Selfish mum act: that'll teach me

Betty's school was closed again today, due to the snow.  And so with another article about Dexter to write, and a serious case of cabin fever, I told her we were going to have a day of work together.

After two hours of sitting in Caffe Nero, with me doing some colouring-in and Betty playing games on my iPad, talk turned to our lunch options.

Betty told me she wanted Jaffa Cakes for lunch.

"I think because you have been so good all morning,  I will take you for a very special Thai lunch to mine and daddy's favourite restaurant," I told her.

I sat there battling with my conscience.  Betty had never had Thai food before, and it was pretty unlikely that she would like it.  But I was really really in the mood for it, and decided nothing else would do.

So we entered the restaurant, and the waiter raised an eyebrow at my little companion.  "My daughter has a very sophisticated palate," I told him defiantly.  "In fact, she loves Thai food, she has it all the time". Well she loves olives and pickled onions, I reasoned to myself.

In a moment of dizzy excitement at being in my favourite restaurant, I ordered my two favourite main dishes, plus rice and prawn crackers. If all else failed Betty would definitely eat the rice and crackers.

The waiter raised another eyebrow at the volume of food I had, in effect, ordered for myself. The food arrived and I optimistically dished out Betty's share of noodles and curry. This still left an awful lot for me - six year olds don't eat huge portions.

Betty took one mouthful of noodles and told me they were disgusting. She then plumped for a prawn cracker which she told me tasted of fish and made her feel sick. And the rice was too sticky, and the curry too spicy.

"Ow, my mouth is really really stinging," she cried just as the smirking waiter walked past. "Well drink some orange juice then," I loud-whispered through gritted teeth.

"The orange juice tastes of lemons," she told me.

So feeling really stupid, and not wanting to get another raised eyebrow from the waiter, I ploughed my way through two meals, very very slowly.

The one saving grace was the decorative carrot carved into a rose shape, which thankfully kept Betty amused while I force fed myself. She took photos from various angles, nibbled it, took more photos, and then carefully wrapped it up in a napkin so that she could take it home and show Tom.

Without the distraction of the carrot, Betty then politely asked me why my face was so red, and when we were leaving.

And when we eventually walked out of the restaurant, me barely able to move and feeling like I was going to hurl, a hungry Betty said: "Can we go for lunch at Pizza Express now?"

SOS: snowed in with a sick child

Dolly in the snow

Before having children, I loved the snow. Not only did it mean days off school/college and even work, it also meant a lot of fun.

However my love of snow quickly evaporated the moment my first daughter was born. She arrived in late November, in a winter with freezing temperatures and lots of snow. I felt really vulnerable with a newborn baby, and worried about not being able to get out in an emergency.

This year, I tried to put to one side my fears of getting snowed in. Against my better judgment I found myself joining my girls in calling for a load of the white stuff to be dumped on us. What fun it would be with my girls – we had our sledges at the ready.

And sure enough, last Friday we woke up to thick blankets of snow everywhere, and that all-important school closure announcement.

All wrapped up we set about making snowmen, eating snow, and sledging. However, after lobbing a few snowballs around, Dolly quickly became tearful and whingey.

This was her first proper experience of snow and I wondered whether she just didn’t like it. On closer inspection, however, I discovered that she had a very high fever and was doubled up with tummy cramps.

At that point, I decided to start panicking. What if it was something REALLY serious, and I couldn’t get her to hospital? What if an ambulance wouldn’t make it through the snowy lanes in time? What if the air ambulance was too busy rescuing people from the mountains to help us?

Breaking my no-updates resolution, I put out an SOS message on Facebook: ‘Snowed in with a very sick child – help!’  continue reading...

Dexter Mayhew: the crush, and the unbearable tragedy

While dumping off a load of old toys and clothes at our local charity shop early last December, I stumbled upon a tattered looking DVD, with a man and woman kissing on the front cover.

I hastily bought it, figuring it might save me from having to watch Apocalypse Now later that night – something Tom had threatened earlier.  But realistically I imagined that even if I did manage to persuade my husband to watch a rom-com, we would get about 15 minutes in and end up falling asleep.

Just over a month later I have now watched this film eleven times, and even Tom has watched it four times (although probably not through choice, and he has started to give me odd looks at my continued persistence with it). 

Almost every scene is either heart-stopping, tear-jerking, or goose-bump-inducing. But it was the Paris scene, where Dexter and Emma finally fall into each others' arms, which was probably one of the best moments of my life (bar marrying my husband and the birth of my children, of course). And then the almost unbearable tragedy happens, for which I will never forgive the writer.  Why couldn't Em and Dex just have a baby or three and live happily ever after?  Why?

This film has taken over my life.  This is mainly down to it being an amazing love story which leaves you alternately weeping, drooling, and screaming at the screen.  But also because I have a bit of a crush on the main character, Dexter Mayhew.  The other main character, Emma (Anne Hathaway) isn't bad either.

I haven't had a crush like this since my Nick Berry fixation when I was 14 years old. I am now 38 and have an obsession with a fictional character from a film. At least Nick Berry was a real person.

A friend of mine pointed out that Dexter and Tom are pretty similar in looks and sound - that melt-your-heart public schoolboy hair and accent. I also think perhaps this love story reminds me of mine and Tom's journey, before we had our  'Paris moment' - which for us happened in Pizza Express in Paddington. Before this, Tom and I spent years being best friends, with lots of missed opportunities, just like Emma and Dexter. How on earth Tom and I didn't realise our love for each other, way back when, as he fed me chicken McNuggets dipped in barbecue sauce, sitting in Budgens car park in West London, I will never know.

During a typical day, it's not unusual for me to watch the film (sometimes on loop if it's the night of Tom's Tai Chi class), listen to the soundtrack and the unabridged audio book, and gaze at photos of Dexter on Google images.

I play the soundtrack while cooking the kids' dinner or hanging out the washing. This way I can replay the film in my head while gazing tearfully through wet clothes and steaming carrots. I am often met with shouts of "TURN IT DOWN!" from my exasperated family, while they try to eat their breakfast.

Towards the end of the film Dexter opens up a café/deli between Archway and Highgate - this is an area I know particularly well, and I was positively thrilled that Dex and I have probably pounded the same pavements. I thought about going off to find this deli in the hope that Dexter might be there.  I could tell him how sorry I am for his loss and give him a big hug.  And with his knee-weakening handsome grin and that voice, he might serve me a latte and a chocolate brownie. But then I have to remind myself that neither the deli nor the characters are real.

It is the character and not the actor that I am in love with (sorry Jim Sturgess). Having said this, I have undertaken a bit of Jim Sturgess Twitter-stalking, and I have just ordered another film where he is the lead role - just in case there's another film out there which I might be able to obsess over. 

But I fear I am setting myself up for disappointment. There will never be another One Day - and it is without doubt the best fifty pence I have ever spent.

When Tom hosted a play-date...

I found myself in a rather strange situation the other day - my girlfriends were all working and I hooked up with a couple of their enlightened Dads-at-home partners.

I can't call it a play-date, because that phrase was banned. I can call it a playfest, because my 3-year-old has never been so entertained within the auspices of a friend's house, for free.

"Was he trying to win some prize for most amazing 'gathering' ever?" I enquired (innocently) as we ricocheted between dough making, cookie cutting, fancy dress and fire building...

The quizzical look I received said it all - "what is it that mum's do when they meet up?" Good bloody question. Natter mainly, obviously. I was itching to share with them the details of my rather bizarre lesbian dream (they possibly would have enjoyed that) but the opportunity just didn't arise.

It was jobs allocation from the outset, of the "you build the fire while I reduce the pizza topping" variety...  It left me feeling a bit spare partish - I'm not used to feeling so useless! (one even brought home-made soup to share)

As one 21st Dad managed the culinary side of things, his comrade in arms fielded potty training accidents (unruffledly) between dressing up WITH the children (I've never actually even thought of doing that) and making wolf noises outside their Wendy house (to squeals of laughter and enjoyment).

I took rather too many pictures.

Thankfully I did get a bit of natter in when Elsie popped home for a light lunch (provided by super-hero/husband, Tom), although not time enough to get down to the nitty gritty of the dream... she was off back to her desk before I knew it and I was left trying to contribute to a conversation about bicycle tyre punctures (seriously).

"Would you be talking about us girls if I wasn't around?" I postured, jokingly. "No, that really is the domain of sad women," came the riposte. "Oh"

Next week it's my turn to host and I've been googling mad ideas for what exactly 3 three-year-olds can do in three hours...I even thought about hiring a circus act in.  I then considered bribing my other half to swap days with me so he could enjoy these heady days of creativity and cavalier fun.

But I've decided to jump in with both feet and grasp this opportunity to learn from the Mars inhabiters, they've got hanging out covered.

This is a guest post from my friend Jules.  

[Jules - after you all left Tom had a large whisky and then went to bed!] 

Thrills and spills

Betty ice-skating with granddad

During that weird and slightly flat period between New Year and going back to school, Betty and I went on a last minute jaunt to London, to stay with my dad.

Although I was sick of the sight of dirty half-inflated Father Christmases, and mulled wine, I took Betty to the Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park.

I knew that she would love it, but I had no idea quite how much.

The first thing we did was go down an ice slide in the Magical Ice Kingdom, and we spent the rest of the afternoon with numb bottoms.  Particularly me - I got stuck and so was sitting on ice (without a mat) for far longer than I should have been.  (It brought back awful memories of the helter skelter incident in Cardiff a few years ago).

We also went on the penguin bumper cars, the big wheel, and the roller coaster.  I hadn't been on a roller coaster of this description for at least twenty years, and Betty had never been on one.  And having just terrified myself on the big wheel (where I made Betty and I practically hold our breath all the way round, so as not to rock the carriage), I had no intentions of going on it.  But at Betty's insistence I gave in and bought us a ticket, thinking it might make me feel young again.

However, I had forgotten that awful feeling in the pit of your stomach as the carriage reaches the top of the vertical mile-long drop on the other side.  I just wanted to cry.  I closed my eyes, bravely asked Betty if she was ok, and off we hurtled downwards at breakneck speed.  Once at the bottom I was terrified that, firstly, I was going to be sick, and secondly, that Betty would be inconsolable.  But she was giggling heartily and saying: 'What is wrong with you Mummy? Can we go on again?'

'No, it's time to go back to granddad's house now' I told her hastily, and I marched her out of there, grabbing a £4.50 cup of mulled wine as we went - which I downed.

The following day we all went ice-skating on the South Bank.  And thank goodness my dad was with us to take charge of Betty.  She was like a very determined, high-speed, out-of-control octopus flailing around on that ice.  But there was just no stopping her.  She dragged my dad round and round and round, and credit to her (and him) she got really rather good by the end of the session.

Meanwhile I crawled around the edge, clinging onto the sides and trying to take photos of the heartwarming sight of my daughter with my dad.  The one time I got adventurous and left the side to go it alone, I fell flat on my face.  I sat on the ice, feeling I would look far too undignified if I tried to get myself up, and so waited for someone, anyone, to scoop me up.

So it turns out that my gentle and delicate daughter is a bit of a daredevil and likes all things dangerous and fast - I was most definitely the same at her age.   And having been forced back into these activities, after 25 years,  despite my fears and inabilities, I could quite get used to it, and have already organised another ice-skating trip...

New Year, new me!

Christmas is over for another year.

No more feeling obliged to eat cheese and Christmas pudding til you feel like you are actually going to explode; no more over-excited kids all hyped up on chocolate Father Christmases and jelly beans; and no more maulting Christmas trees and dog-eared cards littering the shelves.

Feeling ready to take on 2013, this is what I have done so far, in an attempt to strive for a better, more glamorous me:

I have bought myself a new scarf (and from John Lewis, not Primark, what's more).

I have downloaded a ‘Lose Weight Now’ hypnosis app.  The session is only 60 minutes long but I have yet to get to the end of it – I am normally asleep within ten minutes of turning it on.  I am a bit in love with the hypnotist’s East London voice - think Alfie Moon.  One reviewer of this app complained that he sounded like a fishmonger.  Well, what the heck is wrong with that?

I am currently doing a liver cleanse programme – which includes taking pills, and eating lots of walnuts and beetroot, washed down with freshly squeezed lemon juice.  This makes me wee a heck of a lot, which also makes me feel like I am losing weight.

I have treated myself to my favourite perfume – the last time I treated myself to this was over ten years ago, and I got the last squirt out of it this morning.  Does perfume have a shelf life I wonder.

In addition to all of this, I am going to go blonde, shave my legs more often, learn Spanish, abstain from crisp and Dairylea sandwiches, and stop writing inane status updates on Facebook.

Oh, and lose a stone of course.

Happy New Year everyone!

Dolly on tour

When I gaily accepted an invitation for Dolly and I to visit the Nickelodeon studios in Camden, I didn't consider for a second the implications of taking a three-year-old to London and back in one day.  A ten hour round trip, door to door.

It wasn't until the night before that mild panic began to set in.  Dolly, the girl I have been too scared to take to the supermarket at times, can be a stroppy and wayward little madam.  And taking her on four different trains, six different tubes, and a lot of standing around on cold platforms suddenly seemed like a recipe for disaster.

I downloaded a load of child-friendly apps onto my phone, removing most of my own apps in order to make room.  I even considered taking along my beloved iPad.  But having the responsibility of a child and an iPad at once on a long journey was too much for me to bear.

So at 7.30am yesterday morning, having had several drops of Rescue Remedy, and armed with snacks, sweets, chocolate, stickers, colouring books, stories, and my phone, Dolly and I headed for the train station.

Five hours and an oddly painless train ride later, we made it to the studios.  Dolly was in her element chatting with worm puppets, Arnie and Barnie, on their Bedtime Story TV set, and eating chocolate cupcakes, taking it all in her stride.  And I had the pleasure of meeting the gorgeous Konnie Huq (former Blue Peter presenter) who was reading the story for that particular episode.

Dolly didn't complain once for the entire day, and at times she had  serious reason to.  She was dragged along crowded platforms, thrown through closing tube doors, bashed in the face with handbags,  and had to sit next to a very drunk and angry man who was on the wrong train.

But the thing that really touched me, was the amount of people she made laugh or smile on our travels, with her honest and very loud opinions on everyone around us.  And while strangers chatted and laughed with her, I sat there terrified about what might come out of her mouth next. Luckily she only mentioned my 'boobies' three times between London and Reading.

She kept the entire platform at Newport entertained, while we waited for our connecting train, in the icy snow - singing Christmas carols in her new outlandish rabbit hat that she had chosen from a stall in Camden (for which she had managed to negotiate a huge discount  for being 'cute').

Dolly was a delightful travelling companion, and I was blown away by her stamina and joyous spirit.  I could perhaps have done with a sleep during the train journey back, but Dolly was too busy telling me 'jokes' and covering my boobs with stickers.

Happy 6th birthday my rainbow fairy

Decorated by Betty

Six years ago I started writing this blog - a blog that was inspired by my brand new baby Betty.

And baby Betty wore nothing but blues and greens, and was always in a pair of dungarees, bashing her toy tractors and train sets around.

Betty has just celebrated her sixth birthday - a birthday full of rainbows, fairies, princesses, glitter and pink fluff.

When anyone asked her what she wanted for her birthday her stock reply was: "Anything girly and princessy."

I bought her a beautiful new dress for her to wear on her birthday, but because it was mainly blue, she rejected it in favour of her old, sightly grubby, torn princess dress, telling me: "Don't worry Mummy, I will wear the dress you bought me after school on Monday."

I spent weeks in the run-up to the big day researching rainbow cakes on the internet - the pressure was on, and I felt a bit scared that it might not be up to scratch.  However, I think that Betty may have sensed my fear, and just two days before, she informed me that she would be making her own cake this year and all I had to do was be on hand to do a bit of mixing and oven duties.

I was impressed with her very definite ideas on how she was going to decorate it, and this was the result - and she is right, it is far better than anything I could have done.

Betty also requested that I decorate the house like a rainbow, which again put the fear into  me.  But on the morning of her birthday she squealed with delight at the rainbow coloured strips cut from crepe paper hanging from every single doorway, while the rest of us got annoyed at getting a mouthful of rainbowness every time we walked through a door.  She later said: "You are going to keep these up til Christmas aren't you?"

Happy birthday my gorgeous, delightful (most of the time), funny and bright little fairy rainbow pink princess - your mummy, daddy and little sister all ADORE you! XXXX

An open letter to Uncle Bob

Dear Uncle Bob

What the hell have you gone and done now?

The last time you were in the UK you were my rock. You listened, you offered your words of wisdom, and you helped me move heavy furniture around. And, as always, you made me laugh out loud - sometimes laughing with you, and sometimes at you!

We lunched together on your birthday (although at the time I didn't realise it was your birthday). And we fiercely argued about something. But we quickly cleared the air, and tucked into our pie and chips, in that dodgy pub in Leominster, the rain belting down outside.

You had just turned sixty-seven, and I thought you were looking really sprightly.  I loved your enthusiasm for your new 'expensive-looking' pumps, that you found for £10.

I still wear the fake red Crocs you sent me almost six years ago (in fact I am wearing them right now) - they are two sizes too big, but I have always been loyal to them, but only in the house, where no-one else can see me.

I feel so sad that recently I let the little wooden bird cage (with mechanical flashing, chirping bird) go to a charity shop - I would love to have that cage and bird back right now. It always brought a smile to my face, and made me think of you and your slightly eccentric and whacky ways.

But, we still have all sorts of reminders here: the dodgy orange outfits for my girls (which reside in their dressing up box and are brought out at Halloween), the plastic bunny rabbit that changes colour, the beautiful wooden hair pieces,  the dominoes, and the incredible personalised money box that you made out of a coconut shell for Betty when she was a baby - and you changed the spelling of her name because you thought it looked prettier your way!

Your voice is like a foghorn - for this reason I once remember leaving you in the car while I went into the supermarket - because I didn't like the attention you drew. 

You are brutally honest and you have no filter whatsoever - hence the argument we had on your birthday.  Although looking back you were probably absolutely right.

You don't like the way I cook sausages, and you tell me when I am looking fat.

You often speak a lot of sense, but also a lot of  nonsense.  You have a big heart, and you will work your butt off to help out.  You are a very loveable character - although you would scoff if I told you that to your face - I now desperately wish that I had the chance to.  

I loved receiving your incomprehensible one-line emails - but you told me off for being crap with my responses, and I was, and for that I will never forgive myself.

I wish with all my heart that I could email you right now, but it's too late.  

It seems incomprehensible that I will never see you again.  I (like the rest of the family) am in total shock about your untimely and sudden death.

Rest in peace Uncle Bob - I will miss you dearly, and our banter, and your foghorn voice, and your eccentricities, and your kindness.

My children substituted for trees

Picture taken on my bike ride to buy wine

Last weekend Tom took Betty and Dolly to see the in-laws.

This meant that for the first time ever, I was on my own, at home, all weekend long (you can read more here).

I was positively thrilled at the prospect of having a bit of peace and quiet and not having to wipe floors, pick things up, cook,  and wash-up (I only used one plate all weekend).

But it turns out, that after watching a few too many repeats of Will and Grace, and drinking copious amounts of tea, by 10am I really missed my family, and was thoroughly bored.

To alleviate the boredom, I decided to go on a virtuous bike ride, on Tom's electric bike, to buy a bottle of wine (for later) from the shop three miles away.

I have never dared go on this electric bike before - it has always scared the hell out of me.  But it was incredible, and I was particularly pleased that I was able to escape at lightning speed from a dog who normally bites my ankles as I ride past on my ordinary bike.  This made me feel extremely smug.

And without my children around to photograph,  I had to stop many times on the bike to take photos of trees instead.

The secret mission

As soon as a massively grinning Betty got off the school bus yesterday, she told me that she had a big, big secret, involving her and her friend Sam, and that I would never know what it was.

Within seconds she had offered up all the details of 'a secret mission,' though I have been sworn to secrecy, and am not at liberty to divulge the details here. I can however reveal some of the preparations. 

Last night Betty packed three rucksacks full of provisions. I witnessed ice blocks being removed from the freezer. Biscuits, chocolate mousse, waterproofs, a sleeping bag, slippers, a toothbrush, a towel, a head torch, toilet roll, sunglasses, four pairs of socks, and an umbrella were all packed. And a couple of her teddies. 

At one point she asked me for Sam’s phone number - she wanted to remind him to bring his head torch.

While I was putting her to bed, she casually asked me if I thought she would be able to unlock the front door by herself in the middle of the night. Noting my worried look, she kept saying to me: ‘Don't worry mummy, it’s fine, it's all planned.’ But not taking any chances, when I locked the door later that night, I hid the key.

It took quite a long time to persuade Betty that I really didn't think Sam would be waiting for her at the school gate at midnight, and that they had to come up with an alternative. I’m wondering what Betty and Sam’s plan will be when she gets home from school today. 

The whole episode has reminded me of the time when, aged about eight years old, I got cross with my mum and set off for London, Dick Whittington style, with some provisions tied up in a spotty handkerchief on a stick. I made it to the end of the garden - my mum took a photo of me sitting on the wall, eating a biscuit, and looking sulky.

Update: when Betty returned home from school that afternoon, she told me defiantly that her and Sam were sticking to the original plan, and that it was 'really really in real life' this time.

Extreme camping on a hilltop in Wales

A wet camping trip

At 3.30am this morning, Tom and I lay wide awake on top of a very stormy hill overlooking the sea. Dolly and Betty slept on, oblivious to the driving rain and gale force winds whipping our tent around like a sail.

There was a tense discussion between Tom and I about what would happen if the tent got struck by lightning. I pointed out that we were exposed on top of a hill in a pointy bell tent with a metal pole in the middle.

We decided to de-camp as quickly as we could, there and then. I gently shook Betty awake and told her she had to get up.  "It's the middle of the night, and I am only five, let me sleep," she mumbled. I knew that Dolly would be furious at being woken up, so I gave that job to Tom.

Once both girls were safely inside the car and happily eating crisps, Tom and I, both in pyjamas, head torches and serious expressions, embarked on our dangerous and extreme mission of dismantling the tent.

In this high state of emergency, I had to let go of my obsession of categorising everything and packing it all away neatly in its rightful home.  Sweating cheese and sausages were thrown into the wash bag, and unwashed cutlery and pans were shoved into Dolly's suitcase.

The normally straightforward job of folding up the tent became quite an ordeal as the wind got underneath it and threatened to blow the whole thing into the sky. Tom was in full action hero mode, and managed to hold it in place long enough to be able to gather it up, and cram it, soaking wet into the boot of the car.

Having successfully piled everything into the car in an impressive 20 minutes flat, we headed for home.  I sat uneasy in my seat, updating my Facebook friends of our ordeal, and not quite coping with the fact that things were not packed in an orderly fashion.  In the back of the car, Betty and Dolly had fallen asleep.  And it was all Tom could do to stop himself from saying 'I told you so', having strongly suggested that we de-camp a day earlier, after hearing severe weather warnings.

Duckie lives on... (just)

Betty serenading Duckie

As some of you may remember, Duckie is the soft toy that Betty has had since she was born.

And at five years old (almost six) she is STILL besotted with her duck.

Duckie, at one point, did go into semi-retirement, where he was put to sleep in a lovely little cradle in her bedroom.   He was left there untouched, and although a little sad, we all breathed a massive sigh of relief.

But just a few days later, Betty buckled, and Duckie sprang back onto the scene with a vengeance.

She has now transformed her wardrobe into 'his bedroom'.  And although she doesn't seem to mind her own bedroom becoming an absolute tip, if you dare move anything out of place in Duckie's bedroom she goes crazy - and he has a heck a lot of accessories, pictures, toys, and food in there.

But poor Duckie is threadbare, smelly, grey, and his worn wings and legs have all fallen off at least once.  I have been renamed 'the vet' by Betty because I have to keep fixing him.  And I am no great seamstress, so you can imagine the state he is in.

I have no doubt Betty would cut off her own arm for Duckie.  In fact she would probably happily cut off my arm (and Tom's and Dolly's for that matter)  if it meant Duckie being happy.

I fear the day when Duckie disintegrates into nothing...

Wilderness Festival 2012: a superb weekend!

Here we come!

We have just got back from yet another truly fabulous weekend at the Wilderness Festival, which is held in the stunning grounds of Cornbury Estate in Oxfordshire.

We arrived on Friday afternoon, in sweltering heat, and having unloaded all our stuff, made several trips to and from the car, pitched up, and decorated the tent, we were all very hot and sweaty and irritable.

But what better way to cool down than a delightful swim in the lake on the grounds of the festival?  And not only that but the lake had a most incredible waterfall: cold, bracing, refreshing and JUST what we all needed.  It was Betty who coaxed (pushed) me under, and I am so glad she did.  I can't imagine that this lake has ever been so busy!  It was such fun, and felt just like something from a film (and there were not any leeches or snakes under the water, despite Dolly's claims that there were).

And from then on, the weekend continued to be great.

Betty throwing a pot

There was an incredible amount of fabulous activities for kids, and THEY WERE ALL FREE!: pot-throwing, tutu and fairy wing making, tile painting, story telling, circus acts, plays, dancing, bubble-making to name but a few.

In fact, we were so worn out from partaking in all the kids' activities during the day, that by the time the evening came, we were completely done-in, and so didn't actually get to see that much music. There were many adult things we didn't get to do/see, in particular the Secret Cinema and Spiritualised.

But for Tom and me (and maybe we are getting old),  just meandering around the site, and marveling at the huge and diverse array of shows, food stalls, people, yoga positions, structures, bunting, music, crafts, and outfits, was more than enough.

My dancing Dolly

There was such a great vibe throughout the festival.  The staff were helpful and smily, and all festival-goers were unbelievably friendly and they all seemed to like kids.  Betty and Dolly made many new (adult) friends on the eve of the Masked Ball - while Tom and I shovelled (very posh) lamb kebab down our necks.

And the absolute icing on the cake - they had powerful, warm showers on site, and without queues.  I have never managed a shower at a festival before - what a treat to do all these wonderful things, and be clean while doing them.

Having spent three days in such a fabulous atmosphere, I came home feeling really inspired, and creative, and chilled out.

Thank you so much for inviting us to what was the 'best weekend ever' to quote my five year old.  The sun beamed ALL weekend, I got to use my new bell tent (bunting and fairy lights galore) and we all had an absolute ball.

To find out more about this festival visit: www.wildernessfestival.com

The computer generation: toddler versus granny

Photo: Parentdish

I often watch on in amazement at Dolly (aged 3) confidently swiping her way round my smart phone, like she's been doing it for years.  I swear she knows more about my phone than I do.

But what perhaps amazes me even more, is my own mum (aged 66).

About a year ago she bought herself an iPad, having always been terrified of anything that remotely resembles a computer.

And just 12 months on, she is now a dab hand at browsing the web - you name a website, she's been on it.  She is up-to-date with all the latest apps, and is a bit of a superstar on Draw Something.

She also has an email account (that she actually uses), she uses Facebook and Instagram, and follows about 50,000 blogs, including mine.  Hello mum!

Adele is left with stranger's child in coffee shop

I was a little shocked when I read a recent report that, in Caffe Nero, a nanny had asked singer Adele to look after her charge, while she went to the loo.

There are several reasons why I believe that this was wrong of the nanny, and I am not at all surprised that the boy's parents were unhappy about their celebrity encounter.  You can read more about it here...

Olympics 2012: through the eyes of a five-year-old

Betty's Olympic foot

Betty came into our bed at around 5am this morning because she had had a bad dream about a talking sofa.

The next thing I knew I was woken up by the Olympics blarring out of the tv at 7am, and Betty glued to the screen.  'Please watch it with me Mummy, it's really really exciting.'

This was Betty's commentary, during a hurdles race, some pole vaulting, and the handing out of medals for the men's 100 Metre:

• Have Olympians got babies in their tummies?
• Why has she got sticking out lines on her tummy?
• Are her muscles sticking into her?
• Is she the best?
• This lady isn't very good, she keeps knocking the stick over
• Is she the best?
• What's the matter with that lady? Why is she crying?
• Why do they make that silly noise?
• Has it been raining?
• Those jumps are very high
• Why have they been given flowers?
• Is gold for the fastest?
• Is he singing loud, or is he not actually singing the anthem?
• Why do we need bronzed?
• Are men better than ladies?
• Why are they hitting their tummies?
• Why has he got his sunglasses on?
• Why is he screaming?
• When is it my birthday?  Is it on a school day?
• How many sleeps is it til my birthday?
• When I am going to get another wobbly tooth?
• I like the bendy stick one
• Why has she  got such a long stick?
• That lady really was not very good
• People keep knocking the sticks down
• Why does that man always say  'champion, champion, champion, champion...' ?
• Is that water they are running in cold?
• Why is he ringing the bell?
• Is she from Holland?
• I think that is the Holland flag
• I wish I was the Olympic champion
• I really want to win 50 gold medals
• I would be so happy
• I would like to win medals on all of them, even cycling

I am ashamed to say that up until this point I have avoided anything to do with the Olympics, but Betty's incredible enthusiasm has finally rubbed off on me.  And I thoroughly enjoyed my Olympic, if slightly exhausting, start to the day...

New BabyCentre blog!

I am very excited to be part of a team of writers contributing to the brand new BabyCentre blog, which launched yesterday!

My post today is: How do you get your kids out in the rain?

(I know there is currently a heatwave, but it ain't going to last!)

End-of-year emotion

By Betty, aged 5

There was end-of-term merriment and happiness at the school gate this morning.  The sun was shining and there was a definite buzz in the air.  But there was also a little bit of sadness.

As I walked Betty up to her classroom, it dawned on me that this would be very last time we would be making this walk together.  The walk up to her little Reception classroom, a little haven, tucked away at the back of the school.

Betty has been at school one whole year, and today we are saying goodbye to Reception, and Betty's amazing teacher.  A teacher I credit with single-handedly teaching Betty how to read and write, and making her feel completely secure and happy in her first year at school.

In the last year, Betty has flourished, and grown and changed as a person.

She now says 'awesome' in response to everything; she has set her sights on the boy she is going to marry; she comes home singing a new song she has learnt almost daily; she is obsessed with the Olympics; she has made many good friends; she has learnt to skip with a rope; her favourite game is 'horses'; she draws around twenty identical pictures of a rainbow each day; and she has two new 'grown-up' teeth.

Betty is very much looking forward to the summer holidays, but also to starting Year 1 in September...

Drawing bugs with children

One of the members of our camping party last weekend, was the very talented Lizzie Harper, who draws the most incredible bugs, animals and flowers for a living (a few of them are pictured below).

On Saturday morning she whisked Betty and some of the other children away on a jaunt down to a little cove. Two hours later they returned, all buzzed up about their finds, and plonked a dead mole and shrew (carefully wrapped up in a leaf) down on the picnic table.

Lizzie encouraged all the children to stroke the soft velvety fur of the mole, and I was completely struck by her enthusiasm and passion for these dead creatures. I was also surprised at the usually squeamish Betty, delighting in the whole thing. Lizzie went on to tell me that her freezer at home is packed full of road-kill, for drawing purposes.

While on the school run this morning I saw a dead hedgehog and a blackbird on the road and wondered if I should have scooped them up for her.

Lizzie has kindly written a piece below about drawing bugs with your children - it will hopefully inspire and enthuse you, as it did me - it may even change my attitude towards the mice we are currently co-habiting with...

Drawing bugs with kids (at school)

I’m a natural history illustrator with two children, and have recently been doing a few sessions in local schools; trying to share my passion for all insects, and getting them
to draw from some specimens I have hanging around.

Chrysochroa beetle

First I talk to them about my work; I show them pencil roughs and then some finished paintings (asking them if they can name the insect drawn. Gratifyingly, they mostly can). I also show them my watercolour paint-box which excites and alarms them in equal measure as it is VERY MESSY. The tips of my brushes are teeny, so the children tend to be amazed by these, too. 

The show stopper, however, is my very old and battered collection of dead insects. Some are butterflies, begged from a butterfly house; one is a big box of stuff found in a friend’s greenhouse; and then I have a few posh beetle specimens bought as a teenager. They are all really excited by these, the appeal of “bugs” seems to be fail-safe and universal.

Then we get onto drawing.

Peacock butterfly

To be honest, there’s very little one has to do to get kids to draw insects, except to procure a dead beetle or bee and put it in front of them; then provide them with a pencil, paper, and magnifying glass. They take time to look, and their powers of observation are acute. With only a few pointers; asking them to count the wings, if they know what symmetrical means, to look for hairs on legs or vein patterns on wings; they’re away. 

The best bit is looking at their pictures. Those children that get lost in looking produce the best – worked and strained over til the pencil lines are matted, or cut into the page, often out of scale and askew. But these pictures have real power for me, and I find the effort and enthusiasm that’s gone into their creation inspirational. 

Drawing bugs with kids (at home)

Thus far, I have almost completely failed to get my own progeny to draw much, let alone insects. So, for now, I’m concentrating on getting them to love invertebrates of all sorts with a passion. Nothing breaks my heart so much as a little child, overcoming their natural curiosity, squealing “ugh!” at a spider, worm, or bee. 

Dung beetle

Put these things on their hands (well, maybe not the bee). Get them to look for woodlice under stones, for bees sipping up nectar from flowers through their straw-like tongues, to describe what a worm wriggling between their fingers feels like. Take time to observe a spider spinning a web, or even better, feed a hapless fly to a spider and watch. It’s far more brutal and deadly than any movie. 

Bugs are very cool indeed. And I hope that someday my poor oppressed children will not only talk to them and carry dead ones about with them like talismans (which they do now), but may even pick up a pencil and try to draw one. 

And once you’ve got them to like bugs, get them to look closely at dead creatures like baby birds who’ve fallen from their nests; a rabbit on the edge of a path; or even (and ask Ms Buttons about this one) a dead mole and shrew, neatly swathed in a leaf. We love it, and I bet you and your children will too.

Lizzie Harper  

www.lizzieharper.co.uk 

Bell tents and Buckfast

After a lot of 'shall we, shan't we' we finally got to try out our new tent last weekend.

I spent the journey whingeing about not wanting the new tent to get wet and muddy, the kids moaned about there not being a constant supply of Hula Hoops, and Tom said he was feeling ill.

We drove deep into Wales through dismal greyness, hit a horrendous rain storm, and spirits were very low indeed.

But, on arrival at our campsite, the rain seemed to miraculously stop, the clouds moved away, and our friends were there to greet us with Buckfast and chilli.

And what followed was a truly wonderful weekend.  The sun shone, the kids played out of our way, the company was fantastic, the food delicious, and all was happy.  We even managed a swim in the sea.

However, unfortunately by Sunday morning Tom had kindly passed his illness onto me, and I felt awful.  And while everyone else went off to the beach, I stayed behind on my own and got progressively worse.  

Tom arrived back at the tent that afternoon looking truly awful.  The girls were asleep in the back of the car still in their wet swimming costumes, and covered in sand and snot.  And I felt so weak and dizzy and sick that I just wanted to curl up under a gorse bush.

Now raining, we hastily got our stuff together, and haphazardly shoved it into the car any which way, with half my beloved tent hanging out of the roof pod and caked in mud - I didn't care.

We looked a real state as we left the campsite that afternoon, and it was a long and torturous journey home, with bunting and guy ropes flapping in the wind as we went.  

Although Tom momentarily felt happy when he stopped briefly in Llandeilo to eat a kebab.

A fantastic weekend, with an unfortunate ending.

Domestic violence: Don't Cover It Up - I did

In my early twenties I met a boy at a party in London. He was good looking, clever, and very charming. We quickly got into a relationship, which went on to last for three years.

My friends would tell me how wonderful they thought he was, how lucky I was, and that I had bagged myself a real catch.

I spent three years being thrown against walls, having cutlery hurled at me, being punched in the stomach, bitten, and spat at. One time he threw me out of the car at a service station miles from home and drove away, another time he threw me out of the car and left me on the hard shoulder of the M1 motorway. He continually humiliated me, told me I wasn't good enough, and knocked every last bit of confidence out of me.

I became insecure, paranoid, and unsociable, but weirdly felt I needed him in order to survive - he had some sort of hold on me. I never told anyone about what was going on.

I remember going to give blood and when I rolled up my sleeve there was a huge purple bruise with teeth marks on my arm where he had bitten me. I told the nurse that I had whacked it against a door knob. She gave me an odd look, and part of me wanted her to probe, but she didn't. 

He finished the relationship in the end. And after two weeks of devastation, I felt overwhelming feelings of relief and freedom, and vowed never to speak or see him again, which I haven't. I also vowed to never ever let myself get into a similar situation again, which I haven't.

Before that relationship I was confident, outgoing and certainly no pushover. I have never really understood how he took a hold of me like that, but he did.

It took many years for me to start getting my confidence and self esteem back and to let myself trust anyone or get close to them. It wasn't until I met my truly wonderful husband Tom, that I learnt to trust again and feel secure. Tom completely believes in me, and makes me feel like I can do ANYTHING. He is the most amazing person I have ever met! 

Twelve years later and I am talking about it publicly for the first time. Domestic violence charity Refuge and make-up artist Lauren Luke are launching a powerful online campaign telling victims of domestic violence, and wider society, ‘Don’t cover it up’ (65% of women who experience domestic violence keep it hidden).

Sandra Horley CBE, chief executive of Refuge, says: 'For too long, domestic violence has been allowed to fester in the shadows of our society. Women who are abused often feel too afraid or ashamed to speak out. People frequently turn a blind eye when they know or suspect abuse is taking place, even when the victim is a loved one. This must end.'

Further support and information about domestic violence can be found here: www.refuge.org.uk/lauren.

Who will look after my baby?

Betty, at five years old, is consumed with worry about who she is going to marry, and who is going to look after her baby, if and when she has one.

She regularly questions me about where she is going to live, who is going to drive her and her baby to the shops, and whether or not she can still have her princess night light when she is married. She even asked me: 'Will you sort out my baby's milk for me?'

She looks slightly horrified when I tell her that she will have to look after and feed her own baby, and maybe even drive herself to the shops.

Almost every afternoon, when she gets home from school, the only information that she will offer up, is which boy in her class has proposed to her that day.

With a very serious, slightly worried look on her little face, she will say: 'Dan says he is going to marry me.'

'Oh right' I say, with slight intrigue.

'What? Did you think I was going to marry Robert?' she says. 'Robert told me today that he HATES you because you are always buying hoovers.'

'Probably a good job that you aren't going to marry Robert then,' I tell her.

The names have been changed to protect the innocent

Betty's wrath

We found this note stuck to the bathroom door when we woke up this morning :)

Wilderness Festival - Family Ticket Giveaway!

Last year we were invited to attend, and then review the award winning and fabulous Wilderness Festival.

Being keen festival goers and campers, we of course jumped at the chance.  The festival was absolutely fantastic last year - and all four of us thoroughly enjoyed it, from swimming in the trout lake, to throwing pots, Chi Gung, The Flying Seagulls, gong baths, stone balancing, fairy crown- making, some amazing bands, and the Boutique baby-sitting service

We have been lucky enough to be invited back again this year, which we are really really excited about! Not only that, but also the organisers are offering a family ticket (2 adults and 2 children) as a competition prize to one of my readers.

This year, the festival is taking place on 10-12th August at Cornbury Park Estate in Oxfordshire - the festival brings together music, food, theatre, talks and debates, cinematic happenings, late night parties, wellbeing and the great outdoors.

This years line-up includes the likes of; Rodrigo y Gabriela, Wilco, Spiritualized, Lianne La Havas Yotam Ottolenghi, Fergus Henderson & St John, Valentine Warner, Moro restaurant, The Old Vic Tunnels, Cinematic spectaculars from Future Cinema, Workshops with the Idler Academy and School of Life, Lakeside Spa, boutique camping plus loads and loads of amazing stuff for kids!


All you have to do to be in with a chance of winning a family ticket is to leave a comment at the end of this post saying why you would like to win these tickets.


For an extra entry you can tweet:
Win Wilderness Festival tickets with @elsiebutton at: http://bit.ly/LZG9bt

The competition will close on Friday 29th June 2012 at 9pm, when all entries will be placed into a draw and a winner picked out at random. Please remember to leave your contact details so that we are able to get in touch with you if you win. The tickets will be sent out direct from the organisers at Wilderness HQ.

Good luck! 

UK residents only

Visit www.wildernessfestival.com for further information about the festival.

Brighter moments

Betty at Hay

Through all the stress and worry of the last few weeks (my mum has been in hospital), one of the brighter moments was taking Betty to a 'Rainbow Magic Fairy Party' at the Hay Festival.  'They are my four favourite words all together' she said excitedly.  She was completely in her element at the party and couldn't stop beaming.

I also got a ticket for Dolly, but she told me: 'I don't want to go to that, I just want to play with mud and grass'.

Another great moment, was going along to watch Tom and his band doing their first and fabulous live gig together.

And last night I randomly stumbled across this: Blogs we love...  - thank you BabyPing!

The Diamond generation

Tom is clattering around in the kitchen, whipping up some red, white and blue muffins for Dolly's Diamond Jubilee garden party at pre-school tomorrow. And I think about sitting at my mum's hospital bed earlier today, and listening to her recounting memories of the Queen visiting our local town during the coronation year.

This is the town where she was born, the town where she is now being looking after, and the town where both my children were born.

My mum was six years old, and remembers having a prime view through the lounge window on the first floor of her father's watchmakers shop at 24 High Town (now a mobile phone shop).

She speaks about the lounge in impressive detail. It was very Victorian, she says, with a lovely three-piece suite, a wind-up gramophone, and a big gold ornate clock under a glass dome. There was also a beautiful piano that my grandpa would practice 'Fur Elise' on.

My mum and her brother sat on the window ledge in their dad’s shop, in 1952, legs dangling out, and felt very excited as they saw their young, new Queen, walk past.

Sixty years on, and the same Queen is visiting our town for a 'Diamond Day'. I plan to take Betty and Dolly along to share in the celebrations. We may even position ourselves outside 24 High Town, and have a look up at that window…

Torquay, before and after kids

In 2003, just before Tom and I moved away from London, I attended an Indian Head Massage workshop in Torquay.

I drove out of London after work on the Friday evening, picked Tom up from Heathrow (he had been in Geneva for work) and we headed down to Devon.

We spent that night staying up very late, getting drunk on the marina, eating delicious food, holding hands, and playing the 'guess the line from the film' game; stopping every so often to watch the next stag or hen party spectacle enter the bar.  

I spent the following day massaging people's heads with a hangover, and Tom explored Torquay, read his book, and lunched while gazing peacefully at the sea.

That was the last time we had both been to that part of the country, until this weekend.  It was Tom who was on a course this time, learning how to grow oyster mushrooms on coffee grounds, and build a profitable enterprise from it.

The main difference this time was that we had two little ladies in tow. So while Tom was on some farm in Totnes getting perhaps a little too excited about fungi, I was keeping the kids entertained.  

We went on a wildlife boat trip around the coast, but while attempting to buy tickets, Dolly shouted crossly 'I AM NOT TWO, I AM THREE!'  There was no charge for two year olds, but Dolly wasn't playing ball and successfully exposed me as a fraud and a liar.  

While on board, and still trying to get over the embarrassment, we had a 'naughty lunch' as Betty called it (she has since told EVERYONE that I only fed them crackers and chocolate biscuits all day).  

After the boat trip, I wrestled Betty and Dolly into their fabulous new wetsuits (very kindly supplied by MandMDirect), and they took to the icy cold waters of Teignmouth beach.  This photo doesn't show the Siberian chill that was blowing that day. But it does show that absolutely no one else was in the sea. 

Teignmouth beach

We then went onto the pier where they spotted rock for sale in the sweet shop.  We have been reading 'Lost at the fair' a lot, where the little mice eat rock, so I reluctantly let them choose a stick each and allowed them one little nibble (the rest is still knocking around in the bottom of my bag).  

Next on the relaxing itinerary: Betty and I had a massive argument about the lethal-looking, mile-high inflatable slide that I wouldn't let her go on.  She stroppily had a bounce on the 'baby' bouncy castle with Dolly, but soon cracked a smile when I opened up the world of Penny Fall machines to them in the arcade.  I'm not sure Tom would have approved, but he wasn't there was he.  

We were all absolutely knackered by the time Tom finished his course at 4pm.  So when Dolly informed me that she was not intending to leave the hotel room that evening, I was more than happy to stay with her.  

At 6.30pm, I was in my pyjamas, tending to a vomiting child, and watching reality TV, while Tom and Betty were out eating tapas and having a ball on that lethal-looking inflatable slide thingy. 

Chrysanthemum wallpaper and marrowfat peas

During my teens I had many arguments with my mum. I was fiery and stroppy and felt misunderstood.

When I was 16 and at sixth form college, I used to camp out in my granny's spare bedroom. Having left school, I really did think of myself as grown up, someone who knew everything. Staying with my granny a couple of nights a week sort of felt like I had left home and was independent.

My granny's spare room was fascinating to me. The 70s style garish yellow, orange and brown chrysanthemum wallpaper wasn't like anything I had seen before. My mum's walls at home were all white, my granny's were psychedelic.

She would give me an electric blanket, an ancient heavy feather eiderdown and a hot water bottle in a stripy pillowcase. She was quite tight with her Economy 7 heating, so wanted to make sure I didn't freeze.

I remember trying to write an essay about the Cold War sitting on this bed, staring blankly at the wallpaper, and counting all the petals on the chrysanthemums. I became distracted by all of my dad's old rock climbing and photography books, and the little pots he had made in his youth, which all sat on a shelf at the end of the bed. My essay was due in the next day, and it was a poor effort. I don't think I even finished it.

My granny would make me a corned beef and tomato sandwich on white sliced bread for my tea. This was all such a novelty to me. I wasn't allowed white sliced bread at home, my mum said it was like eating cotton wool. And as for corned beef, I hadn't even known it existed until my little visits to her house. Sometimes she would feed me marrowfat processed peas.

There was a very distinct smell in my granny's house, similar to how marrowfat peas smell before they have been heated up.

I loved the fact that when my granny caught me hanging out of the bedroom window smoking an Embassy No 1, she calmly handed me a mug of cocoa and said: 'If you're going to do that, just come down to the kitchen and do it in comfort'. I didn't ever do it again. It no longer felt rebellious.

Although I loved my little escapades to my granny's house, I would never stay for more than two consecutive nights. This was mainly because she wouldn't let me use her phone to ring my friends, and in the days without mobile phones and the internet, this was a big deal.

So I would go back home, give my mum a hard time about not having any 'cotton wool' bread or Frey Bentos pies in the house, slam a few doors, and run up a huge phone bill.

The missing tooth

We are having a bit of a tooth drama in this house at the moment. After weeks of Betty excitedly showing us her wobbly tooth and talking about it non-stop, it finally fell out yesterday. But unfortunately she didn't notice where and when it fell out. Betty was reciting Chopsticks on the piano, to Tom's horror, and he happened to notice the gap in her teeth.

After a moment's reflection, Betty was very cool about the fact that the tooth was lost. 'Don't worry mummy,' she said. 'The tooth fairy will find it.'

I thought that Betty was being a little too complacent and so set off on a frantic search. This included emptying out the bins and the compost and going through it with a fine toothcomb; delicately inspecting all manner of discarded rotting food stuffs, and scrabbling around in the chicken coop looking in amongst the food scraps that had been thrown to them just moments before we realised the tooth was missing.

I checked back through Betty's baby record book (kept in the days when I was energetic and organised), and realised that the missing tooth was in fact the very first tooth to cut through on 1st August 2007 when Betty was eight months old; the tooth that caused much excitment, the tooth that marked the beginning of her teeth-owning days, and the tooth that made my nipples bleed.

The situation had acquired a new urgency. I decided that Betty must have swallowed the tooth while eating her supper, so I asked her if she could do all poos on Dolly's potty. In her excitement she promptly produced one almost straight away. I sat at the top of the stairs and carefully dissected it using a couple of craft lollipop sticks. Tom walked past me at this point, gagged, and told me that I was one heck of a dedicated mother.

This morning I have abandoned plans to go out for the day, so that we are near a potty at all times, and I will continue to inspect Betty's excrement. I have even considered inspecting the chickens' shit - they are such greedy scavengers they could well have eaten it.

Tom, Betty and the tooth fairy may not care, but I will be gutted if I don't find that tooth.

Happy 3rd Birthday Dolly!

Dolly is three today.  She hasn't really said much about her impending birthday, and seems pretty nonplussed by the whole thing.  And so we are having pass the parcel and jelly solely for Betty's benefit.

I tried to spark her enthusiasm by telling her of the lovely presents she will be receiving, and the party food and balloons, and the trip to Pizza Express, but she just told me that I could have her birthday instead.

Despite her nonchalance, she did specify that she would like a Peppa Pig cake and that it had to be made by me.  I am not sure whether this request was to stress me out and make me work, or whether she genuinely did care about what sort of cake she had.

After my one-armed, one-day, effort with Betty's cake last November, I felt I could take on anything.  Betty and I had a few arguments during construction, mainly because she kept accidentally spilling food colouring everywhere, and nicking bits of icing snout and ears, and turning them into other 'beautiful things'.  But we got there in the end.

With the cake made yesterday, Birthday Girl announced this morning that in fact she wanted to have a fairy princess cake instead.  I pretended not to hear.

Happy Birthday my darling girl - you are funny, and gorgeous, and sweet, and kind, and we all completely and utterly adore you.  XXXX