are you also able to leave comments in Google Reader?  And does anyone use Google Reader?  Why not just use your blog list in the sidebar?

As for burning feeds, and feedburner, and subscription emails, and codes and Rss and Atom, I am completely flummoxed.  The same goes for Twitter - I have been completely left behind, and often watch on from a distance in awe as you tweet away, and retweet, and add pictures, and set up groups.  Where do you learn all this stuff?  Can I use the excuse of having two small children for my lack of brain and technical understanding? No, I didn't think so.

(You would never believe that I was once an ICT teacher in the local primary school - I must have been rubbish)

What has felt relentless lately?

On a daily basis, I have the '5 a day' ringing in my ears, and if my kids don't get their five I feel horribly guilty. Although I have found this guilt easing the more of a seasoned mother I become. If I am truthful mealtimes having been getting a little slack of late. It has been known that malt loaf is used as a substitute for fruit (it has raisins in it), bread as a substitute for mashed potato, and chocolate as a substitute for cereal.

Trying to think of new and exciting vegetables for my little darlings, other than the trusted carrots, broccoli and frozen peas, is hard work. Trying to think of new and exciting dishes other than pasta, sausage and mash, and something that involves chicken and fish is hard work. Trying to think of new and exciting ways of washing up the countless saucepans, plates, knives, forks, spoons, cups, just to do it all over a again a few hours later, is hard work. Trying to think of new and exciting ways of scraping the aforementioned food off the floor, the chairs, the underside of the tablecloth, and the legs of the highchair is hard work...

It is dinner time and I look in the cupboard for inspiration. Betty says 'please don't give us pasta, pesto and broccoli again'. I sigh and say 'ok what would you like?' 'doughnuts' comes the reply. 'You can't have doughnuts' I say. 'But you gave us doughnuts last night' she retorts.

Strictly speaking, this is true. We were at the supermarket doing a grocery shop at around 4.30pm yesterday and I bought a carton of mini doughnuts for the journey home as I knew the girls would be whingey and hungry in the car. Every so often I would throw a couple of doughnuts their way and jokingly say 'this is your dinner kids'. However they took me at my word, and once home and presented with pasto, pesto and broccoli, Betty said 'but we've had our dinner mummy, remember?' And Dolly gave me a look that said 'What, after all those doughnuts? - you've got to be bloody joking'.


Written for Josie's writing workshop

Eureka!

It was February 14th 2002, and I was sitting at my desk in White City, staring at my computer screen, and eating a soggy bagel, courtesy of the BBC canteen. I had just had the pleasure of brushing hands with Jeremy Clarkson in the canteen, as we both reached for the same bagel in the chiller cabinet. Now a conversation was going on behind me about the best film directors of all time. I slightly quivered in my seat, dreading my boss turning to me and asking me for my opinion on this. She did ask me, and I went bright red, and then muttered something about Top Gear. 

I slumped in my chair, feeling embarrassed and uncultured, when suddenly, an email pinged into my inbox from Tom, which just simply said 'x'. I was all a-flutter. Although we had spent the last two years building an extraordinary friendship, Tom had just single-handedly taken things onto a whole new level. It was Valentine's Day and he had sent me one single kiss by email. He really does love me!  To me this was far more romantic than being sent flowers, chocolates or being whisked off to Paris, and so I promptly sent him a 'x' right back. 

I then had fleeting moments of paranoia that perhaps I had read too much into it, or that his hand had slipped on the keyboard and the email was an accident. My paranoia was shortlived, because moments later he wrote back listing five of my favourite restaurants, asked me to choose one, and said he was taking me out. 

I called through to my boss 'Platonic Tom has asked me out on a date, AND it's Valentine's day!'


Written for Josie's writing workshop
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Omelette offensive

Yesterday afternoon I was out at a friend's house with my girls, willing away that last, often torturous, hour between 4 and 5pm, and before heading home I called Tom to ask if he would have the girls' supper ready for when we got back.

In the car on the way home, Betty, having completely just worn me out by relentlessly play-fighting her baby sister around sharp-edged furniture for hours on end, asked: 'What's the matter mummy?' 'I will be fine once you are both in bed and asleep' I replied. 'Why mummy?' 'Just a few more minutes and we'll be home' I thought.

Tom's signature cheese omelette was waiting for them on the table when we walked in. I had warned Betty a few minutes earlier that she must not kick up a fuss if 'Daddy has cooked you omelette again'. She sighed and said 'I won't'.

Betty and Dolly sat at the table and within seconds chaos had ensued. Betty was saying 'I don't like your omelettes daddy' on a continuous animated loop, and Dolly was either chewing pieces of the offending egg and then spitting it out, or discreetly trying to place it in the trough of her bib, and then pointing at the ceiling to distract us.

Tom looked crestfallen, and even this morning he was still dwelling on it. As soon as he woke up he said 'I remember when Betty used to clamour for my omelettes.'

But why, Mummy?

We are in the first week of the summer holidays and Betty is literally under my feet ALL THE TIME. If I try to walk to the kitchen, or to the loo, or just two steps in front of me, she is there for me to trip over or tread on.

In addition to this, I cannot carry out any manoeuvre, however big or small, without her saying 'But why are you doing that mummy? and 'Can I help you do that mummy?' or 'How long are you going to do that for mummy?' Be it brushing my teeth, taking a sip of water, blinking, or breathing.

Yep, we have entered the why, where, when, how phase and whilst I am thrilled that my darling sweet daughter is demonstrating such a quizzical interest in the world, or rather in me, it can be pretty exhausting at times. I have found that THE ONLY THING that will give me a few minutes peace is to plonk her in front of a home video of herself.

Found

From about the age of 25, I had a niggle in the back of my mind that I might not ever find Mr Right, get married and have children. At times I would feel lonely, and worried about ever meeting The One - the chances seemed pretty slim to me.

I spent my twenties in London, partying, watching Ally McBeal, dabbling in Internet dating, and eating cold Chinese takeaways for breakfast. I would go out to bars and clubs with my friends, always with half an eye on trying to find my suitor. As the years went by and I got closer to thirty, the niggle got bigger.

Then I met Tom, through mutual friends. We spent the first two years of knowing each other, forming a purely platonic relationship, and although we weren't 'together' I stopped fretting over whether I would ever find the one. I just enjoyed my relationship with 'Platonic Tom' as my friends used to call him. We would go to Hampstead Heath and Primrose Hill and throw frisbees to each other. We would sit and talk for hours. We would feed each McDonald's chicken nuggets. We would go to the pub and have a pint and play chess. We would pretend to be tourists and get real tourists to take photos of us standing next to all the attractions in central London. We would cook for each other. We would listen to his depressing music together. We would paint and draw pictures together. We would play pool at the Elbow Rooms together.

We enjoyed each others company, we were best friends and neither of us were in any rush. I never worried about the fact that our relationship was platonic for so long, because I knew, really and truly, that I had found The One...


(This was written for Josie's writing workshop)

Rumbled

Peace was temporarily restored following the whole rabbit charade, but bedtimes have been turning into a bit of a circus once more.

Betty has taken to getting out of her bed, when she is supposed to be asleep, and entertaining (bordering on terrorising) Dolly. Dolly's hysterical laughter often turn to cries of despair. Betty's nightly antics begin with sweetly singing and dancing for her sister, and very rapidly descend to taunting her by removing all her cuddly friends and placing them in the laundry basket, or wedging them between the cot and the mattress so that Dolly can't get to them, or piling board books into the cot so that Dolly has nowhere to lay her head, or unzipping Dolly's sleeping bag and getting her out of it. Considering Betty is only a couple of feet tall and has to carry out these maneaouvres through the cot bars in the dark, it's all quite impressive.

Tom remarked that things were getting out of hand up there again, of late, and perhaps we should try to do something about it. So after a bit of brainstorming, we introduced Betty to Tinkerbell - an invisible fairy who watches her at night to make sure that she doesn't get out of bed. And if she manages to stay in her bed all night with no baby taunting, Tinkerbell is so happy that she hides a sweetie somewhere in the house or garden for Betty to find at some point the following day. Tinkerbell has worked absolute miracles. Ever since her arrival on the scene, Betty has toed the line in all aspects of Button daily life. The threat that she might be making Tinkerbell sad will make her do exactly as we tell her. We have been feeling very smug.

Then my friend came over with her little boy, and I began relaying this triumph to her, discreetly, and quietly, and mostly in code. My friend applauded our success and then said 'so where do you hide the sweets?'. She didn't shout it, but she didn't whisper it. However Betty was about 100 metres away from us and having her own animated conversation with the little boy, so I assumed she hadn't heard it.

After breakfast this morning, Betty sighed, and coolly said to Tom: 'So has mummy hidden the sweetie yet?'

A father's pride

Betty has been getting pretty adventurous in her handling of stickle bricks. Here is one of her creations.

Tom asked her what it was. She said: ‘It’s a sigguda-digguda-digguda-dee.’ Tom blinked: ‘A what?’ Betty repeated the word exactly as she had said it before. Tom looked absolutely delighted.

Barry Island - La Isla Bonita?

We went to Barry Island yesterday for my birthday, and just as we pulled into the car park La Isla Bonita came on the radio, no word of a lie. I wouldn't exactly say it is a beautiful 'island' (because of all the broken glass on the beach, for one) but it certainly was good tacky fun! (Did you spot the welshisms a la Gavin and Stacey, in this paragraph?)

PS My children are becoming as thick as thieves, and are beginning to form an alliance.

Surplus to requirements

'I don't need my Mummy and Daddy anymore, I've got my friends,' Betty said to me on Saturday, while she was doing a wee in a hedge.

We have some friends who have recently gone into the pig-rearing business and they had a celebratory hog roast in a field at the weekend. After Betty's initial ten minute clingyness on arrival in the large stormy field with a pig cooking in a hole in the ground, we didn't see her again for the rest of the afternoon. Well, obviously we saw her, we were keeping a very close eye on her and making sure she didn't fall down the hot pig hole. What I mean is, she didn't see us for the rest of the afternoon. She had hooked up with her two pals, they formed an alliance, and they were gone.

They were playing proper games like dentists, tag, and hide and seek, as opposed to toddler games like pulling each other's hair, snatching, and making each other cry. And when they weren't drilling each other's teeth they just sat together with their pork rolls, whiling away the time under a tree in the distance, laughing and joking, and looking in our direction.

Later, at the children's suggestion, we all relocated to the nearby pub. It was a beautiful summer's evening and way past bedtime, but I had decided to let 'routine' go out of the window and it felt pretty liberating for a Gina Ford-ite such as myself. I felt that this was maybe the beginning of our Button adventures to come... Tom, myself and our two little ladies, staying up past our bedtime - there was no stopping us now... Next thing we'll be taking our children on an aeroplane and jetting off somewhere exotic (except we won't, because Tom is trying to save the planet).

Betty and her friends played for a long time in the pub garden. While I sat there full of nostalgia, remembering how my brother and I used to play here when we were little, Betty and co began throwing moss at some older children and shouting 'mucky muck' then giggling raucously. The older children (who could have even been teenagers) seemed pretty unfazed by the moss assault and continued with their game of chess.

If I hadn't been so stunned and overcome with how my sweet, precious first-born baby had suddenly grown up about twentyfold over the course of the day, I might have reprimanded her for her anti-social behaviour. As it was, I continued to sip on my beer and stop Dolly from eating stones, leaving Betty and friends embraced in a rugby type scrum and chanting 'WE WANT TO SLEEP IN A PINK TENT TOGETHER TONIGHT'.

PS If you fancy nominating me for the Cosmo Blog Awards, lifestyle category, click below!

Thank you!

Preying on the weak

When I have got PMT I hate doing the school run - it turns me into a nervous and paranoid wreck. I worry that this mum deliberately blanked me, or that member of staff thought Betty's packed lunch was sub-standard etc etc. So if Tom is not too busy I get him to do it, claiming special dispensation.

This afternoon I had no choice but to do it, as Tom said he had some important conference call which he could not get out of, despite my best efforts.

Before setting off to pick Betty up, in an attempt to boost morale, I tried to make myself, Dolly, and the car look presentable. Most of the other mums are skinny and sparkly, with clean babies, and drive immaculate four-by-fours, and always have a smile on their flawless faces. On occasion I have picked Betty up half an hour early just so that I can avoid them, and not feel so inadequate.

We pulled into the carpark of the pre-school with the exhaust blowing, and parked up. All us mums entered the building and each child, on seeing their mum, ran over excitedly from the other side of the room where they were having their story, and gave them a big cuddle, and excitedly regaled stories of the day. I faux-joyfully (and perhaps a little too energetically, overcompensating for my delicate hormonal state) waved at Betty and called 'Hello darling!' Betty looked straight through me and pretended either that I wasn't there, or that I wasn't her mother. I continued to wave, but still no acknowledgment from her. So I turned away and pretended to be interested in some artwork on the walls for as long as it took for most of the other mothers and their children to leave, and then began the whole thing again 'Betty darling, mummy's here'.

Finally, after lots of prompting from a member of staff, Betty slowly made her way across the room towards me. 'Where's my daddy?' she demanded. 'Daddy's at home talking to the World Bank or something' I said. 'I want my daddy'. 'Daddy's not here, come on'. 'Where is my daddy?' She then turned to a member of staff and said 'I don't like my mummy, I like my daddy'.

Next time, Tom's picking Betty up and I'm going to do the bloody conference call.

Outwitted

Dolly has a rabbit comforter that she cannot sleep without. For the last couple of weeks, at every bed-time, she has been throwing the rabbit out of her cot gleefully and then sobbing hysterically if Betty does not get out of bed and give it back to her quickly enough. This palaver makes Betty excitable and we hear all sorts of floor-trampolining and squealing up there. The rabbit gets returned and there’s a few seconds’ silence. Tom and I look at each other hopefully. Then there’s a thump and it all begins again.

A couple of nights ago this happened about 300 times before they eventually passed out. Tom wondered if we maybe ought to do something about it. We had tried removing the rabbit and the rest of her cuddly toys from the cot but she was having none of it. The best idea he could come up with was putting Dolly to sleep on the floor so she couldn’t throw the rabbit anywhere. Instead, I spent a few minutes sewing the rabbit onto Dolly's grobag.

Tom said: ‘That is either going to drive her completely nuts or it’s a stroke of genius.’

The next evening we put them to bed and crept out, bracing ourselves for possible chaos. But there was silence. Without the whole rabbit throwing and retrieval circus, they went straight to sleep. Tom and I high-fived each other, drank some cider and praised my parenting skills.

Very very early this morning, we heard a familiar thump followed by a squeal. Dolly had thrown a cuddly seal onto the floor and Betty was on her way over to remedy the situation. Dolly was standing up in her cot with a look of undiluted triumph. I stared at the contents of her cot, bleary eyed, and wondered if there was space to sew fifteen cuddly animals onto her sleeping bag.

Our offspring

Tom and I seem to produce babies who:

• will only say 'Da' for the first couple of years


• eat ANYTHING put in front of them apart from avocado


• frequently give withering looks and sigh


• begin walking at exactly 14 and a half months


• don't like to be cuddled


• look odd in dresses


• suck their thumb


• reject the breast before the designated 12 months


• have comforters which seem to mean more to them than their own parents


• love shoes

Baby and baby

Dolly and I spent the afternoon in the company of a newborn baby (NB) yesterday.

My baby is now almost 15 months old, and seeing the two babies together was a bit of a shock to me. In comparison, Dolly looked liked a little girl. She was there proudly donning her little shoes - she had properly started walking the day before and was so excited and proud of herself. She had food stains in her hair and down her top, and she was chirpily babbling in her chatter. Her favourite word is 'thank you', which at this stage obviously sounds nothing like thank you, and so her favourite thing to do is give various items to you and then take them back again just so that she can say it.

I was stunned at how Dolly was treating the newborn baby. She looked at NB in awe (in much the same way that she looks at rabbits and cats) and toddled over whilst I was holding and cooing over her, and gently stroked her bare leg with her sticky little mitt. Dolly then put a blanket over her and went off and came back with a pair of socks which she handed to NB and said the obligatory 'thank you'.

At home Dolly is the baby and is treated so, but in the company of another baby much younger than her, she suddenly and quite scarily seemed very very grown-up.

Jinxed

Since having children my motto has been: Never ever be lulled into a false sense of security. This is because anything and everything I ever think, the opposite then happens.

Some examples:

'Isn't it great that Dolly loves broccoli so much'. The very next time I gave her broccoli she refused point blank to eat it.

'Isn't it great that Betty loves her new pre-school so much'. The following morning she told me that she hated pre-school and refused to go.

'Isn't it great that Tom's washing up skills have improved so much'. Etc.

A couple of weeks ago I thought to myself, 'Isn't it great that we are all fit and healthy'. Then the virus hit the Button household. Betty was burning up and in so much pain during the early hours of Friday that I desperately tried to keep her distracted with DVDs (in my bed), and promises of trips to Pizza Express and new pink scooters, when she got better. The following morning she pretended to be better in a bid to have the aforementioned things, but by mid morning she could no longer keep it up and took to my bed once more.

Yesterday however, she was genuinely better, and so Tom and Dolly (who both had the virus at the beginning of the week), and Betty, all went into town, met up with Tom's mum, had Pizza Express, got the pink scooter and had a really jolly old time. Meanwhile, I stayed at home, with the bug, and thought to myself 'Isn't it great that I am on the mend, specially as Tom is going to London for five days tomorrow'.

Insult to injury

Tom spent last weekend in Nottingham getting drunk with his Uni mates, so on Monday we all went out for an impromptu lunch. We arrived at the pub which was full of elderly folk enjoying a quiet meal, and asked Betty what she would like to eat. She replied 'butter'. I told her that she couldn't just have butter and would she like some soup and bread with it. She reluctantly said she would. We sat down at the table and waited for our food to arrive. Dolly happily sat chewing on her two Happyland plastic dogs which she is inseparable from.

Chaos soon ensued. Betty climbed onto the table and knocked over a pint of water. Mops, buckets, and towels came out and a big clear-up operation took place. She was being loud and whingey and clumsy. Our food arrived and Betty refused to eat anything other than butter. Her cutlery clattered to the floor, another drink almost went over, and she tried to run away from the table with her butter.

As I became increasingly aware that the elderly couple at the next table were now not having such a quiet lunch and I began feeling on edge, Betty turned to said couple, and looked them up and down. I was thinking OMG what is about to come out of her mouth. 'I don't like that man or that lady' is what came out of her mouth. Having already completely disrupted their lunch this was seriously adding insult to injury. Through clenched teeth I quietly told her not to be so rude. So she said the same thing even louder. I told her that if she said it again she would not get anything from the treat box later on. So instead of 'saying' it, she began singing it, over and over again 'I don't like that man or that lady' in a sweet little angelic voice.

Tom whisked Betty outside and the elderly couple got up to leave. The lady then began heading towards me and I was terrified and embarrassed and just wanted to disappear. But in a gentle and kind voice she said 'She is at that difficult age dear, it will soon pass, don't despair.'

Dear Melissa

When you found me sleep-walking along the corridor of the maternity ward last Tuesday, you put your arm around me, and asked if i was from the antenatal or postnatal ward. I was a little taken aback. Actually I cried.

I appreciate that my stomach protrudes far more than it did pre children and my muscle tone is now virtually non-existent, but do I really look nine months pregnant? I appreciate that you are a student midwife, but even so, nine months?

Anyway, since that little chat we had in the side-room where you helpfully sat me down, gave me a glass of water and asked where my green notes were, and I tried in vain to convince you that I was there looking after a labouring friend, I have been living on a diet of nuts and grapes and my Twirl intake is at an all time low.

If I ever get back down to a svelte size 10 I will know who to thank.

Best of luck with the rest of your midwifery training.

Kind regards

E Button

Dear Colin

When I saw you in the corridor of the maternity ward in the early hours of last tuesday, I perhaps came across as a bit of a nutter. I hadn't slept for three days and was a little off kilter. I was acting as a birthing partner to my best friend who was going through a particularly lengthy labour, when you innocently popped your head round the door to ask the midwife on duty if there was a spare birthing ball for the labouring lady in the next room. You didn't expect a delirious woman to collapse at your feet declaring you to be their soulmate. You looked a bit scared, and soon hurried away (minus the birthing ball).

Let me explain. Until that point (last tuesday) you had been a vision, a saviour, a hero, and perhaps not quite real. I'd spent the last year telling anyone who would listen, that I would have married you on the spot, if it weren't for the fact that you were gay, and I was already married and giving birth to my husband's child.

For, on arrival at the hospital all those months ago, with my baby Dolly hurtling out, you heard my pleading screams from the main reception 'SOMEBODY GET ME THE GAS AND AIR NOOOOOOWWW'. And that somebody was you. I needed that gas and air like nothing else on earth, and you delivered, at a remarkable speed.

So for that I thank you, and hope that this goes some way to explaining my perhaps slightly odd behaviour last week when I staggered out of the delivery suite (full of my labouring friend's gas and air).

Kind regards

E Button

Dolly trolley guilt

Dolly looked so proud today, charging around the garden with her little wooden trolley in her new shoes - the shoes that she gets so excited about every time she looks at them. All of a sudden, despite still having very little hair, she looked so incredibly grown-up. It made me feel very strange, happy strange, and sad strange.

The trolley was Betty's and is now falling apart. It has been left out in all weather conditions, has been dragged up and down steps, filled with mud, used as a scooter, and it looks a state, but Dolly loves it and is now inseparable from it. It is a far cry from the brand spanking new trolley excitedly presented to Betty three years ago.

Betty's crawling and walking developments were well documented on this blog. I went into great detail about her first steps, buying her first shoes and her first walk in them etc. All Dolly got was a throw away line at the end of my last post.

I hadn't even realised that Dolly was ready to start walking. My mum suggested giving her the trolley to see what she made of it, and when first presented with the mouldy, rickety thing, I expected her to stumble and fall and not have a clue. But she grabbed it and off she went, confidently and competently. I felt pangs of guilt that I had been neglecting my darling precious baby, and wondered how long she had been wanting to walk for.

Dolly is so happy and easy and good-natured I worry that we are taking advantage of this. She gets no-where near the same attention that Betty got at the same age, and where we would always be standing over Betty, staring and cooing, and eagerly encouraging her to reach the next developmental milestone, Dolly is often left to her own devices, and milestones seem to be forgotten.

Down the local

We live in the back of beyond, with hardly any other houses, and certainly no shops, for miles around. So imagine our sheer joy when an old country pub, which hasn't been in use for at least 20 years, was resurrected, and we are the closest house to it!

The grand opening was on Thursday and last night I casually said to Tom 'fancy a pint down the local?' (something we haven't been able to say since our London days). My mum babysat, and so off we went. We met lots of our good pals in there and bumped into locals that we never see and had a good old catch up, and there was just a general feeling of real community excitement.

I am bashing this frankly boring non-post out from the comfort of my bed on my new, rather sleek Netbook. I am hoping that my new toy will encourage me to become more prolific in my blogging and comment-making.

Being in the pub last night meant that I missed Eastenders (a 'DOM DOM DAH DAH DAH DAH DAH DAH DAAAAAAAHHHH....' Friday night spectacular what's more) but i was able to come home and watch it on my Netbook in bed - I am a happy lady, Tom is slightly less happy.

PS on a different note, I am worried that Betty is going to run off and join the circus.

PPS my baby Dolly now wears shoes, as of today. I cannot believe it.

Night night

The blue chair

We were driving to Cardiff on Saturday and just past Merthyr Tydfil I noticed a child’s blue garden chair, identical to the one in Betty’s playhouse, on the side of the dual carriageway. I thought to myself ‘That looks just like Betty’s chair, I am sure the robbers stole it last night, then once they were nearly home they discarded it on the roadside’. I was starting to scare myself. I looked at the time and took in the exact location, so that I could give the police accurate facts, if, when I got home, Betty’s chair was missing from inside her playhouse. Meanwhile, Tom was blissfully unaware of my train of thought. He is so silly sometimes, doesn’t notice a bloody thing.

There has been a professional gang of robbers from South Wales homing in on our area, more specifically our stretch of road which is about 100 yards long. Since living in rural countryside, I have been scared at night anyway, and now I know that they have been prowling around at 4am looking for trailors, landrovers and other expensive metal stuff, I have been absolutely terrified. They have been in our garden because they left the gate swinging open. Every morning at 4am (weirdly I happen to wake at that time) I turn the light on as a warning to them that I am at large in my house and they had better get lost. I should mention that Tom and I do not own any large metal objects (apart from our car) and so we are probably not a target.

We had a lovely day out in Cardiff and thankfully this time there was no helter skelter humiliation, but all the while I kept thinking about the whole blue chair riddle. Why did the robbers steal Betty’s blue chair?

When we got home, the girls were tired and hungry, but the very first thing I had to do was go and check if the chair was where it should be, in her playhouse.

Happy Birthday Dolly

On this day, 22nd April, last year, baby Dolly hurtled out into the world, with very little warning. I was two days over my due date and had resigned myself to the fact that I would be pregnant forever.

I heaved myself into bed that evening all settled with a cup of hot choc, and ready to watch my two fave Wednesday night programmes. Just as the start-up tune came on for Waterloo Road, I had one almighty contraction, my waters broke, and that was it, Dolly was on her way out. And exactly one and half hours later she was in my arms.

It was an eventful one and a half hours. I spent most of that time in the blinkin car, watching the clock and feeling overwhelming fear that I was going to give birth on the roadside outside KFC. A couple of miles into our journey my contractions were two minutes, a mile later, one minute apart, and half way to the hospital one long continuous contraction. Tom did not realise the seriousness of the situation and that the birth was about as imminent as you could get. He calmly told me to relax my face and breathe. I told him to put his bloody foot down.

At the hospital the lovely student midwife also did not realise the urgency of the situation. She informed me that in fact my waters had not yet broken and that labour often goes on for hours. I told her that the baby’s head was between my legs and if she didn’t do something quick the baby would land on its head. She told me that it was unlikely the baby’s head was between my legs and then went on to try to listen to the baby’s heart beat. I told her that she would not pick up the baby’s heart beat because the baby was half way out. ‘JUST HAVE A LOOK’ I begged. She promptly caught the baby and looked visibly shaken, even more so than Tom.

And here Dolly is one year later, and what a truly magical, entertaining, and wonderful year it has been. Dolly, you are a real character, and you make us laugh several times a day with your looks, your naughtiness, your bruiser tendencies, your feistiness and your absolute adorableness. You have brought such joy and amusement to us all in the last year, long may it continue, our beautiful baby girl.

Helter Skelter

We went to Cardiff the other day. Betty and I left Tom and Dolly in a coffee shop and went to try on something I had spotted in a shop window. As we walked down the high street Betty spotted a helter skelter and asked if she could go on it. Without giving it a second thought (or questioning the size of the slide versus the size of myself) I said, ‘Yes, of course we can go on.’ The helter skelter man told me that Betty was too young to go down on her own and I told him that it was fine because she would sit on my lap. Thinking back, he did give me a bit of a funny look at this point, but I thought nothing of it at the time. So excitedly we carried our mats up the steps to the top. We could see the bustling high street below and we tried to spy Tom and Dolly so that we could wave to them on our way down but they had marched off into the arcades.

When it came to our turn and we sat down at the top of the slide, all feelings of joy immediately disappeared and they were replaced with feelings of horror. I was wedged tight. I was too fat for the frickin kiddie slide. There was a whole queue of kids behind us blocking the steps, so there was no turning back. With me sitting on the mat and Betty sitting on me I used all the upper body strength I could possibly muster up and pulled us along one metre at a time, coming to a wedged standstill between each arm-pull.

Halfway down it began to rain and we lost our mat making it even harder to ‘slide’ and there were children backing up behind us shouting ‘Come on lady’. I couldn’t work out if Betty was making noises of excitement or utter humiliation. I prayed that Tom and Dolly weren’t there watching us from the ground, like the hundreds of other parents standing there gaping at me, either looking concerned or bemused, whilst they waited for their children to come down.

We finally got to the bottom and although still feeling unbelievably humiliated, and with arms aching like never before, I was massively relieved that the ordeal was over. The fact that I had oily stripes on my wet worn bottom where we had lost our mat and I had been sitting directly on the hard wooden ridged slide, just didn’t matter. We had made it down.

As we began walking away, the Helter Skelter man called after us and with a smirk on his face he said: ‘I am giving you two goes for the price of one love’ and handed me another mat. I seriously felt like punching him, specially as Betty had heard mention of another go and was already halfway up the steps. I managed to grab Betty and bring her back down, at which point she had the biggest most severe tantrum she has have ever had. In fact she has only ever had one other tantrum and that was about two years ago, so this was completely unexpected. She screamed and yelled and lashed out at me, for about 20 minutes, and nothing would calm her. I tried to hold her tightly to calm her and all I kept thinking was that passers-by were going to think I was abducting her and call the police. I then phoned Tom but I couldn’t hear a word he was saying and all he could hear was Betty screaming. He later told me that he thought she was being abducted. We went home after that.

Happy Easter

It seems I can't remember how to write nor do I have the time, so I leave you with a creation by Betty...

An instant dislike

Betty and I went to Sainsburys the other morning. I was pushing her along in a trolley down the dairy aisle and she was merrily humming and talking about aubergines, when a man walked past us. When he was about a foot away from us, she suddenly bellowed ‘NO NO NO NO NO YOU ARE A VERY SILLY MAN’ right in his face.

I turned to look at him to apologise but he, looking visibly shaken and a deep shade of purple, was staring hard at the yoghurts. So rather than embarrass him further by trying to speak to him (and I was pretty bloody embarrassed at this point too), I very loudly reprimanded Betty and told her that it was unacceptable to talk to an innocent shopper, and one that she had never seen before in her life, like that.

However, as if I, or the man, hadn’t been embarrassed enough, she then went on to talk to his back ‘SILLY SILLY MAN, YOU GO AWAY’.

Love's young dream

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and so a friend and I made a picnic and took the children on a local woodland walk.

After we had finished our walk and picnic we went into the playground where there were hundreds of 5/6 year olds on a school trip.

Betty was coming down the slide for about the 68th time when a boy from the school party came down behind her and knocked into her. Betty’s face crumpled, so I ran over and began reassuring her that she would be OK and that it was an accident (although I now think that it was deliberate ploy for the boy to get Betty’s attention). The boy then came over, looking really concerned and in a very gentlemanly way he asked about her injuries. It occurred to me that if they were 15 years older Tom would definitely approve of this young man. They looked at each other, beamed, and that was that, they were inseparable.

It was truly fascinating to watch as he helped Betty across the wobbly bridge, skipped with her through the wood chips, slid down the slide next to her, both giggling as they went, and both sharing a private joke with each other next to the swings. I felt all gooey, watching a three year old and a five year old, who had never met before, smitten. Meanwhile Dolly sat in her chariot, and watched on, giving them an appraising look.

After about half an hour of these frolics, his teacher blew a whistle and told the school children to line up by the gate. They formed an orderly queue. Also in the queue was Betty, holding the boy’s hand. Both my friend and I were calling Betty’s name but she absolutely pretended that she couldn’t hear us. When I marched over and retrieved her I could feel the pain of her separation.

We watched the coach pull out of the car park and the boy’s face was pressed up against the window. Very quietly, Betty said: ‘I wish I was on that bus.’ I think she could still feel the warmth of the boy’s hand in hers.

Friend medley

Betty has a growing army of imaginary friends. Tom said he lay awake in bed last night trying to spell their names, which in a couple of cases he has said is pretty much impossible. This is the best he could come up with:

Bah-bh’-bhar, Eyeguy, Row and Baby.

Bah-bh’-bhar seems to be her favourite and apparently lives in her bedroom curtains. He talks with a deep voice and she often has fascinating conversations with him in the middle of the night, heard by us on the baby monitor.

Row is her least favourite. He lives in the wall next to her bed and makes noises at night time. He seems to have monster-like tendencies, and he frightens her a little bit.

Eyeguy often gets the blame for things that Betty has done. For example, Betty poked me in the arm rather hard the other day and when I said ‘OW that really hurt’ Betty said ‘It wasn’t me it was Eyeguy’.

And as for Baby – there doesn’t seem to be a distinction between Betty and Baby – they are the same person it seems. And it seems to be her way of speaking about herself in the third person. For example, she’ll say ‘Baby doesn’t like tomatoes’ or ‘Baby would like lots of sweets’ or ‘Baby has just fallen over’.

It often gets very confusing and difficult to follow when there is a five way conversation going on, specially when four of the five people are imaginary.

Busy rant

This morning, as I stood at the kitchen sink swigging back my tea, Tom said: ‘Urrrgh that must be cold by now’. I told him that every morning I deliberately let my tea go cold as I don’t have time to sit down and sip on hot tea.

In fact, I spend much of my time standing at the kitchen sink, either doing the copious amounts of continuous washing-up, or scoffing my breakfast/lunch/dinner in order to avoid using a plate, hence saving on yet more washing up. If my mum comes over for lunch I refuse to give her a plate, or I make her share Betty’s.

In the last ten months, since going from one child to two, I have learnt that in order to run a relatively efficient and effective household, and still remain as sane as humanly possible, it is all about well thought-out strategies, cutting corners, and time management.

On the days that Betty is not at pre-school, I plan morning activities which always take place at the kitchen table, hence keeping Betty contained and not at large in the rest of the house. During the afternoons that Betty is not at pre-school I either hide most of her toys, eliminating the possible chaos, or make sure that we are out of the house, either at someone else’s house, or wandering around Sainsburys.

On a very good day I make homemade bread and soup for our lunch, and on a very bad day we have crisps and cake. The majority of the time it falls somewhere in between. I have often been tempted to make us all eat from the same saucepan to save on washing up.

I am obsessed with planning weekly menus of mainly one-pot recipes (ie saving on the washing up) and ones that we can all eat. I now have this down to a fine art. I quickly realised that it is false economy to try to make-up dishes such as lentil, orange rind and beetroot stew just because these ingredients happen to be lying around and you have a husband who is trying to save the world breathing down your neck. Not only is it universally (or at least Buttonly) agreed that these concoctions taste disgusting, but you have to whip up an entire nother meal, hence doubling the bloody washing-up.

As for my daily washing, hanging out washing, ironing rituals, that is a whole different post all to itself which may be a long time coming. I only managed to write this post one sentence at a time over a period of about six weeks.

The plebs

Having endured nearly a month of being bitten during feeds, and then being laughed at when I yell out in pain, I reluctantly offered Dolly some follow-on milk a couple of days ago. Just the mere sight of the bottle full of milk made her almost hyper-ventilate with excitement. She grabbed the bottle from me and knocked it back in about 5 seconds flat. Despite this, I am still trying to hang on to the morning and bedtime feeds for dear life, reasoning that once her top teeth are through, this would probably be the time to admit defeat completely.

It is much the same with food. I take great pride in lovingly preparing good, organic, wholesome food for my girls, but Dolly will often turn her little nose up my culinary delights. And when, in desperation, I offer her a jar of chicken risotto, or spaghetti bolognese (or whatever, they all taste the same to me) she does her shrill Michael Jackson 'OOWW' impression and shovels it in with gusto.

So it seems I have a pleb baby on my hands, a baby who prefers the shop-bought processed option to the home-produced real thing. If I can salvage anything from this it's that one day she might be up for joining me in my occasional Frey Bentos pie and chips fests on a Saturday night in front of trash TV, whilst Tom and Betty are off somewhere eating smoked pumpkin seeds and discussing Fermat's last theorem.

Unfinished symphonies

I feel like I have forgotten how to write, which is frustrating because I wanted to regale everyone with stories of frenzied Christmas preparations in the Button household.

Some rejected ideas for posts include:

A Button decade round-up - Tom said this was too personal as I talked about how we got together and came to have two little Buttons

We are a sickly bunch - Tom said this was too depressing

My new camera - Tom said this was too boring

I love christmas - Tom said this was too sentimental

Let it snow - Tom said this was too obvious

Birds, snot and tinsel - Tom said this was too 'try-hard'

The 'Play Dough' mum - I only got as far as the title on this one, but Tom said it could have potential.

So none of them have made it to the table, so to speak.

Instead I bid you all a very very very happy christmas and peaceful new year and leave you with a fern christmas tree picture which was foraged and arranged by Betty.

With lots of love from me, Tom, Betty and baby Dolly XXXX

Look at the size of this!

When Betty called to me earlier and announced that she had done a 'little poo' in her potty, I was not expecting this.



For some reason, it made me think back fondly to Emily from Maternal Tales from the South Coast's post about her daughter, Edie, doing a huge poo and she even photographed it to show her loyal readers.

This photograph is for you Emily (and you Stuart, because I know you love hearing all about my tales of child/baby poo).

Betty at three

Betty is three today! Although the last year has passed by in a flash, she has changed and grown-up quite unbelievably. This time last year all Betty could (or would) say was ‘Da. Dadada. Daaaaa.’ etc. And although her little character was emerging and she was fully capable of making herself understood, she still very much had a baby-ness about her.

A year on, she now, rather scarily, often demonstrates teenager tendencies, like: banging on the bathroom door if someone is in there and shouting ‘GET OUT, I need a wee!’, and burying her head under the duvet when I am trying to get her out of bed in the mornings and mumbling ‘Noooo I need more sleep, go away’, or answering a question with ‘Yeah’ in such a way that you feel that all that’s missing is the gum.

A year ago it used to terrify me taking Betty to the shops with her on foot, but now she is a great little shopping companion. She will bring her little red shopping basket and carry it on her arm, as I do, and help me look for items in the shop and make (sometimes helpful) suggestions about what we should buy. Although at times it is rather nerve-racking when I turn round and she is wielding a bottle of wine in my direction and bellowing ‘YOUR WINE MUMMY!’ I grab the bottle, and as long as it is under a fiver and has a screw top, I put it in my basket and go with her choice.

Despite my best efforts in the last three years of dressing Betty in neutral colours and dungarees, she has become a real girlie girl. Her favourite colour is pink, and she loves to look pretty in dresses and hairclips. She always notices and comments if I am wearing a new or different item of clothing, and although she doesn’t say anything I can see the look of distaste on her little face when I come downstairs donning tracksuit bottoms and maternity top. She almost fell off her chair (she was flicking through Heat magazine at the time) when she saw me in a dress the other day.

She has well and truly left toddlerdom behind her. In the last year she has gained incredible negotiating and mediating skills - if I am giving Tom a hard time about not taking the recycling out, or leaving teabags in the sink, Betty immediately steps in and says: ‘Say sorry to Daddy, Mummy, say sorry now’; and she has become a real comedian (I particularly love her impressions of Tom).

Happy birthday, my darling, gorgeous girl. Enjoy your much anticipated special day with all your balloons, and your requested big pink heart birthday cake, and your presents, and your smoked salmon breakfast in bed…

Pumpkin overload

I thought it would be a nice idea to invite a couple of Betty's bestest buddies round for a little Halloween playdate. Something very low-key: a few sandwiches, and maybe some fairy cakes if I had time. With Betty's pumpkin costume at the ready, and still five days until Halloween, I felt there was nothing else to worry about, other than a quick dash to the shops to buy a bit of bread and cheese.

As the week progressed, so did the ideas. The recipe books came out, Google was consulted, and there followed several trips to different cook shops and supermarkets to track down things like pumpkin-shaped cookie cutters and orange food colouring.

I became so caught up in throwing the halloween party of the century that I forgot I was catering for just three children on a mere playdate. With 48 hours to go, I made the toffee apples and the pumpkin soup, and Betty and I made some decorations: pumpkins, witches, spiders, ghosts, 'welcome' signs, spooky bunting etc.

On the morning of Halloween, I got up at the crack of dawn and frantically began baking. Intricate spider fairy cakes were created, hand-shaped chocolate chip cookies were made, and gory finger sandwiches, and fruit kebabs. Pumpkins were gutted and carved, and several oranges were hollowed out to resemble mini pumpkins, to use as vessels for the green jelly; decorations were hung, pumkpin-themed balloons were inflated, the house was tidied, and last minute alterations to costumes were made. Standing back and looking at everything laid out in all its glory, I suddenly felt embarrassed at the efforts I had gone to. So I instructed Tom not to laugh at my casual reply of ‘not long at all, it was nothing’ if anyone asked how long it had all taken me.

At 3pm, me, Tom, Betty, Dolly and their two grandmothers (who had been drafted in at the last minute to help eat all the food) sat expectantly in the decked out room, awaiting the arrival of our guests. Both of them arrived right on time, also dressed as pumpkins. The three pumpkin pals quickly joined forces, and began gaily throwing breadsticks around, and generally trashing the room. Meanwhile I had collapsed in an exhausted heap on a chair in the corner of the room and was unable to muster up the energy to be all halloweeny. Tom desperately tried to think of ways to entertain the pumpkins and decided to do some apple bobbing. But he dislocated his neck whilst doing his demonstration and the pumpkins watched on, looking perplexed.

We played musical bumps, and then took the pumpkins trick or treating to our next door neighbours (each one was given a small plastic pumpkin receptacle to hold the treat). And again the children had a look of bafflement on their little faces, when sweets were willingly and freely handed out to them.

Then it was pretty much time to finish the playdate, so we quickly ate all the food, and I brought out the pumpkin soup in a big scooped out pumpkin.

The look

I feel that Dolly hasn’t been getting enough blog airtime so wanted to talk a little about how her character is developing, and how I find that the looks she gives me are a little unnerving.

People have always said about her: ‘She has that knowing look, she has been here before’. It was as if she had read all the books and thus knew exactly how to be a textbook baby. Unlike Betty, she has always conformed to what babies are supposed to do and like/dislike: gnawing on teethers, gazing up at musical mobiles, disapproving of dirty nappies, sticking to a routine etc.

Having said that, with this ‘knowledge’ that she seemingly has, I find myself subconsciously not treating her like a baby, and it somehow doesn’t seem appropriate to talk to her in baby gaga googoo language. I think this may be because when I have pulled funny faces and talked to her in silly voices in the past, she has made me feel like a complete idiot with her ‘what the hell are you doing that for, you look ridiculous’ look. She glares straight at me, with a deadpan expression, momentarily stops sucking on her thumb (but with thumb still in mouth), gives it a few seconds and then sighs, turns away and continues to suck on her thumb.

I also feel that although she is a model baby at the moment, she is just biding her time. She sits quietly observing Betty and puts up with being poked, and squeezed and yanked, but she has a definite look about her which tells me she is storing it all up and as soon as she is bigger and stronger she will give an unsuspecting Betty what for.

This morning, after she had had a good long breast feed, I then ate my toast in front of her. If looks could kill…

Squirreling

Every morning Betty goes downstairs and empties all her little pots, pans, plates and hundreds of pieces of play food (all of which come from different sets) into her toy pushchair and toy shopping trolley. Once she has done this, which takes her about two seconds, she doesn’t play with it all, she just leaves it and goes off and does something else, but if you dare try to put it away during the day she gets very cross.

Every evening before she goes to bed I get her to tidy it all away, but because of my slightly obsessive nature, she doesn’t quite do it to my standards, and so I end up spending ages putting everything back in their rightful little sets before I can sit down and relax.

Last night I decided that all the food items and pans etc were going to go into hiding for a while to save me some work. This morning Betty went downstairs and I heard her opening the cupboard that normally houses all the aforementioned items, and I waited for her to call out that they were missing. However, she was silent. Phew I thought, I have successfully solved the problem.

Later I went into the sitting room to find that in the absence of her food items she had loaded up the pushchair and trolley with ANYTHING she could lay her little mitts on; loo rolls, cellotape, books, the pepper grinder, my keys, hoover attachments, soap, puzzle pieces etc, thus creating even more work for me. I have to hand it to her, she will not be outsmarted, and is incredibly resourceful.

This evening I plan to hide the trolley and the pushchair.

Mini break

Have you ever had one of those weeks where everything, even the simplest of things, seems really hard? From organising a plumber to come and to sort out your kitchen sink which is blocked for the umpteenth time, to trying to scrape play dough off the sitting room carpet, to cooking dinner, to trying to get Dolly to do a poo.

Tom was in London quite a lot last week and when he came back he brought a cold with him. This then laid him up in bed all weekend, plus he passed it onto Betty and Dolly. So all week no-one has really slept very well, everyone has been a bit miserable, and I feel like I have been going flat out, for what feels like weeks, without a break.

So this morning, I packed Betty off to pre-school (which she now seems to be enjoying again) booked her in for the whole day instead of just the morning, and whilst Dolly napped, I got back into bed with a cup of tea and a BLT, watched The Wright Stuff and read Heat magazine. And I was in HEAVEN!!! In our current circumstances (ie having two small children) this lie-in equated to the same thing as a two week beach holiday in the Caribbean.

When Dolly woke at around 10.30am she joined me in bed for lots of cuddles and kisses, and we even stayed in bed whilst she ate her butternut squash brunch, and I ate my Twirl. She did look a little surprised about the whole thing but certainly wasn’t complaining, and we had a lovely cosy time.

At midday, Dolly yawned and rubbed her little eyes, so I popped her back into her cot and she went off to sleep, and I got back into bed. And that is exactly where I am now, typing this post on my laptop (time now 1.05pm) and I intend to stay here (with Dolly joining me again at some point) til 3.30pm when I have to pick Betty up from pre-school.