Sometimes as a parent it's hard to relinquish control over the bodies of our children.  To realise that although they're our child, they're their own person.  It's their body.

They spend the majority of their days in uniform being taught to conform, to be the same.  They are told what to wear and how to wear it even down to their shoes and socks.  They have no freedom of choice or self expression.  It's all decided for them and then dictated to them.

Why I rarely get Moomin weighed.

From the moment our babies are born their lives are dominated by numbers, how many weeks pregnant was their mum? How long was labour?  How much did they weigh?  How long are they?

Then it's how many feeds to they have?  How often are they feeding?  How long do they sleep? How many wet nappies are they producing?  How many dirty nappies?

It doesn't stop.

Our babies become defined by these numbers.

How many teeth do they have?  How much weight have they lost/gained?  What percentile are they on?  How much are they drinking?    How often?

Sleeping like a baby

At Moomin's 9 month review with the Health Visitor I was asked how well she sleeps.

I responded that she sleeps like a baby. I then expanded on this by explaining that she wakes when she needs to as is biologically appropriate for infants.

I'm so tired of the pressure parents are under to get their babies to 'sleep through' the night, like it's proof of good parenting or worse..... a 'good baby'. It's not only bollocks, it's dangerous bollocks.

Some babies do indeed sleep through the night (which technically only needs to be a 6 hour run of sleep to qualify as sleeping through) and some babies don't. Newsflash. ..many toddlers don't either.

And that's OK.

That's what they fail to tell you.

15 baby and parenting 'firsts' the books never tell you about

The Reality of parenthood firsts....

Babies have many firsts that you want to experience and record from their first smile, first tooth, rolling, sitting up, first word, cruising to walking etc.  Yet, what about the firsts the books don't tell you about, the real unglamourous baby firsts?

The Rubber Ducky Hack

The reality of Christmas

I like Christmas. Really I do.  Honest. In the 90's I even put tinsel in my hair and snogged an elf. 

It's just when you're grown ups, parents, Christmas becomes a responsibility. Oh the pressure.

And oh how actual Christmas differs from the Rose tinted, Pinterest featured one you envisaged.

Shopping

In my head snow is falling,  rosy cheeked children are misting up Georgian shop windows with tiny hands in fluffy hand muffs. Everything is beautiful and smiles are everywhere.

In reality there's not enough prozac to make me leave the house. It's Pissing it down and pitch black. The Spawn rewrite their lists everyday.    I hand over our pennies electronically only to find the very next day after dispatch, the bastard's publish a huge juicy discount code.  Then comes the let's chase the couriers game as despite you staring at your door all day they swear they attempted delivery.

Then there's the conundrum of where to stash it all.  You have no storage.  Zero.  Zilch.  Nada. You were going to pile it up in the attic yet Roland The Bionic Rat is squatting up there and refusing to die despite having nommed several sachets of professional-die-rat-die poison up there.

Tree

Erecting (oh behave!) the tree should be a momentous occasion to cherish.  In my head we bundle up with hats and scarves all full of giggles and red nosed from the cold.  We playfully argue over which real tree we want and bring one home that's vibrant and huge.  We dance around a fairy light lit living room with an open fire to Christmas songs as we adorn it with antique baubles and strings of popcorn.

In reality everyone scarpers at the mere mention of digging a path through the shit hole of a front room to make some space.  The air is blue from The Husband's profanity at the injustice of having to get everything out the loft as the kids form a conveyor belt down the stairs with home bargains carrier bags of stuff.

The tree is fake.  And wonky. And the metal arms just poked me. ... In the eye.

Then the lights come out in a tangled mass of nightmare and suddenly everyone needs to shit so they can avoid untangling them.  Which is futile.  Especially as none of the buggers actually work anymore.

The Spawn lose interest after five minutes of hanging baubles on.  They're all on wrong and you're counting down the minutes until they go to bed so you can rearrange it.   They've already siphoned away half the candy canes into their mouths and the bloody cats are playing football with the pine cones you glittered last year. 

Baby is screaming for a feed.  The Spawn are having sword fights with pieces of the tree.  There's still 40 baubles from the poundshop that have lost their string waiting to go on the tree and The Husband is glowering from the kitchen hissing 'bah humbug' under his breath.

Decorations

In my head it's quaint and kitsch and adorable.  The room is lovingly festooned with rustic and antique simple beauties.

In reality The Husband is balanced precariously on The Dude's fire station (that is covered in Moshi Monsters stickers and home to astronauts) barking 'PIN! ' every few seconds at the quivering Spawn.  The room looks like a Drag Queens handbag has vomited and the balloon clusters look like one bollocked willies. 

Wrapping

In my head I'm sat in front of an open fire with a glass of wine and an old movie as I leisurely and lovingly wrap perfectly coordinated presents with brown paper and tasteful paper accents,  trimmed with string and Christmas ribbon as I hand stamp labels with sleighs and North Pole post marks.

In reality I can't find the bastard scissors.  The Spawn won't go to sleep.  Baby wants feeding.  The cat's are having a bitch fight in every box and sitting on the rolls of cheap paper that rip before I can apply cellotape.   I'm t-total (yes, really) so downing vimto like it's vodka with the TV on mute so I can hear about lost blankets and itchy eyes and every other excuse as to why The Spawn won't go the fuck to sleep before they descend the stairs and see what I'm trying to do.

The Husband is smugly relating how much he hates wrapping presents before he bogs off into the kitchen to listen to black metal music and drink wine. .. ALONE.

I'm running out of hands and patience.  I've forgot my Zoloft and keep getting distracted by day dreaming of homicide.   There's no room to stack anything and baby shits. Again. 

Christmas Day

We awake to the aroma of Turkey roasting.  The Husband and I embrace lovingly under the mistletoe. Children in immaculate pyjamas gather around the tree handing out presents one by one with gasps of glee. They then play board games until the feast is served.

In reality The Husband rolls of the sofa mumbling five more minutes as The Spawn chomp at the bit upstairs trying their hardest to wake the baby in the most obnoxiously loud way possible not knowing that the baby woke up HOURS ago, filled eight nappies and drunk me dry of milk and has only just gone the fuck back to sleep.

The Dude will be naked and dancing whilst Things One and Two are in mismatched pj's.  They swear they've brushed their teeth yet when they open their mouths to talk the cats pass out from their morning breath.

Once downstairs it's every man for themselves. It's like black Friday in Tesco only more violent.  The Husband is screaming 'PUT THE RUBBISH IN A BAG' repeatedly.   I remember the turkey isn't in the oven yet and am banished to the kitchen for the day whilst The Spawn harass The Grinch to battle with the packaging of their toys.  After much swearing he asks for his saw. 

But hey.  Ho Ho Ho.  IT'S CHRISTMAS! !!!!

Where's the valium?

Softly Softly time sneaks past us

The apron strings are flapping manically like cage birds and there's a dull thud in my heart.   I'm clock watching again.  Trying to imagine that what I cannot see.   I hope you're okay.  I hope you're having fun.   I hope you're happy. Yet in that pocket of my heart that has your name upon it.... I hope you're missing me too. Not  overwhelmingly,  just a little bit. In the background.

The Preschooler is no longer a preschooler.  Last week was his first week in reception yet it was just mornings.  Today it starts for real.  Today The Dude is there all day.

I knew it was coming.  It even makes a little sense now that Moomin is here. It alleviates some of the guilt born of having a demanding newborn to attend to, knowing that you're occupied rather than sat wanting.  Wanting me. I'm not ready though.

You'd think with him being my third it would be easier yet with each child your youngest stays younger longer.

It only seems like yesterday when I'd cuddle you to sleep in my bed and you'd cuddle me awake in the morning.  Even when debilitated with this last pregnancy my little cuddle monster.... You were here. Cuddling me.

One day you won't ask for cuddles anymore.  One day you won't want them anymore.

Nothing reminds you of how powerless you are against the passing of time than having a child enter full time education.  It becomes even more obvious when you bring a new baby into your family.  You realise how far we've all come.  You realise how fast the time passed.

So I'm sat here missing you whilst cradling your newborn sister to the breast knowing that one day she'll be starting school too.  I'm determined to cherish every minute.  I don't care for houswork it can wait.   I have one last baby.  Time is ticking.  I'm filling the time with cuddles.

Thing One has started his last year of primary,  Thing Two has started her first year of primary and you my darling your first year of infants.   Where has the time gone? With Moomins birth so recent I still vividly remember you all being born.  Being newborns then toddlers then preschoolers.

Tick.

Tock.

As soon as you're born it's like someone presses fast forward.  You end up battling between the futile task of trying to freeze it or  at least slow it whilst at the same time trying to cherish it.

Under four hours now and you'll be home.

Squishy nappies have reappeared in my laundry, I can remember all three of you wearing nappies and they're now all replaced with uniforms.

You're still as much my baby as Moomin is though.  So are Things One & Two. You'll always be my babies.

Fairy are currently running an #OhSoSoft campaign encouraging us to make the most of the precious preschool years and the oh-so-soft cuddles they bring.


You're never really too old for cuddles though.  Not really.  They'll always be a time when words are unnecessary and not enough.  When only an oh-so-soft cuddle from mum will do.  Yet whilst your babies are babies and cuddles are in abundance, embrace the moments, the chaos, the mess, the noise but most of all the oh so soft cuddles.

You'd better believe it that as soon as you get home from school today, there's no escape.  This cuddle will tell you I love you,  I missed you,  I'm proud of you and that you're home.


Disclaimer: This is a sponsored post yet all words and opinions expressed are my own

The Naming Game | How to Name, or not name your child.

Have you ever looked back to when you were a little girl?  When you knew exactly how your wedding would be and you'd already named all your kids?  Then you have a real wedding and real children and everything changes.

I love naming. I love names.  Even though I know I shouldn't, as soon as those two lines stare at me my mind is already making name lists.  Generally by the 20 week scan we have our names sorted and as soon as we find out the gender, baby is named.  Occasionally we'll change or rearrange a middle name yet for the most part, that is the name our child keeps.

However, once you've got past the first trimester you realise that it's not just up to you, oh no, him indoors has a say too.  This wouldn't be so bad if they actually contributed something other then 'No' to every possible name you suggest.

With each pregnancy, our short list of names have been entirely different.  As far as I can remember there has only been one first name that has appeared on the shortlist for two different babies and The Husband said absolutely no both times.  He's an arse like that.

His sole contributions have been 'Lucy' for a girl and 'Kurgen' for a boy.  Every time.  Everytime I say no to the first (lovely name yet my first dog was called Lucy) and no to the second because cool The Highlander connotations aside, it's ugly and crap.

Moomin already has her name.  Sorry but I won't be sharing it as the kids have a right to anonymity on here.

It's not like I don't give The Husband enough choice, seeing his own lack on input yet quickness to discount my suggestions.  Indeed when pregnant with The Preschooler I gave him a long and varied list.  He either straight out vetoed a name with no excuse nor reason given or else he would offer the most tremendously obscure reasons ever.  I'll share some with you but i'll omit the names the comments relate to, you know, because one of your kids probably has one of the names.

"Albatross"

"Sounds like a tropical disease"

"Too biblical"

"One of my cousins (that we never see) has an adopted daughter (that we never see) called that"

"It makes me think of Salmonella"

"It's a cat's name"

"It's a doll from playschool"

"It's a 'nothing' name"

"Too Welsh"

"Too celebrity"

"Too predictable"

"Sounds like a skin disorder"

"A dog's name"

"That was name name of Rocky's wife and she was a shit character"

"Too boring"

"Something to do with a serial killer"

"Too stuck up"

"Too royal"

"Too boring"

"Too much like a stone"

"Too much like a daft bint from X-Factor"

" *just laughter*"

"Too Hollywood"

"Too hilarious"

"Too normal"

"Sounds like a waiter"

"Too Scottish"

"Too poncy"

"Too Swedish"

"Reminds him of Cher"

"Sounds like it should have Fever after"

See what I was up against?

So what do you take into account when naming your child?  Below are some of the questions you should perhaps mull over in your mind when choosing names:

1. Do I know anyone with that name? Do I like that person?

2. Have I ever shagged anyone with that name?

3. Have I ever had a pet with that name?

4. Does it mean 'evil git' or 'Wanton Whore' in some ancient language?

5. Does it spell something gross backwards?

6. How easy is it for someone to butcher the spelling of it?

7. Will my child have to forever spell it out to people?

8. How easy is it for people to fuck up the pronunciation of it?

9. Is there a particular pronunciation of it that I despise?

10. Have I ever met someone I absolutely abhor with that name?

11. Does my partner have an ex with that name?

12. What is it most likely to be shortened too by annoying cretins who insist on shortening names?

13.  Is my child likely to be in a classroom when they're older with several peers with the same name?

14. Would it make a good name for a film star? Prime Minister? Nurse? Bin man? Check out assistant?  News reader? Scientist? etc.

15.  Does it sound porny?

16. If you have other kids, can they pronounce the name? 

17. Does it rhyme with anything negative?

18.  Do the initials spell out anything obvious like BJ, STD or SEX?

19. Can you imagine yourself shouting it across the park?

20. After all that, do you actually still like it?

There have always been some personal pet hates I've had with names:

1. When people purposefully fuck with the spelling to make it 'cool' (this doesn't include legitimate alternative spellings)  Stop bastardising the names, if you don't like it choose something different!  A 'unique' spelling doesn't say 'this child is cool' it says 'this child has illiterate fuckwits for parents'  Stop swapping I's for Y's etc.  You may as well give them 'Jezza Kyle Fodder' for a middle name.  Remember when trying to define your future child, your name choice can say more about you than them!

2.  Choosing a full name when you have no actual intention of ever calling them anything other than the shortened version of it.  Ever. If the shortened version is name enough to use, then have it as their given name!

3.  People who choose a name yet can't actually pronounce it.  I came across a story of a child called Siobhan.  Her teacher naturally called her Siobhan (sh-vaun) until the parents corrected her, apparently their daughter was called Siobhan as in 'Si-o-ban'

4. The name Nenvaeh.

So Moomin is my last baby yet I still have so many names I need to use, oh well...better start buying some more cats then!

Nursery: Hooray I haven't broken my kids

You may remember a post nearly six months ago, about The Preschooler, who's not at preschool, yet.  No matter what you do or indeed choose not to do, as a parent, you will always have moments of doubt. Doubt is a natural feeling that enables us to examine our choices, proving we're not infallible and helps to balance our conscience, heart and head to make level headed choices.  For if we did not have moments of doubt how could we thus be so sure of our conviction?  It's proof we're sentient; that we're human.

Despite the confidence in my decision to delay Preschool, again there is that element of dread that tugs on ribbons of my heart as the inevitable time arrives when we decide 'It's time.'  The time arrives through a marriage of knowing the time is right and the need for an introduction to school structure before they'e thrown in at the deep end in September.  For Thing One and The Preschooler this is usually around six months before they start full time school (Thing Two went a year before due to her Birthday).

It doesn't matter how many times you've been through this before with the rest of your brood, your heart still plummets and your brain aches as you question your own parenting.  You can never quite fully convince yourself that you're doing the right thing, whatever that is.

So you take your feisty, funny, noisy, cheerful, confident little person to a taster session and they transform into a static mute limpet.  You don't blame them really, it's an alien environment.  Things One & Two had been used to spending a day a week with The Grandparents yet due to the new shinier grandchild, called 'An Apartment in Spain' we felt sending him sporadically to theirs when they're in England would defeat the object of a semi-routine and prove confusing.  You've never even left them, you have no money to go anywhere, nobody to go with and in all honesty as unhealthy as it may be, you don't want to leave them.  You see it pointless in having forces separation when you don't want it, why should you endure it just to please others? (much to relatives, doctors and The Husbands protests). Anyone who's been a long term reader will have probably realised by now that we don't 'do' groups and the like and instead focus more on attachment and socialisation through general life and ourselves.  So this, essentially, was the first time he's been in an enclosed space filled with similar sized children as well as unknown grownups who seemed insistent on being his 'friend'.  It's a lot to take in, a hoard of rampant snot monsters whizzing their tits off around him in an unfamiliar setting.

In this situation it's hard to remember that his sudden introverted state was a perfectly normal and human reaction to the situation and environment.  Yet the typical Mother's guilt kicks in as you begin to question yourself, gulping down the blame like it's Gin in the witching hour as the thought resonates and swells within your head 'I did this.  I've broken my child'  You're not even exactly sure whether it's your decision to bring them here that broke them or the fact you didn't do it sooner yet one thing you are sure of is that you've broken your child.  It's your fault.  You don't even know how to fix this, to fix them.   You find yourself nervously burbling at the staff that he does talk, honest and that he's actually a little hurricane normally.

Yet somehow, somewhere beneath it all.  You understand.  You're already, naturally supporting them.  You accept their reaction.  It's a valid reaction.  You neither attempt to coax nor throw them into the deep end so to speak.  You may not always trust yourself yet as always you're instinctively trusting your child.  You accept their hesitancy.  You remain visible and accessible, the proverbial rock in the ocean that they can navigate towards should they need you as they stare at you uncertainly whilst the well meaning teacher takes them by the hand and away from you.  You resist the urge to follow despite that tiny look of pleading in your childs eyes.  Yet you keep eye contact should they need it.  You don't follow yet nor do you move, you remain the rock so that they can get back to you.  So that they know you're still there.

You accept their return.  It's a lot to take in, both people and environment.  This is not neutral ground.  So, you tackle one at a time, you engage with your child within the new environment, helping them stain it with some familiarity.

The Teacher has forms, sign this, sign that .... your child looks stranded.  It would be easy to nudge them towards something or someone yet you know your child.  They don't need flooding with it, they need to assess and observe.  They need to now it's a can situation not a must situation.  Through accepting their uncertainty, validating it, you're helping them process it.

The little parental voices are whispering to you that you've failed, you're failing.  This is a test.  Your child isn't normal.  If you'd been a good parent they'd have made six friends already.  You've broken your child.

Yet just because the voices are there, it doesn't follow that they speak the truth.  These are the voices that tell you you're useless, fat and ugly.  These voices lie.

Fuck the voices.

These ludicrous expectations, aren't real.  How your child feels and reacts is real.  This is normal.  Your child is actually exhibiting perfectly appropriate behaviour to the situation.

The next session goes much the same way.  You're convinced you're condemning them to abject misery.

Then the first real day comes round.  The day you're supposed to leave this version of your child that seems a mere shadow of the one you know at home.

Every fibre of your being is screaming at you not to do this.  It seems unnatural to leave them in this situation they're evidently uncomfortable with in the hands of, what are really mere strangers.  You are physically fighting the urge to scoop them up and run, run to the hills, run home.

But you do fight it.

You leave them, with a kiss.

They're not clinging to you.  They're not crying.  They're not asking you to stay.

Yet they should be, afterall, all that extended breastfeeding, babywearing, co-sleeping and over attachment ruins them don't you know?  It's surprising you can walk with all those rods on your back.  They'll never function normally.  You've broken your child.

You go.  You worry.  The few hours feel like days.

Yet when you pick them up the staff assure you he's been absolutely fine.  You ask if he actually spoke, he did.

It continues.  Once again you're breaking societies expectations.  He's entitled to five sessions, yet you're only taking him for two.  For now.  For us, this isn't about child care, so thus we don't use it as such.

By the second session, you've been told he's joining in fine, he's made some friends.  He's interacting naturally because he's neither been forces to nor had any expectations impressed upon him.  This is him being in control.

He goes in excited.  He comes out excited.  He's never asked not to go.  Like his siblings he's shown zero distress.  He's happy.  Be it because of or despite of our choices.

So the truth is,  I didn't break my children.  Just like through doing things your way to suit your parenting/life didn't break yours.

 Different doesn't equal wrong.

Trust yourself, your parenting and your child.  It doesn't matter how you think they're supposed to react or be, that's not reality.  Reality is who they are and how they react.  Whatever and however that is, is okay.  Don't change yourself nor your child to try and aspire to be whatever you think normal is.  Everyone's normal is different.  Normal doesn't even exist, really.  It's just a word.  A word sent to break us.

So I didn't send my child to nursery until he was about 3yrs10m old and I haven't broken him.

That deserves celebration.  Gin in my soup it is then!

Toddlers guide to sleep by A. Toddler

How Not To Sleep: By A. Toddler


* The first rule of sleep club is we do not sleep.  The Second rule of sleep club is, we do not sleep.

* Sleep is for the weak.  Resist naps at all costs.  The only exceptions to the aforementioned rule are:

a) Your Mum or Dad are due to go out somewhere.  In this instance, nap.  Nap like your life depends on it.  They will agonise over whether to wake you or not.  If they choose to wake you, this is your golden ticket to tantrum all afternoon.  Win!  Either way you've thwarted your parents enjoyment.  Job well done friend.

b) Later afternoon / early evening naps are always permitted.  This will totally fuck with your parents.  They have this cute little ideology about routenes.  It's our mission to smash this fallacy into smithereens.  It's for their own good. Really.  One day we'll break the news about the tooth fairy to them too.  One fallacy at a time my comrades, nice and gentle.  If we nap late, we get to stay up late.  Yes, that means Peppa wins over Eastenders.  Wine reverts to tea and better still, it reduces the chance of a sibling being made and thus forcing you to share your toys.  Epic Win. Now, be warned, Mummy might cry but stay strong.  This is for her own good.  Parents are manipulative creatures.  We're being cruel to be kind.

* If you must nap, ensure you don't let your parents fall into a routene.  Every few months change your nap time.  Keep them on their toes.  We must prevent them from planning around us at all costs.  Any security we lull them into must be false.  Do not be predictable.

* You must not, ever, go straight to sleep at bedtime.  Bedtime isn't relaxing, quiet nor easy.  It consists of a complex string of events that must be enacted.  We are exercising our parents sanity here, it's an important work out for them.  We will be doing them a grave disservice if we didn't do this.  Here are just a few of a multitude of ideas that you can utilise to delay sleepytime:

- Need a wee.  They're so chuffed we're out of nappies, the thought of us wetting the bed terrifies them.  I think the pee must awaken the wet monsters or something.  Don't worry, we'll tell them monsters aren't real, when they're old enough to understand it.  Do not tgo straight to the toilet, do not pass go, do not collect 200 rusks.  Peer into every room along the way.  Stare at your willy or wriggle on the seat for a while.  Dribble on your PJ's and cry until they put new ones on you. Then scream like the world has ended because they've put the wrong pj's on you.

-Need a poo.  Aint nobody want to risk a poo-in-the-bed incident.  Make sure you use this excuse after the wee one.  Let them put you back in bed first.  Whilst on the toilet it is intrinsic you remain alert and awake.  Talk to your poo.  Grunt lots. Squirm.  Take your time.

- Need a drink.  Whichever vessel they present your drink in, it's the wrong one.  You must tell them this.  Make them change it.  Twice.

- Want another story.  No matter how close they are to a tantrum, they will not deny you this.  The Book of Parenting tells them they must read to us.  If they decline, we will lose all interest in books.  Forever. It will be their fault. A lifetime of failure will await us.  Because they wouldn't read to us.  Take your time choosing a book.  Choose a long one.  Then choose another.  Cry if they insist you pick just one.

- I'm too hot.  When they remove your blanket, tell them you're too cold.

- I'm hungry - If you're lucky enough to still have it on draught, persist until she gets those bad boys out.  It's your milk.  They're your boobies.  She needs reminding of this.  If she tries to get you to unlatch, bite.  Hard.  When she screams, cry.  Cry hard and loud.  It's important she feels guilty for this.  This isn't about you biting her.  This is about her making you bite her.

-Want a song - It's important we build up their sense of self worth.  Take this one for the team, and let your parents believe they can sing.  Try not to cry, I know it's painful to listen to.  Whichever song they sing, interrupt halfway through 'no not that one, uvver song'

Be creative.  Be firm.  It's vital you prolong bedtime as long as possible.

* If you keep teasing a dog with a toy but never actually throw it, they lose interest.  It's important to let them feel like they're winning occasionally.  Parents are like dogs.  We have to make them believe in the possibility of sleep.  It's this hope that keeps the going.   Otherwise they'll refuse to play again.  Start to go to sleep.  Make sure you make that little quivery sigh, they love that shit.  Let them think they've won.  Wait.  Wait.  Bide your time.  You have all night.  If you're lucky enough to have a nipple in your mouth, wait until she's unlatched you, let her move away then wake up.  Nice and bright.  Nice and angry.  Cry until she returns it to it's rightful place; your mouth.  If they're rubbing or patting you, let them stop, let them ninja move away.  Wait until they get to the door.  It's important they taste escape.  Then, cry.  Make them start again, from the top.

You'll be able to practice this rapid return technique around 9-10 times depending on how much Valium is in their system.  If they accidentally shout at you.  Cry like your heart is broken.  If they cry, cry louder.  If they beg and plead at you, stare at them in silence, with wide eyes and pouty lips.

* Let them go. If you love something let it go, if it loves you it will come back.  This one is all about timing.  It will take around 30 minutes for them to believe you're asleep, pour some wine, put a film on etc.  They need this thirty minutes.  At around 35 minutes, wake up and start shouting for them until they come up to you.

* Finally, on a week day, wake up several times throughout the night then sleep in late.  Parents thrive on rushing around in the morning, it helps them feel alive. If they're not knackered their coffee won't have a use anymore.  Their world will end.

Lost in translation.

There's certain things, often simple things, that you may ask your child to do yet they rarely ever will...

* "Sit still" be it for a haircut or a photo, if you ask them to sit still they'll develop an absolute inability to do so.

* "Smile" If you ask your child to smile for a photo they will either pull a ridiculously insane face or else whilst attempting their best smile they'll pull off an expression that looks more akin to being in extreme pain.

* "Be quiet" Yeah, right.  As if.  The instant you ask them to be quiet they'll have 101 burning questions that they simply must ask you, right now, or else the world will totally and absolutely end.

* "Go to sleep" Get real. Are you shitting me?

* "Tidy your room" At best they'll disappear to their room and spend the next thirty minutes creatively hiding stuff under things, inside things, between things...anywhere in fact except where they actually belong.  At worst they'll incite a raging exchange of tantrums with you.  It will end in tears.  Probably yours.

* "Put your clothes away" They'll do this...under duress.  However, the catch is that they won't actually put them where they belong. They'll shove them down the side of their bed, behind their drawers, in-between their toy storage etc.  Of course when they can't find a school jumper in the morning, it will be your fault.

* "Walk!" You may as well just tell them to run comically because that's what they'll do.  An almost Monty Python-esque walk as they try not to appear to be running whilst sneakily trying to well, run.

* "Don't jump on me" Evidently this translates from adult language to child language as 'Please jump on me lots.  I'm an undercover trampoline.'

* "Hurry!" They'll do everything at hyper speed regardless of your constant reminders to slow down.  That is until you actually want them to do/get something.  Then they miraculously become limited to two speeds, slow and stop. This is most prominent when you're waiting in the playground in the pissing rain and you send them back in to get their book bag or jumper.

* "Don't kick that can" seemingly means 'kick it again'

* "Go to your room" Usually appears to translate as 'crawl up the stairs, irritatingly slowly, then faff about on the landing'

So, what gets lost in translation in your household when talking to your spawn?

Welcome to parenthood

Welcome to parenthood, sit down, make yourself at home....this is a self imposed life sentence.  Hey, it's okay, don't cry.....trust me, you'll have enough snot to contend with as it is.  Plus, there's always Gin...and Valium.

* Talking of snot, you'll soon become an experienced and parenthood accredited extractor of bogies.  You'll become an expert at spying the little bastards blocking your little darlings nostrils.  they can't remove them, everybody move aside, you're going in.  What's worse, you may actually find it satisfying.

* After running out of clean bedding, you will find yourself catching vomit in your hand.  Remember, this won't be your vomit either.

* You will be able to enter Mastermind with your spectacular observations on poo.  You'll find yourself scrutinising the contents of nappies, is it too hard?  Too soft?  Too frothy? Too much?  Not enough? Too green? Oh my fuck that's ..... sweetcorn! Worse, you'll probably end up actually talking about it with someone too.  Yes, a whole conversation on baby shit.

* There becomes new categories for clothes, no longer is there simply clean and dirty, there is 'does it smell of sick?' if not, it can be worn...again.

* Talking of clothes your wardrobe will probably consist of colours that are least likely to show puke.

* Dry shampoo will be your new best friend.  Getting the chance to wash your hair will feel like a spa day,

* You'll have to invent a whole new language of expletives seeing as screaming 'Fuuuuuuck!' when you step on lego in the dark isn't recommended.

* When something goes missing, you now have to factor in the possibility that the baby may have eaten it. 

* You find wee on the toilet seat.  Usually after you sit down.  Cold wee.  It won't be your wee either.

* You'll find stagnating patches of wee on the bathroom floor too, surrounding the toilet.

* Going to the supermarket alone, is a holiday.

* Your conversation topics go along the lines of 'who'd win in a fight, Bob The Builder or Postman Pat?'

* You get your kids names mixed up when flustered.

* You know at least ten Ben10 characters and the Disney princess' real names.

* Moshlings block your hoover.

* You realise that looking under beds is a bad idea.  You get angry about what;s under there first.  then you become ambivalent.  After a while, when the smell takes over, you just become plain scared.

* You find yourself screeching random things such as 'Get your willy out of the watering can spout' and 'I don't want to sniff your finger, it's been up your bum' and 'Stop rubbing your willy on her'

* You realise cleaning is over rated and futile.

* You give up trying to get the scribbles off walls and call it art instead.

* You agonise over how to explain what a tampon is.

* You get in the bath close your eyes only to have a small child appear wanting to chat, followed by another wanting to shit.

* You find yourself eating chocolate with your head in a cupboard so as not to be caught and forced to share.

* You're now a master of bribery.

* You catch yourself calling a dog a doggy in adult conversation.

* You realised you imagined that adult conversation because you no longer have adult conversation.

* It takes you an hour to realise you're in the room alone and Peppa Pig is still on the tv.

* Instead of Guns 'N' Roses you have King Thistle singing in the bath in your head.

* You've contemplated using the hoover trick on your daughters hair to save time in the morning.

* You willingly let a small child clamber all over you just so you can spend an extra ten minutes in bed.

* You've woken up with a child's foot in your face....

* Or said child laying across your head.

* You get used to partial shags as you inevitably get interrupted and have to scramble to get dressed like teenagers only with more wrinkles, less money and not stoned.

*You're a chief slayer of monsters, tooth fairy, father Christmas and Easter bunny.

* Your kisses have magical properties that heal booboos.

* You know The Duck Song.  Word  perfect.

* You've had to fish things out of the toilet that weren't human waste.

* Your life goal has become to find all the missing socks.




There's more...lots more....

What would you add to this list?

The one about NOT sharing

You're sat at a computer, utterly engrossed in something when someone comes up behind you and snatches the keyboard from you, you're just about to break their teeth and tell them to fucking wait their turn when suddenly someone says 'Let so and so have a go now, you've had a turn.  They  really want to use it.  You have to share it.' It's yours, you were in the middle of doing something and you don't want to share it.  Can you imagine the above scenario?  No? That's because you're an adult and the world doesn't work that way.  You share what you want, when you want and to whom you want to.

So now imagine a young child playing with a toy elephant.  They've been immersed in some intricate game with it for quite some time.  Another child sees the elephant and really really wants it so heads on over and tries to take it.  The first child attempts to keep hold of it because they're not done playing with it.  A 'helpful' adult interjects and usually will say something along the lines of '[child B] would really like to play with that elephant and you've had it ages, let them have it now.  You know it's nice to share'  There is no request, it's a veiled order and child A knows this so begrudgingly hands the toy over.  Is this really sharing?  or is this merely submission?  The notion of sharing itself suggests an element of choice, either by mutual agreement to share by one party agreeing or offering to share something with another party.  Child A isn't learning what it feels like to willingly let someone else use something that is desired by both.  Child B isn't learning gratitude or how nice it feels for someone to let them use something they want.  Child A is basically learning that sharing is shit, it interrupts your game and makes you feel sad or angry, they will come to resent doing it.  Child B is learning that if you want something, you get it.  How is this beneficial to either child or even take it one step further....to society?

As adults, no matter how impatient we feel if someone is using something we're waiting for, we wait.  We may not want to wait.  We may hate waiting.  We may try and hurry the person up (whilst calling them every name under the sun in our head). We know though that essentially no matter how much of an arse it appears the person already using it is, we have to wait until they're finished.

Why should it be different for kids?

Regardless of whether it's an adult or a child requesting Child A to give up the toy, Child A should feel confident enough to reply with 'I'm not finished with it yet/I'm still playing'  The adult shouldn't insist they hand over the toy either, they could just have easily have said to Child B 'I'm sorry but [Child B] hasn't finished with it yet'  How many times as an adult do we end up agreeing to stuff we don't want to do all because we felt we couldn't say no?  How terrific would it be if we gave our children the confidence to assert themselves from an early age, to be able to say 'no' to something someone else wants them to do.  To not have to say yes because they feel they can't say no?

It's natural for Child B to want it and even to grab it, the child is being impulsive which is what children do best yet it is our job as adults to help them develop a level of impulse control.

Child B is likely to be unhappy because they really really want that elephant.  They don't want to wait.  Waiting is a life skill though, it's something we all need to do.  It's also teaching Child B to respect boundaries, the boundary here being that they can't take the toy because Child A has it.  It's okay for them to feel angry or annoyed, we need to let them feel it and express it and then deal with it.  It would be wrong to trivialise or invalidate how they're feeling.  Hell, even let them tell Child A how miffed they are, they're entitled  to feel that way.  So long as they understand that they still can't take the toy, they still have to wait.

If Child A, fickle creatures that children are, finally loses interest in the toy and moves on the adult can either indicate to  Child B  that the toy is no longer being used or they could remind Child A that Child B was waiting for it.  This is now teaching Child A to respect others and also instills an awareness of others feelings too.  Child A can now choose to hand the toy over.  To share.  To give.  They will then feel the influx of positive emotion that accompanies this action.  It's basic psychology, if it feels good they're likely to want to do it again, unprompted too.

Yet this all sounds marvelously spiffy but it's not always so easy to implement, especially if either of the children are yours.  Whatever you do, one of the children is going to be pissed with you.  Sometimes we're misguided in what we believe is right and what is socially acceptable.  In an attempt to appear to be a good parent/human we may be tempted to nudge and insist our child to give up something before they're ready to just so we can internally boast that our child is soooooo good at sharing.  We fail to notice our child isn't sharing anything.  We are the one that is sharing in this instance, something that wasn't ours to share.

Nobody said it was easy.  Doing the genuinely right thing, never is.

If a child is expected to share something, it helps to let them in on this expectation before they start playing.   Something especially necessary in the case of squabbling siblings.  We have one trampoline and three kids who all want to use it at the same time, in this case we tell them before they use it that they must take turns and they can have x-minutes per turn. Don't get me wrong, I'm guilty as sin, when The Toddler is midst hissy fit and Thing One decides to match it, in sheer exasperation we may tell poor Thing One to just let The Toddler have it first, knowing that he will soon bore of it and give it back.  It's one of those anything for a quiet life moments.  We're only human. We're also guilty of hurrying Things One and Two up if they're taking an unnecessarily long time purely to make the other child wait longer. We do however redeem ourselves though as if Thing One was genuinely using something before The Toddler wanted it we do insist The Toddler waits and start operation distraction.

I do feel that there are slightly different rules however depending on the environment as in a park I'd never let The Spawn spend forever on a swing if other children were waiting, I would however suggest they come back and have another go later.

Finally, I also believe that some possessions should be sacred for a child.  If a child has a beloved toy, we should respect that and not simply allow others to use it even in their absence, this kind of passive sharing
is breaking a bond of trust. Just because a child isn't using something, it doesn't always mean we can allow another to use it.  It doesn't matter if it is a doll, a car or even a pebble.  How would you feel if whilst you were out your partner let a friend of his borrow your favourite necklace or shoes?  There has to be some things that a child can choose to not share if it has significant meaning to them and have trust that this will be respected.

The Things Parents Say

Throughout childhood it would become apparent that our parents had stock phrases that they would bring out time and time again dependant on the situation at hand that were often frustrating and awfully unfair to hear, many of which we secretly swore we would never ever say to our own children.  Some that come to mind are:

'Because I said so.'
'Whilst you're living under my roof you'll live under my rules'
'If you don't stop crying I'll give you something to cry about'
'If soandso jumped off a bridge would you?'
'Don't touch that, you don't know where it's been',
'I don't care that everybody elses mother is letting their kids do it, I'm your mother and I said no'
'Don't you huff at me like that'
'When you have your own house you can have your own rules'
'You must think I was born yesterday'
'And you can wipe that smile off of your face right now'
'Just who do you think you are? The queen of sheeba?'
'I'll wash your mouth out with soap  and water'
'You brought this on yourself'
'Money doesn't grow on trees you know'
'How dare you talk to me in that tone of voice young lady'
'Just you wait until your father gets home'
'You're either in or you're out'
'Close the door! Were you born in a barn?'
'Knock it off or we will turn around and go straight back home right now'
'I'm not asking, I'm telling you to do it'
'Don't make me come up there'
'Stop pulling that face,If the wind changes you'll stay that way'
'Stop picking your nose or your brain will cave in/your finger will get stuck'
'Don't come running to me if you hurt yourself'


Admit it, we're all guilty of saying, at the very least, a few of the things our parents said to us, right? Own up!

Night Stalker.

It's that time of night again, when I'm terribly fackered (yes, I made that up less of a mouthful than fucking knackered) yet unable to sleep.  The Husband has gone out and left the television downstairs on so all I can hear is Peppa Pig, I hope The Kitten is at least enjoying it.  The ridiculously short battery life of my wee netbook is decreasing at an alarming rate and I fear if I rummage for the charger I'll trip over something and break my neck in the dark  I haven't seen my bedroom carpet in months and the debris is akin to quicksand. The thought of exploring it in the dark is a little too white-knuckle-esque for me.

The Toddler is fast asleep next to me having delayed going to sleep with a story, a song, an impromptu trip to the loo for a ripe old shit and implorations for his beaker of water to be refilled all interjected with plenty of breastfeeding.  Still I suppose the subtle lullaby of his sleepy breaths is a tad more enchanting than his vitriolic arguments with The Spawn and his protestations of absolute innocence at anything he may stand accused of having committed in the court of family.

I'm stuck between a double rock and a hard place.  I can't sleep until I know Thing Two is asleep, she has insomnia you see.  However, she'll wait until I manage to extricate myself from the The Toddler to go pee to suddenly pounce and attempt to delay my return to The Toddler (who's chances of waking up increase with every second I'm AWOL) with an insistent stream of random questions and requests.  The other  part  of the double rock and hard place is The Toddlers recent freaky ability to awaken from deepest slumber the instant I attempt to do a runner and refuses to be placated whilst insisting he simply must accompany me.  So whilst sat on the loo, he sits/lays on the bathroom floor in groggy silence, eyes heavy with sleep near rolling in their sockets as his groggy brain creates a speech bubbles that simply says 'Huh?' Then he'll drag an stumble back to bed and go back to sleep as if he'd never woken up.  Even at night I can't piss alone! Still, he usually goes straight  back to sleep without a feed unless of course The Husband attempts to 'help' and comes upstairs to chat to him whilst he waits thus pulling him from grogginess and ensuring I have to start the whole bedtime breastfeed shebang all over again.  Thanks Husband, Love you too.  Still not entirely convinced I'm terribly enthused about the swapping of several night feeds to being stalked.

I'm fantasising about the bottle of Cider that I've had in the fridge for months, or at least I was until I unfortunately remembered it was removed from the fridge to make room for something else and even to one as desperate as I appear to be, warm cider is a little too close to piss in a bottle.  Still, I could however use the bottle to beat Peppa Pig into submission, why is she even awake still? Suddenly I'm salivating for a bacon butty.

Tally Whacker: random toddlerisms

Despite his relentless protestations that he's apparently a big boy now, more often than not The Toddler appears to habitually regress and insist there's things he can't do, things like close a door or walk across the room or even sit up.  Perhaps it all sounds terribly twee yet believe me when I say it's exhaustingly frustrating.  Take the other morning for example, whilst trying to get us both dressed he declared he absolutely couldn't possibly put his trousers on.  Okay, picking my battles I told him I'd help as soon as I'd dressed myself.  Upon turning to see what he was doing he was still laid on the bed where he'd been moments before seeing as sitting up had become an impossibility in his world only he was hitting his winkie.  Yes, really.  Naturally I enquired as to why he was administering a torrent of smacks to it when he piped up 'I'm trying to make it go small again, Mummy.' Joy.  The reason The Toddler couldn't get dressed was revealed, his morning wood was getting in the way.  Blimey.

Surely things could only go, excuse the pun, up from here.

He's positively exuding raw energy, he flies down the stairs on his arse at hyperspeed, hands outstretched behind him to make a satisfying thud thud thud on each step as he impressively comes to a halt at exactly the right time to avoid a full on collision with the front door and bursts into the lounge.  Literally.  After all why use the door handle when you can bulldozer your way through it?  The Kitten, knowing what's best for her, scarpers up the stairs, knowing all too well that anytime all three of The Spawn are in an enclosed space, anyone in their right mind would make a swift sharp exit.  I take this opportunity, as The Toddler launches himself at an unsuspecting remote hogging Thing One and practices his seagull impression of 'MINE. MINE. MINE' thus instigating the first of many loggerhead situations of the day, to slip into the kitchen.  Whilst under the guise of preparing Thing Two's packed lunch for school, I self medicate as usual by stuffing as much chocolate into my mouth as I possibly can before they notice I've gone.  The  urgency serves two purposes firstly, if they see me having chocolate for breakfast they'll shriek at the injustice of it and secondly, quite frankly, I refuse to bloody share it.  Temporarily fortified, I finish the lunch and brave the lounge again, before I act upon the urge to flood a bowl of cocopops with vodka for breakfast wondering if it will turn the vodka chocolately.

The Husband is still sprawled on the sofa under his duvet, mumbling incoherences whenever The Spawn dare to ask him anything  becoming noticeably more pissed off each they remind him of the time.  I beckon Thing Two to the sanctity of the kitchen to complete the morning ritual of me doing something with her hair.  Something being the key word here seeing as I'm about as adept at hairstyling as I am at sewing.  Two wonky bunches later, two bobbles and six slides and I then commence operation fuck-off-nits as I fumigate her entire head with tea-tree oil spray to repel any beasties that may be visiting her friends at school.  She's asking if i's safe to breath yet as I compulsively squirt it just a few more times...just to be sure.  I'm half hoping it will repel undesirable children from nearing her too.

So, been up an hour or two already with The Toddler who probably breastfed for at least 40 mins of that.  I've gotton us both dressed, flushed two cat shits, fed The Kitten, prepared Thing Two's lunch, done her hair and then The Toddlers as he too wants clips and ponytails despite the fact he'll remove it all within minutes afterwards.  I've banished The Spawn upstairs for operation brush-your-skanky-teeth and told them not to return unless it's complete with a school jumper on.  The Husband is still half asleep on the sofa.  Eventually, and miraculously without me kicking him (shame), he awakes.  Here starts the routine 'I'm more tired than you' bollocks. Yes, competitive tiredness, welcome parenthood. Somehow him choosing to go out the night before to see a friend, getting in at 2am and not getting to sleep until 5am trumps my insomnia, my chronic fatigue, the night feeds and everything else.  Diddums.  My heart bleeds for him.  I issue the death glare whilst ensuring The Toddler isn't escaping what with him being a dab hand at unlocking doors nor watering the carpet with strawberry milk whilst he commences crumbling at the no icepops for breakfast ruling.

Regardless, I win and he does the school run.  Back of the net!

The next day was Busy Day, every Tuesday morning is shopping day.  Upon returning, amidst a sea of bags The Toddler is refusing to get up off the kitchen floor where he is laid and go into the friggin lounge.  Arse.  After telling him for the third time to go into the lounge he looks up at me with those saucer wide eyes and proclaims 'I can't take my shoes off you Plank' I don't know whether to be annoyed or impressed at his creative name calling, something The Husband and I excel at.  Granted it's infinitely better than The Husband telling me I have a fat back the night before, bang went his blow job rations for the rest of the year.

Later in the day the lounge is quite literally a bomb site.  I'm meticulously trying to locate all the sticklebricks and ask The Toddler to pass me the tub to put them in.  Predictably his reply was 'I can't' followed by 'I can't reach' and topped off with a 'I can't stand/walk/move' when I asked him to please get off his bum and get it.  However, he was perfectly capable of emptying all the cars and building bricks I'd put away, that he seemingly could do.  Futility threatening I ask one more time to which he replies 'I'm just annoying you now' .  He knows.  He knows he's annoying me, he knows because he's doing it on purpose.  Git.

Finally seeing a glimmer of carpet I go to rinse the hair dye from my hair.  As usual he trots up after me and has a mooch round Thing Twos room promising me he'd sit on her bed and watch a Scooby video, yes video, we're terribly retro darlings.  Towel turbened up and red eared I sneak up on him, he's hurriedly moving stuff.  I call out to him cheerfully that it's time to go back downstairs as he murmurs about 'just putting these back' aww, he's tidying up! Oh Please, don't be so stupid, really.  I assume he's been playing with the much coveted Moshlings.  I was wrong.  I caught him red handed, or should I say glitterhanded, in Thing Two's treasured make-up box.  Buggersticks.

Typically when Things One & Two returned from school, The Toddlers other personality comes out to play as he relentlessly fights with Thing One and follows Thing Two around like a lost puppy.  Still, I had to smirk when I hear The Toddler sternly berate Thing Two with 'Will you stop turning your TV off I'm sick and tired of having to turn it back on!'

I'm counting down the minutes until I can self medicate with chocolate again under the guise of cooking tea whilst day dreaming about which colour straw would compliment a bottle of vodka best whilst singing badly.  (seriously kittens have been killed by lesser evils than my singing) to my mp3 player, turning the volume up just enough to mute WWIII in the lounge.

The Toddler is telling his latest joke

Him 'Knock knock?'
Me 'who's there?'
Him 'Dr'
Me 'Dr who?'
Him 'Doctor POOMAN'

You see he takes after The Husband, he isn't funny either.

Still he's a lot more charming what with his morning compliments of 'I like your top.  You smell nice Mummy'
the boy will go far.

I'm losing track of days,  I'm too exhausted to sleep and too exhausted to be awake.  My new glasses keep falling off my nose and I'm contemplating which internal organ to sell to fund a new tattoo.

Still, as The Husband offers a cheeky stubble free snog and Things One and Two throw goodnight kisses for me to catch I settle down in the dark with The Toddler as he feeds to sleep, the lullaby of his gentle breaths soothing the soul...ready for it all to start again in morning.  Tis a good job I love the sods.

Goodbye sun, hello moon: Autumn & everything after.

The last summer moon of 2013.

Goodbye Summer and Hello Autumn, I'm never quite sure whether I'm supposed to mourn this or celebrate this, but personally it's a celebration. I am not a Summer person. I love Autumn; the smell, the colours, the feeling of it.  I love the cozy dark nights and the vicious slash of colour against the grey days as if nature is ripping apart the grey at it's very seams with poetic fingers that draw the earths blood in pools of orange, red and browns.  Textures beg to be touched as they entice you into some illicit affair.  Things feel alive, the world is on fire, nature is the phoenix, as we dance upon that fragile line between birth and death.  Never has death looked so beautiful and rebirth so promising.  Winter is coming....

I love how ripe and swollen with delicious anticipation Autumn is as we count down to Samhain, Guy Fawkes night and then Yule.  As the leaves die in some macabre beauty around us and the branches lie barren for now, skeletal and brittle, we celebrate for we know it is not the end, just one end of many more which will lead to yet another beginning.  It's intoxicating.

I love the layers as we bundle up, the stews and soups with puddings and custard.....the splashing in puddles and kicking through leaves as we collect one of natures bounties, shiny conkers ripe for the plucking.

Autumn is when I feel most alive.

So how are we welcoming the equinox? well, Thing Two is full of snot and cough and Thing One and The Toddler are as always fighting like cat and dog, or more fitting for The Party of Five, like cat and kitten.  The Husbands temper is ablaze and I'm significantly useless.  With at least several hours of kip a day for a minimum of 5 days a week, I'm exhausted yet functioning...sort of.  Yet a week without daytime sleep and I can barely think straight.  Yet it is still somewhat more favourable than last week when I had my third evening out since  which resulted in me returning home to a bollocking from a furious Husband and a Thing Two in floods of tears followed by an impromptu two bus trip to a park last Sunday with Thing One running head first into a window at the bus station and The Toddler falling down the stairs on a double decker bus.  Joy.  Fear not though, they're terribly bouncy and have not a mark between them.  Yet another of those incidents that they'll likely never remember and yet we as parents will inevitably never forget.

The Kitten has been given free reign round the house in daylight hours now much to The Cats horror.  The days are punctuated by hisses and growls and The Cat finally grew a spine and decided to eat The Kittens Food.  The Kitten retaliated by shitting in The Cats litter tray.  It is essentially a pissing contest to see who's the cats bollocks, only not as they're both girls.  Happy days.

Things One & Two were deep in debate about whether The Toddler should be a boy or a girl with Thing One wanting him to be a boy and Thing Two rather convinced he should be a girl.  The Toddler however just wants to be a Power Ranger.  Fair enough.  Although I'm terribly impressed with their albeit oblivious belief that one can be whichever gender they so choose, I did rather feel duty bound to point out the somewhat obvious fact that The Toddler is a boy.  I say I felt duty bound, yet I never have been one much for duty so I left them be.  Not getting involved.

Thing Two has rediscovered her  inner photographer,seeing as she finally found her camera and we happened to actually have batteries for it, the moon must indeed have been blue that night.  Never one to disappoint in  predictability The Toddler wanted in on the action and commandeered the camera well on his way to needing his own Myspace and Instagram accounts if his penchant for photographing his winky and his dinner are anything to go by.

Sleep is still evading us, in this house in-between insomnia, illness and buggering demonology going on resulting in me sneaking lavender oil into the bath to try and knock at least one of the spawn out.  The Toddler refused to even get out of the bath last night as he did this amusing little ritual of floating whilst walking on his hands up and down the bath insisting he simply must do 'real fish' before he could even contemplate being extricated from the watery wonderland.  Who I am to argue with that logic?  It was an improvement on his earlier bath antics which made me exclaim 'please get your winky out of your watering can spout'  Upon finally getting the little bugger out of the bath the games commenced as I tried to wrestle him into his pj's whilst he laughed at me, forward and backward rolled at hyperspeed across the bed then farted in my general direction.  Such a charmer.

Oh but lest you be mistaken the fun indeed didn't end there.  Then commenced the epic 80 minute stint of singing, pretending to be a fireman, serenading me with Anthrax and nursery rhymes, demanding a towel to wipe his snot, burping in my face, attaching himself to my back, draining an entire beaker of water (this was after half an hour on the breast) and cuddling the orange cover of some sort of flashing light thing from a building site.

He then had the utter audacity to roll onto my side of the bed whilst I went moon hunting out the bedroom window which was rudely interrupted by a fog horn skank with a rather limited vocabulary consisting mainly of obscenities having a loud conversation with her young daughter across the street...in the dark.

Still, this morning soon arrived and despite a treacherous inability to go the fuck to sleep, I still had several hours in bed before being presented with a bacon and mushroom butty in bed ....and two bunches of roses!  The Husband evidently wants blowing.

Catching up

Woo-hoooooooooo! The kids are back at school! Let's sleep!!!! erm.. I mean party, yes, let's party.  Things One & Two have been back to school a week now, calm has replaced the chaos once more.  It's not that I don't miss the little buggers, obviously I do, it's my ever fraying nerves that are rejoicing.  Thing One is terminally bored and would rather roll around the floor bemoaning the fact like some demented dog than to actually play something whilst Thing Two has had just about enough of her two brothers and although she's a gem at playing and entertaining herself her brain was woefully bored and starving for academic challenges.  She was positively thrilled at the prospect of returning to school, I think she's broken, where did we do wrong?  That just leaves Jekyll and Hyde, The Toddler.  On his own he is possibly the most charming  and agreeable excuse for a small person ever yet throw Things One & Two into the mix and he becomes terribly possessed, screams in demonic tongues and beholds siblingocide as his dearest hobby as he venomously rips apart any shreds of remaining sanity we may possess becoming abhorrently contrary.  In other words, he turns into a right git.  Had he been someone elses child I wold have labelled the little fellow a complete bar-steward. Happy days.

Chasing the tail of Thing One's birthday was Thing Two's birthday, a mere two weeks later.  Obviously a complete lapse of sanity in our planning there.  Ooops.  However we had the rare feeling of satisfaction knowing that we'd fulfilled her birthday list of presents  Win.  Usually The Relatives all descend upon our modest abode for a buffet and cake, yet due to The Spawn getting older and somewhat bigger the thought was rather stifling not to mention the fact The Kitten is to be kept in the main receiving room so the constant opening of doors may have developed into a rather interesting bitch fight should she have escaped into The Cats dwelling.  So we had the genius idea of celebrating out of the home, with a trip to Pizza Hut for Thing One and The Chinese Buffet for Thing Two.  Infinitely more expensive, but bloody worth it.  Hassle free  Bliss.

After avoiding referrals like the plague for over a decade I've finally been given one to a quack, with the rather amusing name Dr Seine, pronounced Sane.  Yes, really.  I shit you not.

The Husband, who adamantly never has an opinion nor shoes anything but utter contempt for my constantly changing hair colours has spent the last few months protesting his sheer loathing for my current colour, an uncharacteristically normal dark blonde.  It's boring apparently.  Naturally, I have spent possibly the longest time in the past few years not changing it,  possibly just to irritate him, we all need a hobby after all.  Alas even I've become fed up and have predictably bought red dye today  Sorry Thing Two.  No doubt i'll have blood on my hands (& ears) and the bathroom will appear to resemble the site of a massacre by the time i'm through.  I'm frightfully slap dash with my ritualistic hair torture.

Must dash, I have a space rocket to fix and cat shit to scoop, why oh why do they wait until they have lovely fresh litter only to immediately christen it with a large shit then just to ensure the aroma penetrates the entire vicinity they refuse to evacuate the tray until they've kicked and scratched the litter round  or a miniature eternity?  Bloody cat.  Did I mention that she gobbled the cat grass we grew her in mere seconds then pulled up the roots...dumping them avec soil on Thing One's bed? There is a reason we nickname her twatcat.

The moon is made of cheese (..and other such tales)

Liar liar your bums on fire. Or it bloody well should be.  I'm astounded that my nose has not yet grown large enough to play hoopla on.  Whilst preaching to The Spawn the absolute necessitity to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth at all times we fail to realise the full extent of our hypocracy.

So the biggee's aside, you know Father Christmas, The Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy there's all the other white little lies we tell day to day because as I've said before, anything for an easy life.

Like when I'm hiding in the kitchen scoffing biscuits and chocolate yet when asked by The Spawn I solemnly declare i'm cooking tea and they can't possibly come in because it's hot hot hot and i'm terribly busy.

Then if they do happen to catch me stuffing my face and ask for some I apologise sincerely because 'I'm so sorry darlings this is grown up chocolate/ice cream and children aren't allowed it.  It's full of grown up things.  You can have a banana if you want?"

Or when I claim to be having a shit when really i'm just sat on the loo trying to grab a quick 40 winks.

Then there's the empty threats that you never have any intention whatsoever of carrying out irregardless of how utterly and cockle warmingly tempting they may appear such as 'if you don't do x, Christmas/after school club/your sleepover is cancelled' or the infamous 'if you don't behave we're going home right now' or the old favourate (sorry teachers. sorry god) 'RIGHT tomorrow we're talking to your teacher about this behavior of yours' which makes them positively quiver with the fears because seemingly it's terribly more important to be seen as well behaved to their teachers then it is to their bloody parents, don't mind me Spawn, you know...I only birthed you (water melon out of a cherry much?)

Lets not neglect the meal time lies 'it's not a vegetable! it's sports candy!!!' ... 'Ooooh magic trees, that's what Tree-Fu Tom eats to fuel his magic! nom nom!" (Broccoli) 'wowee look at those fluffy clouds, nom nom!" (cauliflower)

It would be rude not to mention the old wife tales tales and miscellaneous lies at this point, we've all heard /used them 'if you the wind changes your face will stay like that' ... 'I saw that.  I have eyes in the back of my head'  ... 'eat your carrots they'll help you see in the dark' ... 'eat your crusts they'll make your hair curl' ...'it won't hurt (much)' 'yes we're nearly there, just round this big corner' ... 'if you don't get back here by the time I count to ten i'm going'

Oh and then there's the lies purely for shits and giggles because we all need a hobby, parents hobbies just happen to often be picking on their spawn.  It's either that or alcohol.  These consist of things such as 'if you don't tidy your room, rats will chew through all your stuff and cover your room in poo' ... 'if you don't put your shoes on properly, eventually your feet come loose and fall off' .. 'oh dear you have toetus.....'

Oh shush. Are you genuinely trying to tell me you have never ever lied to your child?

See? so many lies.  Parents are quite awful beings really.  Thankfully The Spawn can be much awfuller....even so far as being awfullist.  It's okay though, when you eject the placenta they secretly jab you with a love venom which means even when they're vile and beastly you adore them...in a way....a little bit....sometimes.

You know you're a mum when...

1. You sniff your babies bum to see if they've poo'd
2. If the latter proved inconclusive and it's dark, you do the finger test (and pray to the gods it's negative)
3. You've had poo (not yours) under your fingernails
4. You've caught vomit (not yours) in your hand to save bedding/clothes
5. You make up random songs about the most mundane things to try and coerce your toddler into doing something.
6. If the song fails you end up inventing obscure sound effects to the act you want them to partake in.
7. You're a master of bribery
8. It's only 10am and you're wondering if you can get away with downing vodka if it's disguised in a coffee mug.
9.You frequently have company in the bathroom when all you want is to shit in peace.
10. You get through the day and realise at some point, hours before, you forgot to put your boobs away after a feed (and have probably answered the door)
11. You pick boogers, that aren't your own.