The Mule

In the past few days there've been some definite signs that Spring has truly arrived, and no, I don't mean the warm air or the nodding daffodils, I'm talking about bloody sand all over my bloody house.  It's amazing how far a three year old can track the stuff, and it turns up in the most irritating places, its regular removal becoming your number one mundane and thankless task for the next six months, until the wheel of the year turns, and you can start repetitively and ineffectively hoovering up its Winter counterpart, glitter, instead. Yesterday, in between bouts of sand clearance, I launched a sunshine induced and uncharacteristic attack on my two daughters respective wardrobes, sorting out summer clothes from various chaotic boxes and cupboards and drawers.  Like all such jobs, in order to try and complete it I had to do two things - set the three year old on a lunatic project (how many layers of trousers can you get on?) and allow the...

Wellies.  Yes I realise this might seem an unlikely place to start.  But I'm all fired up about them.  I know, I know, it might seem trivial.  But bear with me.  Because, sometimes, the microcosmic detail reflects a macrocosmic problem.  And this is one such occasion.  Let me explain. Wellies.  I just popped into the children's welly aisle in a well known supermarket to chuck a pair in my trolley along with the six pack of pinot grigio I had actually gone in there for in the first place.  My daughter's number one recreational activity at the moment is puddle jumping, mine is taking the edge off the day with two glasses of chilled white before going to bed at 8.30pm: everyone's a winner. So here was the choice: pink background with dark pink stars, pink Charlie and Lola, pink and purple with rabbits, or, and this is the one that really got to me, pink with a picture of a princess, and trimmed with the words 'Waiting for my P...

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...

"Are you putting her down yet?", the Health Visitor asked.  Her manner was stern, and slightly concerned, as if she might be simultaneously wondering who she might mention me to on the community mental health team.  With my baby just a couple of weeks old and sleeping on my shoulder like a dollop of marshmallow, I stammered, "Er...no!...Er...Should I be?!".  "Yes", she replied, unequivocally. "You need to start putting her down more.  If you hold her all the time you will create a bad habit." Oh.  I felt confused.  I didn't have any kind of parenting plan, I wasn't following the advice of any book, it just hadn't occured to me to stop holding this tiny soul.  I liked having her in my arms.  She seemed delicious to me in every way that it is possible to be delicious.  She felt at ease, draped across the body she had only recently vacated.  And besides, I didn't really have anything else to do, but hold he...

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 ...

This time three years ago, my first baby was just a few days old.  And I can't help but recall the story, now worn thin with telling, of how she was born eighteen days past her 'due date'. Expected on the 21st December, it was to be a long and more than usually stressful festive season, as the days and nights of waiting wore on.  At a time of year when I was more inclined towards numbing myself with a mixture of socially acceptable 11am sherry drinking and, if that failed, a spot of monstrous overeating, I found myself nearly ten months pregnant and able to do neither.  Ladies and gentlemen, this was The Christmas I Cried.   When not lying on the sofa surrounded by used tissues, I spent my time eating pineapples, running up and down the stairs, going for bumpy car rides, having acupuncture, and drinking large amounts of castor oil, which, for those of you who are curious, tastes like melted tea lights, and makes you shit through the eye of a needle.  Th...

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...