The Mule

September brings return; of children to school, of darker evenings and log fires, of leaves to kick, puddles to jump in, and if, like me, you’re a parent of under four’s, the welcome comeback of the Toddler Group after the Summer break. When my first daughter was born, I was a bit sniffy about my local meet-up, wondering why I was supposed to enjoy drinking cheap instant coffee with a bunch of tired-eyed women I barely knew, until it slowly dawned on me that in this drafty hall was found the last available vestige of a social life, and I began to cling to the chance for weekly grown-up interaction like Leonardo to Kate’s raft in the icy waters of the North Atlantic. September offers further compensation for the loss of Summer in the form of the humble blackberry. The three year old was enchanted, this time last year, by the sudden appearance of these sweet and abundant treats on the hedges, and our daily dog walks around the spidery network of lanes near our cottage became a feast of...

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Men's Pooing Time is Sacred, A Hole-y Mystery, It all takes place behind closed doors, Where no one else can see. They set off with their paper, Or book, or magazine, And then for twenty minutes, They're nowhere to be seen. I don't know what they do in there, Or why it takes so long, But certainly there seems to be An injustice, and a wrong. For though there's great variety, In the work us mothers do, One thing is universal - We don't get time to poo. We wash, we wipe, we feed, we love, We pick up toys, we cuddle, And somehow our most basic needs Get lost amidst the juggle. We sometimes make a dash for it, If we feel in desperate need, But with children hanging off each leg There's not much time to read. Our menfolk have maintained their right To defecate alone, Now we need a Revolution For a Small Room of our Own. We've campaigned for equality At work and in our pay So now let's fight for Twenty Minutes Pooing Time ...

5.57am.  I'm awake after a nursing session, so I decide I might as well get up.  A few years ago I wouldn't even have considered being up this early unless I had a plane to catch or I was leaving a strange man's flat in a hurry.  But recently I have started experimenting with rising even before my children, so that I can try and snatch half an hour of peaceful tea drinking and contemplation, and get a head start on the day.  There's plenty to do, and after all, it is only just over three hours before we need to leave the house. 6.04am. I get roughly one centimetre into my cup of tea before I hear the baby stirring on the monitor.  I get back into bed with her, snuggle up, and nurse her for a few minutes.  She sits up, grins and starts babbling.  She blows some raspberries on my exposed belly.  We share the joke.  She bites my arm in excitement.  I tell her off, I feel bad, I kiss her, I take her downstairs.  I start to unload the ...

" Mum-Mee ", comes the voice of the Automatic Question Generator in the back seat of the car, "Who makes water?"  "Well darling", I reply, trying to give myself an air of Professor Brian Cox but probably sounding a bit more like Winnie the Pooh, "Nobody makes water.  Water just IS".  " What ?", says the AQG, totally dissatisfied with my flaky answer. "Weeell", I stumble on, "Water just exists , some things just exist, water is...it's...it's...it's...one of the Elements ".  I feel pretty pleased with myself for imparting this nugget of science, until my partner breaks it to me later that day that my theory has been abandoned for several hundred years and belongs in a dusty vault labelled 'Classical Thought and Medieval Alchemy'.   Living with a three year old, the questions are constant, and I have to say, some of them are already pretty challenging to ethereal brained arty types like myself, w...

Today, in our house, Operation Stack is in place.  We borrowed this code name from the Kent Police.  They use it to refer to the system of parking lorries on the M40 when the Channel Tunnel is closed.   For us it describes the days when all normal activities need to be halted due to a family member being so tired that they cannot perform the simplest of tasks without crying, yelling, or lying on the kitchen floor beating their fists on the lino.  Sometimes, this is the three year old, but more often than not, it's me. When Operation Stack is declared, it's an acknowledgement that no forward progress is going to be made, and that therefore it is better for all concerned if we just park up between Junctions 11 and 12 and stop trying.  We light the fire, we put the telly on, we wait for clearance.  And things just, well, stack.  Stacks of laundry, dishes, paperwork, toys; there is an unmistakable sense of 'stacked...

Yes, I know what you're thinking.  Another blog about the ridiculous cot death plot, how insulting it is to those who have actually suffered in this way, how they have missed a chance to cover a serious issue in a helpful way, how they have portrayed post natal women as hormonal nutters, and how in reality such baby swapping behaviour would result in a lifetime sectioned under the mental health act, but in soap land it will probably all be forgiven after a public apology in the Vic and a couple of weeks in Marbella. And so on.  Actually, this post isn't going to be about that.  Sorry.  Do you feel misled, but only in a small way?  Good, because that is precisely what this post IS going to be about. Before I had my first child, I was blissfully unaware of what life with a baby had in store for me.  I had a vague idea of how it would go, though, and I think in retrospect that I was mostly getting my information from Eastenders.  On Eastenders, and I'm ...

My toddler is currently sitting on the sofa, naked, wrapped in a blanket, eating a cold fish finger, and watching CBeebies.  She hasn't been like this all day, you understand.  We've been to a play group, done some cooking, played 'doctors', 'car parks' and 'shop', made playdough, and gone for a leaf collecting expedition.  In between all that I've made several meals, kept the house from the brink of chaos, and fed us both.  Oh, and looked after and breast fed a 5 month old baby.  And yet it doesn't seem to matter how many meaningful activities I fill my child's day with.  As soon as I put the telly on I feel only one emotion - Guilt. For some reason this guilt eases slightly between the hours of 4 and 6pm.  As a child I can remember quite a nice time of day, when, home from school, my mum would bring me a peanut butter and jam sandwich and a glass of milk and let me watch Blue Peter or Krackerjack.  Wholesome. So somehow it seems permissab...