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

Here we are again...

We have been going to the same holiday cottage in Wales for the last three years.  Perhaps we completely lack imagination, but we have found somewhere we love, and couldn't possibly risk going anywhere else.

Just before we left to come back home this morning, after our eighth visit, I grabbed the visitor's book to make an entry.  I had a flick through and rather embarrassingly I found that most of the entries were ours.  Feeling self-conscious about leaving yet another comment about our children's latest milestones, this time I got Betty to draw a picture of a fairy.

Reading my very first entry, it brought back vivid memories of our maiden visit to this cottage, when Dolly was just a few months old, and Betty was two.  I was completely done in, and don't think I had had any time out from my kids for quite a while.  So I would get up at 6am every morning before Dolly woke to be fed, put my trainers on, and still in my pyjamas, I would go for a brisk walk to the lighthouse and back.  This little lone jaunt made me feel positively euphoric,and would set me up for the day ahead - dirty nappies, sore nipples, wipes, snacks, rattles, naps, spare clothes, baby-proofing, sterilising, and whingeing.

Now that the kids are older, I haven't felt the need to go for my early morning escapades to the headland. These days, they will mostly wake up, get themselves a cereal box from the variety pack, fight over who has the Coco Pops for half an hour, play with the pot pourri, and then go off to play with the boy they have befriended who lives next door.  Meanwhile Tom and I sit in bed reading, and pray they don't tire of the robot and alien roleplay games before we've managed to finish our cup of tea.

After our first couple of visits to this cottage, I noticed several menacing-looking foxes roaming around, and so I am now more than happy for Betty, Dolly and Tom to accompany me on my walk to the lighthouse, and at a more reasonable hour.  Those 6am starts, although seemingly vital to my sanity at the time, now seem like a ludicrous way to spend a holiday.

Magazine articles

Excitement has reached fever pitch in our house this evening.  We are escaping the mice and going on holiday in the morning.  The only thing that slightly concerns me about going is the worry about what we might find when we get back - a total mouse takeover.

Anyway, I leave you with a couple of recent articles I have written for Gurgle magazine and Herefordshire and Wye Valley Life magazine.

Now I must get back to sealing all our kitchen cupboards and drawers with brown tape...

Eggcellent

Managing to get over my neurosis about raw egg and food poisoning, Betty and I did some egg blowing this morning. 

Needing more eggs to hang on our Easter tree, I left Betty with pretty paints, sequins, and glitter, to get on with the decorating by herself, while I read OK magazine.

About half an hour later she called me back in - I was not expecting to be presented with this little scene!

From left to right:  A horse, a superhero, a chicken, and a pirate...  And apparently it doesn't end there. She is now making a ship, a nest, a stable and a cave, for them all to live in.

The Easter tree didn't get a look in.

Happy Easter!

Mice and malfunctions

Things that I have done this week:

• put all the winter clothes away
• picked mouse droppings out of the sugar bowl
• saw a mouse flailing around the kitchen in a trap, half-dead
• watched in horror as my laptop spectacularly malfunctioned
• fell in love with the man at PC World who heroically fixed malfunction and rescued my data
• smoked out the entire house while trying to light the woodburner, and had to evacuate
• washed several loads of wood-smoked clothes 
• eaten several of the kids' Easter eggs
• felt immensely guilty, and replenished the egg stocks
• broken up several fights between Betty and Dolly
• been on numerous play-dates
• noted that our windows haven't been cleaned for seven years
• realised my new favourite chef is Hugh F-W (sorry Jamie O)
• wondered how long it would be before I felt safe to enter my kitchen again, and cook
• had lots of cruel thoughts towards the mice
• thought about moving house
• began packing, perhaps a little prematurely, for our holiday next week
• got all the winter clothes back out again

Mouse overload

Last weekend I was standing at the cooker, sweating away, and frantically stirring some white sauce, when a large mouse darted over my foot and scarpered into the far corner of the kitchen.

Because I always burn the bottoms of pans when making any kind of milk-based sauce, I chose to ignore it, and instead continued to put 100 per cent concentration into my stirring.  The sight of a mouse in my kitchen would normally make me feel physically sick, and I would do the whole standing-on-a-chair thing, screaming blue murder (despite growing up with mice in my Mum's house).

Looking back, I think it must have been a subconscious coping mechanism that kicked in: no one was going to ruin this labour intensive meal, not even a rodent.  

The next day, despite finding droppings and gnawings everywhere, I was still in total denial and I didn't think about the mouse again. But that night Tom woke me up at midnight. He looked shaken, and told me that he had walked into the kitchen and spotted a mouse poking his head out of a cereal packet.  'WHICH CEREAL PACKET?' I asked, totally panic stricken.  I was inwardly relieved that it had been the kids' Cheerios and not my muesli. Tom told me that he had heroically grabbed the box with the mouse still inside, and given it a good shake.  What he was trying to achieve with the shake I don't know, but he said the sound of a mouse thudding around amongst Cheerios was an odd sensation.  He went out into the night and bravely threw the box and its dizzy inhabitant out into the garden.

By Monday I was feeling pretty traumatised, particularly since, on Sunday night, the mice had chewed through our wooden cutlery draw and placed all the wooden shavings amongst my forks and spoons, along with their shit.  And on Monday afternoon, Tom had yet another unnerving encounter with a mouse who was hanging out next to our microwave, staring at him.

I am now refusing to cook in my kitchen.  I have thrown a lot of our food away.  And I will only eat items from the fridge.   Each time I nervously enter the kitchen, I mentally prepare myself, make sure I'm not holding anything breakable, and I shout loudly and clap to give them a chance to at least run away and hide so that I don't have to see them strolling around on my kitchen surfaces.

Much to Tom's delight, I have had to throw Baby Annabel into the bin. Her neck had been gnawed. I assume it was a mouse anyway.

I have even become terrified about them getting into bed with me while I am asleep.  'Well you mustn't eat chocolate in bed and leave crumbs everywhere then,' Betty helpfully informed me.

Pest control are coming on Tuesday.

Look, my Mum polished my shoes!

On Friday Betty showed me a nasty blister on her foot, and because I bought her latest school shoes last September I naturally blamed myself for neglecting to get her feet measured sooner.

So on Saturday we hot-footed it into town full of promises of new shoes for both Betty and Dolly (whom I had also neglected in the shoe stakes).  Before we got to the shoe shop, I cunningly put both girls in their Crocs to disguise from the shop assistant the fact that their shoes were too small.

I got Betty and Dolly to choose the shoes they would like while we waited our turn to be measured.  This was a ploy to keep them in one place in a very crowded and sweaty shop - pink patent shoes don't really float my boat.

Anyway, it turned out that where Dolly had gone up a size and was promptly issued with some unshiny and unpink shoes, Betty's feet had not grown at all in seven months.  I was somewhat perplexed by this, as height-wise I swear she has almost doubled in size. 

Betty was gutted that she didn't get her new shoes, but I was secretly thrilled at not having to spend £32.00.  So to cheer her up I bought her some shoe polish, which I am ashamed to say is a first for me.  I have never polished a pair of shoes in my life, not ever.

So on Monday morning before school, I gave Betty's muddy and somewhat battered shoes a good polish.  She was positively thrilled with the result.  If I had known what joy some black shoe polish would have brougt her, I may have tried it before.  'You have made my shoes look amAzing!'  and 'You are so so clever Mummy!'  The girl has never given me so much praise for anything. 

After the journey to school where she continued to heap yet more praise on me, I walked her up the playground.  'Look at my shoes Miss T - my Mummy polished them, isn't she clever!'  she said to her teacher.

It got to the point where I wasn't sure if Betty was really genuinely impressed with me, or whether she was actually taking the piss out of me....

Turn on the Tap - World Water Day

Today, so far, I have had a shower, drunk two cups of tea and a glass of water, done the washing up, put the washing machine on, washed the kids' hands and faces and brushed their teeth, and filled up a bucket for my 2 year old to play with in the garden.

We are lucky that our water is clean and safe, but when the only water available is dirty, dangerous and difficult to reach, everyday activities like cooking, cleaning, washing, and drinking suddenly become dangerous, even life-threatening.

Can you imagine your own children having to drink dirty water full of diseases, knowing that it might kill them?  I can't.

Every day, more than 4000 children in the developing world die from preventable water-borne diseases.

Today it is World Water Day. The Turn on the Tap campaign (an initiative of the relief and development charity Samaritan’s Purse) is aiming to raise £22,000 to help thousands of children and families access clean water and escape the trap of water poverty.

£8 can save the life of a child by providing them with access to clean water through a water filter installed in the family home. I've just made this donation myself.

To give a gift of clean water or find out what else you can do on World Water Day, go to www.turnonthetap.org.uk/world-water-day.

Why do you LOVE hoovering?

Dolly is going through that intensely annoying why, who, when, where, what phase.   As a child who is scarily astute and clued up, I thought the inane questioning might pass her by.

And where I normally want to tear my hair out at her constant questioning, I found this morning's interrogation rather telling:

Me: Come on Dolly get your top on
Dolly: I don't want to wear that one, I want to wear the red one
Me: The red one is wet because it has just been washed
Dolly: Why are you ALWAYS washing clothes
Me: Because they get dirty
Dolly: Do you LOVE washing clothes?
Me: No
Dolly: Why are you ALWAYS hoovering?
Me: Because the floor gets dirty
Dolly: Why have you got three hoovers?
Me: I have a very old hoover that doesn't work, a hoover for downstairs, and a little mini hoover for upstairs
Dolly: Why are you so greedy?
Me: I don't think I am.
Dolly: Why do you LOVE hoovering?
Me: I don't
Dolly: Why do you hoover?
Me: Because the floors get dirty
Dolly: Why doesn't Daddy ever hoover?
Me: Because he is scared of the hoover
Dolly: Is Daddy scared of the washing line too?

The wedding ring mystery

A couple of months ago I stood on the bridleway next to the river with Tom and Dolly, and waited for Betty, who was some distance away, clinging to an oak tree.

I happened to look down at my wellies, and there nestling in the mud next to my foot was a gleaming silver object. I picked it up, and it looked like a man's wedding ring. 'I have found treasure!' I called to Betty, in a bid to entice her up the hill and away from her tree. 

I was a little bit flummoxed by this ring, and how it got to be just lying in the middle of a field, and I felt sad for the man who had lost it. But then I got to thinking... maybe he had thrown it into the river in a rage, after finding out his wife had been having an affair, and it got washed up? Or maybe it was vital evidence from a crime scene, and he had tried to discard of it? Or maybe it just simply fell off his finger as he threw a stick for his dog? Was he a local man? Or was he visiting from a land far away? Was he a ghost? Or was he indeed a she with very fat fingers? Was it a ring from ancient times? Was it worth a lot of money? Or had it been won in a Christmas cracker? So many questions.

Betty eventually caught up with us, pretty uninterested with the treasure, and we made our way to the church just up the hill. I found a scrap of paper and left a note with the ring, telling of where I had found it, and then left it in the hands of the Gods. 

Over the next two months I wondered what had become of the ring and its owner, and then this morning I saw the below extract in our parish magazine!

While I am delighted that the man/woman/criminal/ghost has been reunited with the ring, I am still none the wiser...

My Aldi adventure

In a bid to cut back on our grocery bills, I decided to venture into Aldi, which sits right opposite the Sainsburys I have been going to for years.

I was so overcome with the ridiculously low prices, I ended up with a mountain of food that I did not need, or even want (sort of like what happens when I go to Ikea). So with my trolley laden with fifty different types of breakfast cereal, each box costing about 10p, fifty bars of chocolate, and fifty loaves of bread, I headed for the tills.

I quickly learned that at an Aldi till it is a very different experience to what you get at, say a Sainsbury's till.  You seriously have to have your wits about you. If you stop for even a millisecond, to scratch your nose, or indeed breathe, you get seriously scowled at by the cashiers, who I swear must be monitored on how fast they can scan food. And forget trying to pack your shopping into bags in any civilised manner.  Nope, if you are too slow, which I was, the cashier just hurls it into your trolley.  And not only do they scan fast, but they also talk fast too.  'Thatwillbe£12.49please'.  So despite the trauma of speedy scanning, the low bill more than made up for it.

I spent the next couple of weeks perfecting my till performance at Aldi by mentally preparing myself beforehand, bracing myself, and trying to be really really fast.  I couldn't have any distractions from kids slowing me down so on my second trip to the shop I had to leave them at home with Tom.  

I became a bit of an Aldi bore. Betty and Dolly were pretty surprised by some of the new 'treats' I was offering them but I didn't get any complaints. Also I made sure Tom was kept updated about prices. 'You see that packet of crisps you are eating? It cost 2p.' Or, 'Do you know, Aldi do the best chocolate in the whole entire world, and it only costs 4p per bar.' Tom wasn't convinced about any of it, and was not overly happy about my new found passion for Aldi.  He told me the bread was revolting, and that the mozzarella tasted weird.

Things came to a head on Tom's birthday. Normally I lay on a feast fit for a king to celebrate.  He didn't say anything because he is far too kind, but I could see his shoulders sink, and his eyes well up when I served up his birthday breakfast, lunch and supper, Aldi style. He looked like a broken man.

Sadly the Aldi honeymoon period is now over for me. While Aldi may be cheap, and certain things like their mini-magnum ice-creams, pitta bread, and salami may be perfectly ok, their fruit and veg is utterly tasteless, so much so that it is almost impossible to distinguish between their carrots, celery, green peppers and apples.

And although you can't buy a circular saw in the cake aisle at Sainsburys, at least you can get your bags packed neatly for you, and pass the time of day with a  cashier who is not on speed.  

Bed swap

'It's not right that you don't let a poor child sleep in their mother's bed,' was Betty's response, when I told her she couldn't sleep in my bed for the fourth night running. I say 'my' bed, but by rights, it is Tom's bed as well, although he often gets put in a small child's bed with just a one-legged Barbie and a Lego dog to keep him company.

Betty and Dolly generally sleep with me if they are unwell, and unlike many of my friends, I love the excuse to snuggle up to them. On this occasion however, I could sense Tom's slight annoyance at the prospect of yet another night with Barbie, particularly as there was now nothing wrong with Betty to warrant another night in the marital bed.

I challenged Betty and asked her why she didn't want to go back to her bed now that she was better. She told me that her bed was a bit 'stinky'. Initially I blamed Tom. But on further investigation, to my horror I realised that she had been sneaking all sorts of foodstuffs up to her room, eating them in her bed, and then shoving the wrappers, crumbs, half eaten biscuits, and crusts down between the bed and the wall. It was a disgusting sight. Thinking back, I do remember her muttering something about how much she had been enjoying her midnight feasts, which I ignored.

So, after I had removed and cleaned the mess, I decided to re-arrange their whole bedroom - maybe this is a ridiculous idea, but I pushed both their beds together to make one huge bed. Dolly was somewhat surprised to see her room in a different form when she emerged from the wardrobe, having bedded down in there for a nap, and Betty was positively thrilled when she got home from school: 'It's just like being in a hotel!' she squealed.

I read them the riot act at bedtime and told them no jumping, rolypolys or skydiving. 'Are we allowed to play I Spy?' Dolly asked.  So, after listening to a fraught game of I Spy through the monitor while trying to watch Eastenders, there followed blissful silence.  Tom breathed a sigh of relief.

However, at 3am, I woke up to find a sleeping Dolly next to me in my bed, and no sign of Tom... 

Can you have kids and still live in a stylish home?

This is a guest post, sponsored by John Lewis

Guest blogger Tamsin McCahill from brightonhobbyproject.posterous.com has two young boys and believes that kids don’t have to spell the end of your stylish home...

I can remember when I swore we’d be different. Sitting on our stylish (if battered) brown leather sofa, patting my humongous bump, I surveyed our living room. OK, so it would never appear in a home interiors magazine, but with its Orla Kiely accessories and the one-off pieces we’d accumulated on our travels, it had a kind of shabby charm “We’re not going to be a couple who just let their kids take over”, I said, while my husband nodded sagely. Our home wouldn’t be engulfed by a mountain of lurid plastic. Instead, our kids were going to enjoy playing with just a few wooden toys. Move our ornaments to out of reach places? No way! We’ll just leave them – it’s a good way for Junior to learn that no means no. And we weren’t going to install those ugly stairgates, either - we’d just have to keep a close eye on our kids.

Fast forward five years and how things have changed. Turns out my kids only like toys of the garish, plastic variety. The ornaments are long gone as rescuing them from sticky hands got old after, oh, about five minutes. And we are now the proud owners of not one but four sets of stairgates.  So, it seems that certain changes around the home are inevitable after you have kids. But fear not - there are ways you can hang on to some of your design ideals.

Pieces from John Lewis’ Little Home range

Living room
You spend so much time in this room, so you need a space that works for both adults and small people. During the day, push back sofas so little ones have maximum toddling space, then for cosy TV watching in the evening, move them into more social positions. There’s no need to get rid of your gorgeous cream settees and armchairs, either - machine washable throws are your friends. To keep things safe, buy non slip rubber mats to go under your rugs and get padding and edge protectors for your tables.

Stairs
No matter what your design principles, stairgates are an absolute must. According to Baby Centre, falls account for a massive 44 per cent of all children’s accidents in the home. But there’s no reason to settle for the first stairgates you come across. Although choice can be limited if your stairs are very wide or narrow, if yours are of a standard width, you’ll be able to get gates in different colours (like jazzy silver or cream) or in a range of woods to help them blend in with the look of your home.

Bedrooms
If you hate lurid colours and wacky TV characters, Cath Kidston does some great vintage-looking children’s wallpaper, themed with retro cars and cowboys. The prints are also available on bedding so their beds can look just as funky. And John Lewis’ Little Home range caters exclusively for kids, with themes including dinosaurs, robots and elephants. Bedroom furniture doesn’t have to be tacky or boring, either. Go for simple and stylish children’s beds that will grow with them and choose fun accessories to add interest. Or go all out with beds that double as dens, cars or even princess cottages. This may have the desired effect of keeping them in there until morning, too!

How has your home changed with the arrival of children? 

Branching out

This is a sponsored post

When I started and named this blog five years ago, Betty was five months old.  I optimistically called it Flower Fairies and Fairy Cakes, hoping that one day she would be into baking cakes and indeed fairies, as much as I was when I was little.

And she didn't disappoint.  OK, so the likes of Tinkerbell aren't quite as wholesome as Cicely Barker's creations, but she is a fairy nonetheless.  And Betty LOVES to bake cakes, ALL THE TIME.  In fact I partly blame her for my explanding waistline. 

Last night we decided to branch out, and instead of the usual fairy cakes smothered in smarties, dolly mixtures, sprinkles, chocolate buttons and marshmallows, we opted for something a little more sophisticated.

We went for these gorgeous Berry Cream Tea Muffins taken from the Le Creuset cookware website.  They were so easy to make, delicious, pretty to look at, and sort of healthy - blueberries and strawberries heavily feature!  The kids loved them too, although were momentarily put out that there were no sweets involved...

Fish out of water

London life (and no kids):

• you walk 20 minutes to and from the tube station every morning and evening, with a sense of urgency
• you race up and down escalators and steps and along corridors in said tube stations as if your life depended on it
• even if it is a lazy Sunday afternoon in the park, you still walk dangerously fast
• skinny lattes are the drink of choice from the work's coffee shop
• you eat salads from the work canteen for lunch, only occasionally allowing yourself a little spoonful of croutons sprinkled over the top as a special treat
• you go out drinking straight after work and forget to eat an evening meal, sometimes fitting in a stint in the gym beforehand
• you go for a virtuous swim on a Saturday morning before some very speedy clothes shopping, this is because a) you have time, and b) you can afford to
• the skinny mannequins donning beautiful clothes in shop windows everywhere you look keep you focused

Country life (with kids):

• you amble from the kitchen to the sitting room while polishing off the kids' peanut butter on toast
• you live in the middle of nowhere so have to drive EVERYWHERE
• when you do get to walk, you sedately shuffle along with your slow-moving child through a muddy field
• hot chocolate is the drink of choice
• you not only eat your own lunch but you also polish off your kids lunch too, followed by pudding
• once the kids are in bed, you reward yourself for a hard days work, with a pizza, and a chocolate orange, washed down with a bottle of wine
• you promise yourself that you will go for a swim every Saturday morning but the combination of a 30 mile round trip to the nearest pool and the guilt you feel about leaving the kids with your husband, means you only go once a year
• this means that the only exercise you get is when you occasionally get the hoover out
• living near a town where the nicest shop is Primark you feel utterly uninspired

And so you leave your kids and your country comforts, and go on a jolly to London. You put some mascara on, and get taken to a posh club, and you feel like you have momentarily rediscovered your old self.  Apart from you are two stone heavier.  You feel like a whale, despite tactically wearing black, and placing your favourite (Primark) scarf over your stomach.  Apart from one bloke you spot, you are the only one wearing jeans and Converse. And you bet the bloke didn't get his jeans from Sainsburys.  You are put out that they do not sell cider at the bar.  You get odd looks when you get your camera out to take photos of the decor (to show your kids).

You sit on the platform at Paddington station on Sunday afternoon, feeling knackered from the 3am bedtime the night before.  You feel sad that you are leaving your lovely London, and seek comfort from a Cadbury's Creme Egg.  You reminisce fondly about the night before, but you cannot wait to get home and give your kids the London toy buses you have bought for them, and the giant marshmallows from Hamleys. 

You also look forward to sitting at the bar in your local, unselfconsciously eating a packet of cheese and onion crisps, pint in hand, talking to the landlady about moulting chickens, your children and husband playing bendy dominoes in the background.

You can't wait for the train to get in.  

I Spy

This is the conversation I heard through the baby monitor a couple of hours ago:

Betty: I spy with my little eye something beginning with W

Dolly: Door!

Betty: No Dolly, no no no, door does not begin with W.  Try again.  I spy with my little eye something beginning with W

Dolly: Light!

This sequence happens about five more times before Betty starts getting really cross with Dolly

Dolly: Please stop being naughty to me Betty, I am only two.  I don't want to play I Spy any more, I want to go to sleep.

So-so sew

For the first half of term Betty's class have been developing their own superheroes. Betty had created 'Monkey Girl' who is 'stronger than a hippo'. The other day Bety came home and told me that she had volunteered my sewing services to help make superhero capes for her class.

So I set my sewing machine up in the corner of the class, while Dolly had Betty's classmates and teacher running around for her, fetching her books, crayons, paper and dressing up clothes.

Fairly confident that I had threaded the machine correctly, I gathered the expectant children round with their chosen cape material.  'My mummy is such a brilliant sewer,' Betty told them proudly.   'Stand back children,' I said, as I pushed my foot down on the pedal.  The machine spectacularly clonked and clanked and jammed up.  'You're not very good at knitting,' offered one little boy.  'My mummy is REALLY good at sewing,' said another boy. 

And this is basically how I spent the next hour and a half, trying to work my frickin machine with children politely telling me I wasn't very good.  Even Betty backtracked and told me I needed to 'go a bit faster.' From the back of the class, Dolly poked her head up and told me I was a 'slowcoach'.

If anything can be redeemed from the afternoon, it was that I learnt what a gorgeous class Betty is in. There are only seven of them (two girls and five boys) and when they weren't helpfully offering me their critique, they all sat around getting on incredibly well with each other and gossiping like little old ladies.  It was very touching indeed.

Being put through the paces

On New Year's Day, I sat in Pizza Express with Tom, Betty and Dolly. I finished my final mouthful of Tiramisu and announced that just as soon as we left the restaurant, 2012 really was going to be the year of healthy eating and fitness.

Betty rolled her eyes and informed me that I’d made exactly the same declaration this time last year, at this very table. She also reminded me of the exercise bike, the sit up machine, and the yoga DVD, that I insisted on getting myself for Christmas last year and which now all lie dormant in the attic.

At the start of last year, in an admirable bid to get me motivated, my daughter insisted on putting on the yoga DVD every evening before bed, and effortlessly and bendily carried out all the routines.  Meanwhile, I would watch on from the sofa, with a glass of wine, and visualise myself being a size 10 again.

A couple of times she managed to get me onto the sit-up machine, but gave me a withering look as I huffed and puffed and failed to lift myself off the floor by even an inch.

On one occasion she even managed to sniff out my trainers and instructed me to run up and down our garden path a hundred times. I drew the line at three.

But a new year was ahead of us. So, with bellies full of pizza, we headed for the park with the kids’ new Christmas bikes, for our first stint of 2012 exercise. Thinking I'd got off lightly by leaving my bike at home, Betty jumped on hers and pedaled away at full pelt shouting: ‘Run run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me I’m the Gingerbread Man’. Passerbys looked on and smiled at her sweetly, as I lumbered past them, yelling at her to stop before she reached the river. I swear my child is out to humiliate me.

My unrelenting daughter has helpfully suggested I go for early morning jogs up the hill behind our house, or a bike ride, even a swim in the River Wye. The hill is near on vertical with menacing wild ponies ready to charge,  the main road should only be attempted on a bike if you have nerves of steel, and as for swimming in the river, I can only assume my child really does not like me very much.

Next year, in a bid to get my militant daughter off my case, I shall announce that my New Year's resolution is to have lots of lie-ins, train her how to make a cup of tea, and have her and her sister in bed by 7pm sharp every night.

The real Spiderman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2011: a year...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a Barbie world

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

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

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

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

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

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

Feeding baby Jesus to the ox

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wigwam

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

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

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

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

Plaster blast

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

Things I have missed with my arm in plaster:

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

Things I will miss when my plaster goes:

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

Santa and the Policeman

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

Labour of love

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you Mum

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

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

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

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

Betty's 5th birthday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One-armed tedium

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

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

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

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

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

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

Backfiring surprise

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

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

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

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

The secret club

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caught out

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

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

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

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

Over-ambitious fairies

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

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

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

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

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

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

Germ control

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hooves beat along the quiet lanes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Save the Children - No Child Born to Die campaign

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


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

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

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

Housework confession

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

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

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

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

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

Starting school and the Gurgle blog awards

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

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

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

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

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

Not just a one-off

Today, having:

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

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

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

Thank you for the summer of 1990

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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