Island Mum

My swimming hero

2011-02-15T13:39:00.005Z

My 5 year old received a swimming badge at the weekend. And I can't tell you how proud I was of her. Not because she's good at swimming but because she's terrible at it. Or to be more precise, she's terrified of it.

But since we live on an Island and our house backs onto water and because it's just one of those essential life skills, I make her go to the dreaded lessons. Week after week after week. There are tears; there are protests; there are bribes. But she gets in that cold expanse of water and tries to follow her teacher's instructions to the best of her ability. To tell you the truth, it's pitiful to watch. Although she is perfectly capable and kicks her legs obediently enough, her fear and dread is absolutely palpable. I sit there grinning my head off with positivity and good cheer but I often see tears streaming down her face as she diligently kicks and splashes her way through the water, counting down the minutes 'til she can get away.

So when she was awarded her 'Duckling 3' badge after a particularly sorry lesson, I was over the moon for her. I sewed the badge onto her towel as soon as we got home and she proudly gazed at her hard-won certificate - hardly believing herself that she could achieve anything from these hated lessons! Daddy patted her on the back, Granny heard all about it on the phone and Little Brother was in temporary awe.

Then yesterday, Little Brother (aged 3.5 yrs) received his Duckling 4 badge. And yes I'm thrilled for him - he swims like a fish, 5m backstroke or underwater front-crawl, no problem. But I just wished she could have had more than 24 hrs basking in her swimming glory.

Then she told me that she'd happened to mention her swimming badge to her teacher, who suggested she bring it in to assembly on Friday. It's a really sweet thought but I fear it's going to backfire. I imagine most of the kids in her class will be way beyond Duckling badges (one girl recently received a medal for swimming 100 m unaided) and although they wouldn't be so cruel as to laugh at her, they're bound to talk about all the badges they've won and how they got Duckling 3 YEARS ago....

Oh dear, what to do?! My daughter's achievement is a real prize to her (and me!). But in the eyes of her classmates and the world, it's nothing. I just don't want her to know that.

Just keep moving...

2011-01-23T08:27:00.005Z

So we're on the move again. Yes, yes, I know. It's only been 6 months since our last move. And no, we're not on the run.

It's just that 6 months ago, desperation won over practicality and we moved from our 4 bedroom house 40 minutes away from the childrens' school to a 'cosy' 2 bedroom place much, much nearer. The daily commute is bliss. 6 minutes - I counted. I can be home for a leisurely breakfast and child-free tidy up. Best of all, what I had been spending in petrol each week, now stretches to at least over a fortnight of car use.

But despite some ingenious storage solutions and several major de-cluttering sessions, I eventually had to face up to the fact that you can't actually decant the contents of a 4 bedroom house into something half its size with the same number of residents...and have room to breathe. My poor 6 ft-something husband complained that he couldn't walk in the front door without tripping over something and had to turn sideways to edge down the corridor. The kids could barely find their toys that had been so cleverly stacked away onto shelves. And some of my clothes are still in packing boxes (which at least makes moving them easier!).

So when a friend mentioned that her house across the road was coming up for rent, we jumped. It's not palatial. There's another (single) bedroom. But every room is a couple of feet bigger. More importantly, the layout is much more sensible. There's a proper entrance hall (I can already see the bench-cum-shoe storage in a pretty duck egg blue...) and a discreet little alcove for my home office. The playroom adjoins the living room so we can sit and read the papers (in my dreams) whilst the children frolic happily next door. And best of all, in my husband's eyes, the garden backs onto water. For him, this means unlimited sailing opportunities. For my children, this means feeding the swans their unwanted dinner. For me, it's a bit of a headache to be honest. Lifejackets will have to be de rigeur outdoor uniform.

The thought of packing up all our worldy goods so soon after our previous move is slightly daunting. But I'll tell you something, there's nothing like moving house for a good Spring clean. In my initial sort out, I've found missing jigsaw pieces, vital lego accessories and even some Euros. Which is good because after this next move, I'm definitely going to need a decent holiday. Just don't ask me to pack for it!

Pocket money solves all

2011-01-22T22:02:00.006Z

I've been struggling with the issue of pocket money for several months now. No, not because there's a recession on and we need every penny we earn. More in a 'should we/shouldn't we and if so when', kind of a way.

Would it turn my 5 and 3 year old into greedy mercenaries, bargaining for ever more coins to drop into their bulging piggy banks? Would they refuse to get out of bed, let alone tidy their toys away, unless I coughed up in an appropriately handsome manner? Would their entire involvement in family life disintegrate into endless financial interactions?

These doubts - and more - kept me putting off the moment to ever more distant milestones. Together with the fact that, like the Queen, I am renowned for never having any cash in my purse. (I'm more of a card person actually and can't wait for the day when we just swipe our purchases onto a barcode embedded into our wrists when we turn 21). The thought of seeing the disappointment on my childrens' faces as I scratched around in my purse for the promised pennies, was too heart-breaking to dwell on.

But, as it turns out, pocket money hasn't been the scary monster I feared. In fact, so far, it's all been good. I've even been pretty reliable about producing the requisite amount every Friday, with only the teensiest amount of scrabbling. And the outcome has been surprisingly positive:

I've watched my daughter choose something to buy with her first clutch of pennies, then be devastated afterwards that her piggy bank is empty and resolve to start saving again (she certainly doesn't get that trait from her mother...). Unlike me, the bank manager would be thrilled to have her custom.

And is there any better way to grasp the nuances of addition, subtraction and multiplication than practical application? Cue impromptu Maths lessons in Tesco's as the kids do their usual routine of picking up a toy and asking if they can have it. Now, instead of having an embarassing showdown in aisle 9, I just say, "Yes, sure darling. That will be 10 weeks of pocket money - or everything that's in your piggy bank now and no more pocket money until the end of term". Silence. Toy goes back on the shelf. We walk on in peace.

I've also found the threat of reduced pocket money to be an amazingly effective behavioural deterrent. If my son hits his sister, that's 10p off his pocket money. If she screams in that glass-shattering, dog-scaring way that does my head in, the same applies to her. Consequently, the first week involved a certain amount of subtraction on the part of Bank of Mum - thereafter, we've not seen any hitting and n'er so much as a raised voice. Winner all round!

So, to recap, for just a few gold coins each week, I have regular maths lessons with my kids, encourage them to save, instil in them a sense of the real value of material objects and have a great discipline tool.

Why didn't I start this pocket money lark years ago??!

(image c/o Cris DeRaud at http://www.rgbstock.com/gallery/crisderaud)

TV or not TV, that is the question.

2010-12-09T21:45:00.006Z

I've written before of Human Biology lessons on the way to school. Well, this morning, it was geology. Hypothermic vents to be precise. And underwater volcanos. Which of course led on to earthquakes, tidal waves and tsunamis.

Luckily, not so long ago, I embarked on a science degree with the Open University so I wasn't too embarrassingly rusty on these facts. But if I tell you that the person quizzing me on the Earth's marine peculiarities was my 3-year old son, you might understand why I was slightly taken aback by the questions being fired at me from the back seat. Worryingly, his pronunciation of 'hypothermic vents' was spot on, if a little protracted (as in: "Mummy, what's a hi-per-ther-mic-vens?").

His interest comes, I'm afraid, from the cBeebies programme Octonauts. And I guess I should be glad that his television consumption is proving so educational! But it did make me think that perhaps they're watching a little too much at the moment. Not that we even have a telly - I've never been able to find a TV that doesn't offend my aesthetic sensibilities so we watch any programmes on our Apple Mac, via BBC's iPlayer.

Normally, I'd turf them into the garden during any daylight hours that they're not a school and encourage them to run, jump, cycle, dig and generally fill their lungs with fresh air and tire their bodies out with physical exercise. But right now, it's too freakin' cold - for them, for me, for their toys - to be outdoors and cBeebies has become a more familiar friend than I'd like.

But at least they're learning something...and at the moment, I still know the answers to their questions. I dread the day when my kids ask me stuff that I don't know how to answer. Maybe I should start watching more telly myself!

Crumpets or chocolate?

2010-11-28T20:01:00.007Z

We've just returned home from the Victorian Christmas experience in Portsmouth, where fake foam snow covered the ground and real snowflakes swirled in the air. It was great actually, even with the faux-snow. But we all got chilled to the bone. Warming comfort food was the only way forward.

For me, that spells toasted crumpets, dripping with butter and the merest smudge of marmite. (Although I might settle for my granny's lardy cake). Piping hot Lady Grey or a glass of madeira - or both - would be ideal companions.

For my kids, it's hot chocolate laced with marshmallows. And possibly a home-made hot dog, oozing ketchup.

So it got me thinking... what's the ultimate comfort food of all time, ever?

Chocolate cake?

Sunday roast?

Chicken soup?

Macaroni cheese?

Mashed potato?

Cheese on toast?

Home-made chips, fried egg and ham?

Spaghetti carbonara?

Fish pie?

Curry?

Treacle tart?

Chocolate chip cookie?

A cheese board and crackers? (Hmm, does cheese feature too often in this list?!)

I guess in truth, it's different things at different times. Even a salad can satisfy a craving, given the right conditions.

But I'd love to know your favourite comfort food. It might give me some ideas for our next wintry outing..

Blogging for Sudocrem

2010-10-04T16:07:00.002+01:00

I'm painfully aware that my Island Mum blog has been woefully neglected for the last few months but don't worry, I haven't abandoned writing. Oh no. I'm just blogging for Sudocrem now. Which means, less of a personal online diary style and more general posts related to mummies, babies, toddlers, as well as beauty, nutrition and travel tips.

I'm loving the discipline of having to write copy on a daily basis. And reviewing some cool kit has been great fun. Being paid to blog is also nice (however token...). But I miss my own blog and will definitely be back here in due course. Watch this space...

love Mamma Po xxx

Heaven sent?

2010-07-15T21:24:00.006+01:00

When the unsolicited e-mail appeared in my In Box, it read like a heaven-sent answer to my desperate plea for help.

"The 19 year old daughter of my good friend's neighbour in Basel, Switzerland is training to be a teacher. She's looking for some English work experience and will provide child-care and domestic help in exchange for board and lodging."

Child care. Domestic help. Trainee teacher!!

It was like my perfect wish list.

I wrote back with barely pause for thought and said we'd be very happy to help with the board and lodging bit in return for some help around the house. I imagined the fun yet educational games this jolly, young, non-sleep-deprived, Julie Andrews look-alike would provide my energetic offspring. Patting the mountain of ironing waiting my attention, I started whistling refrains from the Sound of Music and idly wondered if a month was long enough for my children to become bilingual.

Admittedly, I did get slightly cold feet some weeks later (what was it going to be like having a perfect stranger living with us 24/7??). But before I had time to express my doubts, an e-mail told me that her flight had been booked and could I please mail back directions to our house from the airport.

And so it was that Swiss Lisa came to stay.

Now, I can't say that it's been all bad. As I write this, I can truthfully tell you that the ironing basket is completely empty.

But Mary Poppins she ain't. In fact, for someone who is planning to work with children, she has a very strange manner indeed. She barely addresses my 3 and 5 year old and when asked to entertain them for an hour, she'll sit and watch them rather than interact in any way - let alone instigate the educational 'games' I wistfully imagined.

Not only that but the time that she is even available to us is precious little. Thanks to me, she managed to secure some work experience at the local primary school. But instead of the couple of mornings I had in mind, she decided to work there 5 days a week, full time, in order to fulfill a requirement of her teaching course. She gets home (exhausted) just before 4 pm - 2 hours before my children are ready for bed. She refused fairly early on to do their supper so its a bare hour's child-care (which they beg me not to inflict on them) and if I'm lucky, she'll bathe them - swiftly and joylessly.

All in return for a comfortable room, her own bathroom, 3 square meals a day (including a substantial packed lunch) and all her washing done.

Am I the world's biggest fool?

Thankfully, the month is nearly up as it breaks my heart to see my kids pretty much ignored by someone intended to care for them. But you could argue I was utterly naive in not vetting her in the first place. What was I thinking?? I guess I stupidly thought that someone recommended via the friends network had to be good. And the prospect of having some help was just too tempting. I also imagined my kids would benefit from the social experience of meeting someone from another country. It's a pretty sheltered existence on the Isle of Wight and I thought it would be good for them to see beyond the confines of the Solent.

But from the very first day, when my daughter excitedly spent all afternoon making a Chinese lantern for Lisa to hang in her room, only for me to find it discarded on the kitchen floor that evening, I suppose I've known that once again, my wild optimism and blind trust has made me a sitting target. Another lesson learned.

Birds & Bees, Dogs, Cats & Hamsters too

2010-07-05T13:55:00.006+01:00

So I'm driving along in a bit of haze this morning, still recovering from the heart-racing trauma of getting the three of us out of the house by 7.45 - dressed, teeth cleaned, hair brushed and toy of choice packed for Show & Tell - when THAT question is calmly raised.

"Mummy, where do babies come from?"

As I swerved past an innocent cyclist, my brain went through a variety of possible answers. Was my nearly-5 year old (not to mention ears-agog-3-year-old) ready for a graphic Biology lesson or should I be weaving her fantastical stories of Storks and Cabbage patches...?

Cooly as I could (and aware that whatever I said now would be recited back to me in years to come...Daughter has the memory of a super-computer), I selected the most-truthful-but-not-too-detailed reply. Something about eggs and seeds...tra la la..."and then the baby grows in the Mummy's tummy for 9 whole months! Imagine that darling, we were waiting 9 months for you to grow into a little baby...".

I rabbited on a little longer, hoping that my mindless chatter would distract from any detailed questioning about where these eggs and seeds came from exactly...or how on earth they fused together to create another human being.

But of course, I should have forseen that the next question would be...

"So how does the baby come out of the Mummy's tummy??"

Glossing over the fact that both my babes were sun-roof extractions (against my sincerest wishes and efforts), I referred back to a recent-ish farm trip where my children were utterly disgusted to see lambs being born from a sheep's, er, bottom.

We then had to go through every animal a 3 and 5 year old are familiar with to confirm they were also born by this gruesome method. We did cats, dogs, cows, horses, guinea pigs, hamsters and so on. And on. And on.

I was grateful to have a temporary diversion to the bird genus and talk about real, tangible, shell-cracking eggs.

But we were soon back to mammals.

It was only at the end of the journey that my son wanted to know how stones are born. Which completely stumped me. How do you answer that??

We've done our first Biology lesson. Next up, Geology. I can't wait for the next car journey.

The Butterflies That Breathed Fire

2010-05-16T17:30:00.003+01:00

You know that saying, "when your number's up, your number's up". Well by default, I suppose the opposite is also true. No matter what the odds are against us - whether accidental or by design - we can't determine when we shake this mortal coil.

And how very, exceedingly, can't-bear-to-think-about-it grateful I was of that fact yesterday.

I was just making my little girl's bed after she'd managed to get most of the chocolate from a sneaky bed-time chocolate brioche all over her sheets. Having slipped off the errant article, I was just smoothing a clean sheet over the mattress when I realised the corner was stuck on something. Closer investigation revealed that one of the butterfly fairy lights, from the chain strung decoratively over my daughter's bed, was lodged in the underside of the mattress. As I retrieved it my heart missed a beat.

The bulb in the offending butterfly had not only blown but was black to the core. Much, much more scarily, it had burned a hole in the foam, roughly an inch in diameter and depth, with two smaller holes nearby. I always switch her lights off once I know she's asleep so, even if I'd been a bit slack that fateful evening, they couldn't have been on for longer than an hour. I must have got there just in time.

Later, I recalled that the lights had suddenly stopped working two days ago but had just presumed a bulb needed replacing. It hadn't occoured to me something much more dangerous had taken place. Nor how close my daughter had come to meeting a horrible end.

For the last 24 hours, my mind has been filled with awful images of what could have happened, had her guardian angel not been on duty that night. Would she have woken when she smelt smoke or simply drifted from sleep to unconsciousness? Or would it all have capitulated too quickly and by the time flames were licking the wooden bed slats, she would be beyond rescue. Would I have been roused by her cries for help or, not realising the emergency, lain there for vital life-saving minutes, hoping she'd go back to sleep? And how did some childrens' fairy lights get that hot in the first place??

It's all too frightening to contemplate and still makes me shiver to think about it. All I can say is, thank god for fire-retardent foam and fate.

And I'm hugging my little girl that much closer to me tonight.

The Elves and the Grandmother

2010-05-08T08:32:00.003+01:00

She's already the strongest contender for Best Granny In The World competition but yesterday my Mum surpassed herself.

I'd been moaning about our short nights - how I'd be out working 'til 11.30 pm, getting to bed around midnight, then the babes would stir at 6 am. Which all makes for too little sleep to be a happy mummy. And when I say 'stir', what I actually mean is blood-curdling screams of "MUMMYYYYYY!!! We're hunggrryyyy!". Followed by stamping of tiny feet and jumping over my sleeping form.

Recently, I have been able to get away with suggesting the babes help themselves to an early breakfast, with me following up with toast or pancakes when I'm up. And it does kind of work. They grab the box of Cheerios, tip some sugar-coated shapes into a plastic bowl and carry their edible booty back to bed to munch and natter while Mummy and Daddy get a few more precious minutes in bed. Ok, there's a trail of Cheerios all over the house (I even found some in the bath the other day) but you know what? It's worth it. Totally worth it for every single extra minute I get to slumber. And I love listening to their whimsical babbling, as I slowly drag myself into the land of the living.

Yesterday though, my Mum extended this concept with her own special brand of Granny-creativity and brilliance. She brought me 2 little tin 'tuck' boxes, each labelled with the children's names and a picture of a clock, set to 7 o'clock. Inside them were a treasure trove of yummy goodies - rice cakes, cheese straws, sausages, mini cheeses and chocolate buttons - each treat packaged in its own adorable ziplock bag. It was the stuff of children's dreams and too, too sweet for words. The plan was that they would wake at 6 am, discover their treats and happily tuck in whilst we had a weekend lie-in. Bliss all round. How could it fail?

As I tucked them into bed, I told them the deal. Stay in bed 'til the clock reached 7 and the elves would bring them a special treat. Youngest instantly started looking around for these elves and when we explained that they would only come when he was asleep, began to get rather scared of these strange creatures creeping around his bedroom at night. Much cuddling and explanations later, sleep thankfully got the better of him.

But come 6 am, what was I woken by? "MUMMMMYYYYYYYYY!! The Elves have been".

It was like Christmas morning. The two babes bounded into our room, brandishing their trophy tuck aloft. "Can we open it? Can we open it?". My husband sleepily muttered acquiescence, "Err, that is the general idea...".

More high-pitched squeals of delight at the contents.

Then they discovered they couldn't open the zip lock bags. Husband was drafted in to assist and after painstakingly unzipping each tiny plastic container, sent them back to bed with their early breakfast. We gratefully snuggled back under the covers and pretended all was peaceful.

A few short minutes later, the sugar-rush cooked in and the babes ran back into our room to bounce on the bed (and us). Conceding defeat, we rose to the occasion and decided the elvish plan needed some refinement.

But bless you Mum, for your wonderful sentiment. We love you for it. And one day, one day, sleep will return to this household.

Fruity Cashew Curry

2010-04-14T20:38:00.010+01:00

Looking for something warm and fruity...?

Take one shiny skillet pan:

Melt 25g unsalted butter

Fry 55g unsalted whole cashews, along with 2 teaspoons of curry powder, 1/2 teaspoon of cinnamon and some bay leaves or curry leaves, until nicely browned and fragrant. Remove with slotted spoon and put to one side.

Chop 2 onions finely (I use Pampered Chef's Food Chopper to make this job a LOT easier!) and add to the unctuous pan, along with 2 teaspoons of finely chopped fresh root ginger.

Add 175g washed basmati rice, 600 ml water, 100g dried apricots and 55g dried cranberries.

Bring to the boil then cover with lid and turn down low. Let simmer for 12-15 minutes, stirring a couple of times during cooking.

Add the fried cashews and chop some fresh coriander leaves over. Serve with yoghurt or raiti.

Ta da!

Spring salute!

2010-04-12T14:22:00.006+01:00

I used to think Autumn was my favourite season, with its kaleidoscopic backdrop of burnished reds, golds and yellow. But now that Spring is unquestionably here, I'm so entranced by the promise of good times that there's just no dispute. Until September anyway...

It's hard to beat the insistent whisper of buds pushing their way out into the world. Or rosy-cheeked blossom cascading over magnolia and cherry trees. Lighter evenings. Warm sun. Baby lambs frolicking in the green green grass. Barbeques and picnics (sometimes at the same time). The whole world feels happier overnight and we've still got the whole summer stretching luxuriantly in front of us.

So naturally, my thoughts turn to food and what I'm really craving right now is a great salad. Succulent, buttery Baby Cos Lettuce sliced into hearty chunks. Wild rocket or local watercress to break up all that vibrant green with darker leaves and peppery undertones. Milky plaits of buffalo mozzarella. Lightly toasted pine nuts. Oak smoked cherry tomatoes. Such simple ingredients just need a delicious dressing to bring the lot together.

Over the weekend, my tastebuds were crying out for a creamy dressing that wasn't too Heinz Salad Dressing but had a bit more oomph than just a vinaigrette. Enter, the awesomely simple yet-oh-so-tasty Italian Dressing.

Ingredients:

4 egg yolks (reserve the whites for a light omelette or meringues)

4 teaspoons caster sugar

1 pint/600 ml olive oil or walnut oil (or a combination)

4 teaspoons Dijon mustard

200 ml White wine vinegar

juice of 3 lemons

freshly chopped oregano

Salt & pepper

Method:

Whisk egg yolks then add sugar, mustard and seasoning and whisk well to combine.

Gradually add the oil, pouring in whilst whisking to create a smoothly combined, unctious dressing.

Slowly add the vinegar.

Finally squeeze in the lemon juice and the oregano.

Enjoy. I did.

Lego is banned

2010-04-01T19:23:00.003+01:00

So here's a top tip.

If you ever find yourself in the middle of a mind-numbingly dull day, the kind where relentless horizontal sheets of rain make outside play - or indeed any plans at all - completely redundant, try this simple short cut to instant drama.

NB: This works best if you are 2 years old or thereabouts...but don't let me be the one to spoil your fun.

Take 1 minute lego piece. The smaller the better. Colour optional - we liked red.
Insert into a nasal passage. Push until you are certain the lego is well and truly installed deep in the recesses of your nasal tubes.
Attempt to blow it out.
Discover you can't do this without the aid of some serious medical equipment, not just an improvised wooden skewer wrapped in loo paper affair.
Panic. Scream. Etc.

This was how my son brightened up our day earlier this week. Perhaps I would have been more sympathetic if he hadn't done the same trick with a small sticker 2 days earlier. That time we were lucky. Perhaps the tacky surface adhered to some nasal hairs and so was easier to retreive. Maybe those teeny tiny lego pieces are just perfectly shaped to fit ever-so-snugly in a child's nose.

In any case, I was not amused. Especially when I realised that we were getting nowhere with my home-made lego-retrieval device and would have to cancel a lovely afternoon with our dear friends, who were due round to play any minute. Leaving urgent voicemails on various machines, we dashed to the car (in the rain-cum-sleet) and set off for the hospital. I did consider leaving the lego to work its own way out (like a splinter, right?) but my little chap was so distressed by having a foreign body taking up residence, despite it being his own handiwork, that I felt I had to do something constructive. In between cursing him and the invention of lego alternately.

Although we had an 1.5hr wait at A&E, he and Big Sister couldn't have been happier. Whilst I sat in the waiting room, twiddling my thumbs and brooding about the afternoon we could have been having, they had a toy kitchen to play with, colouring, new books and, best of all, a water machine. When we were eventually seen by a lovely, patient, friendly doctor (making up for all my irritation and making me feel thoroughly inadequate as a mother), the errant piece of plastic was removed in about 1 minute, tops. There was a little intense screaming (mostly from my son) but a plush new teddy bear with a beautiful blue satin bow soon diverted him from the minor passing trauma.

All in all, I think he felt it was a pretty passable day. Even the rain had an up side as it meant Mummy had to carry him, swaddled in her coat, at a highly amusing jog all the way from the car park to A&E with rain dripping into her eyes, down her back and turning her hair into rats' tails. Then, oh how funny they'd closed the usual entrance for renovation (who renovates A&E?!!), so off again all the way round to the main hospital. Ha ha ha.

Now I'm worried that anytime we have a less than exciting day lined up, he'll start edging towards the lego. If he can find it that is...

Then last night, I found him inserting something into another to-remain-nameless orifice in the bath. Is this a stage or just little boys? I think I scared him by saying that the doctors would have to chop it off if anything got stuck up there. Even 2 year olds realise that's a vital bit of kit they can't afford to lose.

Aging backwards? Or national ailing eyesight...

2010-03-14T09:37:00.003Z

I am starting to seriously worry about the state of the nation's eyesight.

For the second time this week, someone has marked me down as much younger than I really am. What is going on? Can't they see the fine lines around my eyes and mouth? The beginning-to-sag skin beneath my cheekbones? The loss of elasticity under my chin? Or even, the decades of weariness in my eyes, fergodssake??

Earlier in the week, Acclaimed Cookery Writer was describing me as 32 (she is fast becoming my New Best Friend!). Then yesterday - this will make you laugh - the lady serving me at the Co-op asked me for ID, as I attempted to buy 2 bottles of rather nice-looking and happily discounted Wolf Blass.

ID! Helllooooooooo?

Couldn't she tell I was 3 years away from the big 4 0?

I let out an involuntary little giggle, "Are you serious?"

The (admittedly bespectacled) lady sniffed, "We never joke about under-age alcohol sales. I'll need to see some ID please".

Did she really think organic apricots, The Times and fair-trade cocoa were the shopping habits of a teenager? Not to mention the bumper pack of nappies in my basket! Mind you, this is the Isle of Wight, where many of the mothers look like elder siblings of their bawling offspring.

I had to press the short-sighted shop-assistant further, "You honestly think I could be under 18?".

"Well you do look awfully young..."

I could have hugged her. Especially as I'd woken up with a rather angry blemish on my chin that morning and was not exactly feeling my most beauteous.

Joyfully I rummaged for my driving license and popped the Wolf Blass into my rucksack. I think I skipped home. I may even have whistled.

Whilst floating on my little cloud, I wondered whether Husband had perhaps slipped her a tenner earlier in the day, as an early Mother's Day present.

But no. For when I recounted my tale to him later, he sweetly brought me down to earth in the charming manner that only our nearest and dearest can get away with.

"18 eh? It must have been the pimple".

Thanks Husb. I love you too.

And I'm applying for a job at the Co-op. Preferably on the till next to the short-sighted shop assistant with a propensity to police under-age booze-buyers.

My New Man

2010-03-12T09:55:00.004Z

Despite being stony-broke at the moment, Husb and I splashed out the other night and treated ourselves to a babysitter and 2-4-1 cinema tickets. Mid-week and everything, how reckless are we?!

We've both had a relentlessly busy time of late and found ourselves reverting to 'co-parents' who just happen to live under the same roof. When all we concentrate on is our dual responsibility to the kids, inevitably we end up snapping at each other over trifling things and generally being rather ratty. It's no fun for anyone and, to be honest, really rather silly. So a night out to redress the balance and act like a couple for once, instead of Mummy and Daddy, was much needed.

Babysitter was free, yay! (Free available, I should point out, not free gratis...if only!)

Babes were knackered and settled without a murmur. Yippee!

So now, what to watch??

"Shall we see Avatar then?" I asked, feeling a certain duty to see the biggest-grossing movie of all time.

But I'd not taken into account my husband's penchant for chick-flicks. I kid you not. He's far more likely than me to shed a tear over sobathons like Life Is Beautiful or My Sister's Keeper. Given the choice, he'd go for Legally Blonde over Top Gun every time. Bless. I like to think he's in touch with his feminine side.

So we buy tickets for Neil Jordan's Ondine. The one where Colin Farrell goes back to his Irish roots and catches a mermaid in his fishing net? Well, you know, whatever...it was a night out. Who cares what's playing on the big screen.

Colin Farrell is ok in it but the 'mermaid', Alicja Bachleda (Polish actress I'd never seen before) is just stupidly gorgeous. Are supermodels actually allowed to be talented actors and singers too? But it was at the moment that we see her walking out of the water, with her clingy wet T-shirt on, that I thought perhaps my husband had his reasons for choosing this film after all. There follows lots of dreamy shots of Alicja tossing her long, tangled hair and the camera lingering over key dramatic moments, like her swimming athletically underwater or slowly easing on some new underwear that Col's just stolen for her. (Oops, did I give too much away there?). I mean, is a 10 second top shot of her impressive cleavage truly necessary?

No wonder my fella likes chick flicks. Not so much 'in touch with his feminine side'...but pure bloke, through and through.

It was a sweet story though, so I'll forgive him.

God Bless Her

2010-03-09T17:57:00.002Z

Daughter came home from school today with a green star stuck to her jumper. Naturally I wanted to know what she'd done to deserve such an accolade and was told it was for good story-telling.

Now as you may remember from previous posts, my darling girl is not very forthcoming with information about her day so it takes all my ingenuity to coax even minor details out of her. I've learnt not to question too intently as that causes instant shutdown. Instead, I feign disinterest and treasure her carelessly dropped clues to piece together the jigsaw of her day.

But this time, I'd obviously caught her at a good moment. I tentatively questioned further.

'So, was this story-telling at a Group Reading Session darling?'

"No, it was with Mrs D" (the headteacher).

She'd also come home singing something about Jesus The King and I don't know this for sure but I have a funny feeling that Mrs D may be in charge of RS.

So I put 2 and 2 together and, making a rather hasty assumption, asked her if this story had anything to do with Jesus.

Bingo.

Now I'm really curious (given that we're not a religious family...in fact, my husband is laughably aetheist). So I rack my memory for New Testament tales and ask what Jesus had done in her story...had he cared for the sick, healed the blind??

Double bingo. I'm on a roll now. So I have to just go for it and ask her what Jesus had done in her story.

"Jesus told the blind people to go the Opticians and get some help for their eyes".

Her father's daughter, through and through.

Could it be fate?

2010-02-26T22:16:00.005Z

After 10 years working on endless Channel 4/Beeb 2 lifestyle series, I severed my ties with television when I became a Mum. It's not that it wasn't fun; it's just that TV and Happy Families don't mix in my experience. The only successful women in telly were divorced, single or gay. None of which I particularly aspired to, having tried out two of those states already and found them wanting (I'll leave you to decide which!).

But some people do want to be in that world. Very much. And I've nothing against that. In fact, I'm more than happy to help them fulfill their dreams, if it's still in my power to do so.

And so, this morning, I met up with an acclaimed cookery writer, who I met whilst doing my own little cookery demos in my part-time role as a Pampered Chef. She's done some TV appearances but has yet to headline her own series, although I'm certain that's only a matter of time, given her charisma and determination. Thus we spent a merry few hours plotting a potential programme to highlight her particular talents.

My husband chastised me mildly for putting so much of my energy into doing something for nothing. But it just felt right. And of course, if we manage to sell our idea to a broadcaster, I believe she'll recognise my part in it. Call me naive but she has an honest face.

Acclaimed Cookery Writer was all for me directing, producing and making the entire proposed series but that's not where I'm headed any more and I said as much. So she asked what my burning ambition was these days. There's quite a list at the moment but I happened to mention that I'd started writing childrens' stories.

"Oh, well do you know X...the best children's literary agent in the country? Who lives a few doors down from me? And is one of my closest friends???" says ACW.

I am flabbergasted. This is my dream on a plate.

So cue, dream-shattering moment...

"Last time I saw her, she had a pile of manuscripts waist-high on her kitchen floor. All still in their envelopes".

My soaring hopes crash land on the AGA.

"But if you give me a copy of your's, I'll deliver it to her in person and stand over her until she's read it".

There is a God.

So this evening, I printed out a fresh copy of my newly written children's story and dashed off a brief synopsis. It's sitting in a brand new jiffy bag right now, packaged with hope and sealed with prayers. Tomorrow, my dreams and the jiffy bag will wing their way to Ms ACW....then....watch this space.

It's ok. I know. It could all (most likely will) come to nothing. But it's like the lottery. If you don't buy a ticket, you've got no chance of winning. And even a £10 prize would be nice right now!

On the bright side...

2010-02-20T15:48:00.005Z

So I had all these lovely things planned for Half Term. They involved pancake feasts, hovercraft trips, visits to Aquariums and Steam Railways, not to mention numerous playdates with out-of-school friends we never see. Oh yes, a babysitter and a restaurant too.

But here we are, nearly at the end of the break, and I've had to cancel every single, last one of my carefully crafted plans, let down countless friends and missed out on a rare night out with Husb. Without wingeing on (too much), my little chap (2.5) has been frightfully ill. A cold turned into a nasty ear infection, along with sky-high temperatures and vomits. We've done doctors, NHS Direct, Calpol and antibiotics in a big way. I'd like to say he's on the mend but that would be somewhat optimistic as just this morning he started coughing like a seasoned smoker.

That aside, it's been a pretty relaxing week. No, really, it's not been all bad!

Ok, we've been pretty much trapped at home but with the patient laid out on the sofa, dosed up with painkillers and being entertained by Charlie & Lola (the best £7 I ever spent), I got to hang out a bit with Darling Daughter. She echoed my feelings when, on Day Two of our enforced entrapment, she said, "I've got you all to myself now, Mummy!"

Later that day, obviously pondering the benefits of School v Half Term she said, "I do love my school, Mummy, but it's a bit boring not to see you all day".

I know how she feels. And actually, I was rather reassured that she felt like this as I was starting to wonder whether she just saw me as Taxi-Driver, Cook and House-Keeper.

Because she's still quite young (she won't be 5 until the end of August, which makes her about 6-10 months younger than her classmates), she's utterly shattered at the end of her long school day. Her teachers tell me she's into everything and plays/works non-stop whilst she's there. But when I pick her up at 3.30 pm (7 hours after dropping her off), she's usually in bits and can barely hold it together long enough to make it to the car. I hate to say it but my sweet, funny, chirpy little girl is generally pretty darn rude to her mummy at this time of day and I have to really watch my step if I don't want to provoke her!! After several weeks of dealing with my tetchy little schoolgirl, I started wondering whether we'd made the right decision to send her at all.

So it's been a joy to have my little ray of sunshine back this week. We've done lots of baking together and other nothing-special-but-kinda-fun-arty-projects and she has just enchanted me. Her cheeky smile, her delicious sense of humour, her clever insights, crazy imagination and unwavering concentration have all lit up my day.

I feel like I've been reunited with the daughter I know and love this week and although I'm very sad for my little boy and all that he's going through right now, I've enjoyed the silver lining to this cloud.

Don't make these in your skinny jeans.

2010-02-20T15:17:00.007Z

Do you like Brownies? Then, I promise you, you are just gonna lurve these 'Blondies'.

I pinched the basic recipe from the irrepressible Amy Willcock (Queen of Aga Cooking but, after tasting these, my new Domestic Goddess) but couldn't resist tampering with it slightly. They are incredibly naughty, possibly even more calorific than their darker chocolate counterparts. But you only need a slicket to produce a total mouth-gasm. So enjoy (in moderation if you're watching your waistline, or at least not whilst wearing your favourite skinny jeans).

First, you'll need to get....

Ingredients:

360 g unsalted butter, softened

180 g smooth peanut butter

560 g caster sugar

3 eggs

2 tsp vanilla extract

435 g self-raising flour

75g white chocolate chips (optional but you'll thank me later)

sprinkling of lavender sugar (available in Waitrose, dahling)

Right, now you've got that unholy collection of goodies all lined up, here's what you do with 'em.

Directions:

Pre-heat the oven to 180 C
Beat the butter and peanut butter together until they're smoothly combined. Or 'fluffy' as Amy says. You're best off using electricity for this job so chuck it all in a Kitchen Aid or some such (I used my Kenwood blender and it kind of worked).
Measure the sugar, eggs and vanilla extract into a large mixing bowl.
Add the butters and mix everything together. Then sift the flour in and fold 'gently but thoroughly'.
Stir in the white chocolate chips until evenly distributed.
Line a 34.5 x 24 x 4 cm (or thereabouts) baking tray and pour mixture in. Level off surface and sprinkle with lavender sugar (my touch, hope you like it!)
Bake for 20-25 minutes. Don't overcook as you want the Blondies to be slightly squidgy.
Cool thoroughly - this was my downfall. In my eagerness to taste the results, I slid them out of my funky Eyecatcher baking tray and the sides started to ooze out. I managed to salvage them but next time I'll leave them be until completely chilled. Having said that, the warm pieces that I couldn't save were simply divine.

They're good served warm with ice-cream or straight from the fridge with a cup of Lady Grey - or whatever your poison is.

So there you have it. What's so great about skinny jeans anyway?

Wisdom or cowardice?

2010-01-19T22:01:00.005Z

Being a woman, I am quite good at multi-tasking. You know, I can walk AND chew gum. Maybe even read the odd text message at the same time...

But seriously, I was doing a mental tot-up today of the various balls I'm juggling at the moment (metaphorically speaking, no sniggering in the back please!) and just thinking about them made me dizzy. So I sat down with my ever so rational husband this evening and after I'd talked him through my current juggling act, he said in that typically clear-headed masculine way, "Well, obviously you're going to have to drop something, aren't you?".

I've got to say, that option hadn't even entered my head. I hate giving up on anything and the idea of laying something aside in order to make my life easier and less heart-attack inducing really hadn't occoured to me.

But trying to do a part-time science degree, run a Pampered Chef business (weekly cooking shows across the Island) and be a full time Mum to two tiddlers just doesn't add up. Plus Husband has asked me to shoot some videos for one of his property clients which will bring in a little much-needed dosh and we're still trying to sell our house, which means constant vigilance on the tidy front. Oh and did I mention I've started writing children's stories (not published obviously but optimistically hoping/trying)? Then there's Book Club, yoga class, my new cholesterol-lowering keep-fit regime and possibly even some sort of occasional social life...

Like I said. A few balls in the air.

But which to drop? Well sadly, and because we desperately need the money to pay for daughter's expensive schooling, right now it's gonna have to be the degree. It's simply a luxury we can't afford right now. (I thought about dropping the Mum bit but there was some protest over this). I feel pretty gutted about this as, after leaving school at 15 to pursue a dance career, not having a degree has always been a chip on my shoulder and something I desperately wanted to achieve. BUT, but but but...I keep telling myself, it's not dropped, just postponed. Next September, Littlest will be spending full days at nursery - instead of just the 3 hours that he's currently doing - so studying may be much more viable again.

I'm gonna sleep on the concept but something in my heart tells me this is the right thing to do. If I don't want to turn into total stress-head shouty Mummy that is.

This is my favourite and my best.

2010-01-14T20:54:00.008Z

Winter food that is.

And whilst there are many contenders for the title of warming comfort food - potatoes drizzled with melting raclette cheese; French onion soup; a hearty fish pie or generously laced Coq-au-Vin - for ease, speed as well as flavour, this tops the lot.

Ladies & Gentlemen, I present to you...

Butternut Squash Gnocchi in Sage Butter

Sounds fancy. Is simple (and cheap) as anything. So if you don't believe me, just try it. Honestly, this will be your new favourite Friday night supper, dinner party starter, weekend lunch dish, whatever. I think even Charlie & Lola would agree with me.

Ingredients

1 butternut squash

1-2 tablespoons of olive oil

250-350 g semolina flour (if you can't find it, use good - 00 - plain flour)

2 large, free-range eggs, beaten

bunch of fresh sage leaves

butter - to taste (I use a good half a pack...just think of all that vitamin A!)

freshly-grated organic or good quality parmesan

Directions

Halve the butternut squash and scoop out the seeds (if you have time, you could wash the seeds and fry or roast them in a little soy sauce as an appetiser. V. tasty.). Brush squash with a little oil and some salt and pepper. Roast at 180 C for 40-60 mins, until very tender. Remove flesh (and discard skin) and mash.

Mix in the flour and beaten eggs. Refrigerate mixture for 1 hour minimum.

Using 2 teaspoons (or a small scoop, eg Melon Baller or equivalent), shape the mix into small 'mouthfuls'. When you have around 10, drop them into a pan of boiling, salted water. Cook until firm to the touch - you can usually tell they are ready when they bob back up to the surface again. Repeat with the next batch.

The sage butter is the thing that really makes this dish, lending a deliciously smoky, almost meaty flavour to the potentially bland gnocchi.

So, melt some butter in your frying pan and add a generous handful of whole sage leaves. Let them crisp up but try not to let the butter burn. If necessary, add a dash of olive oil to increase the cooking temperature of the butter. Drizzle over your gnocchi and grate some fresh parmesan over.

Enjoy. And let me know what you think.

Favourite photo meme

2010-01-08T18:31:00.009Z

Thank you, Maternal Tales from the South Coast, for throwing me the meme gauntlet. I'm not always that brilliant at getting down to such things but this is one meme that is right up my street. A picture can say 1000 words, and all that...

Still, I can't possibly choose a single photo that I could call my favourite from my entire photo collection. Which in this age of both digital cameras and point 'n' shoot mobile phones, is considerable.

Hence I've decided to tweak the meme (sorry Emily) and just do my favourite photo from the past year. Not that that makes it a whole lot easier to be honest. Obviously the chosen piccie will be of my darling children (I'm guilt gushing now, having just slagged them off at A Modern Mother's site). But which one?

I love this one of them both sunbathing on Cowes Green.

But I also adore the one of my little girl dancing at her end of nursery summer show...

And obviously it would be very wrong of me to post this without adding one of her naughty little brother...

In the end though, I think it has to be the snap that for me epitomises one of the best things about bringing up a family on the Island...carefree frolicking on the beach. This wasn't any special day. I don't think it was even the weekend. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and we headed out to the seafront just to check out the surf. Despite being unprepared for a swim, the kids couldn't hold back and we just hitched up M's dress, whipped off J's shorts and into the water they went. Two little sun-bleached beach babes. Love it.

Oh and I'm meant to pass the tag on. I therefore nominate A Modern Mother, Crystal Jigsaw, Mwa, Frog In The Field and More Than Just A Mother. Look forward to your pics, ladies.

So what would you stockpile?

2010-01-06T21:06:00.005Z

Well the snow came to the Island, sooner and heavier than predicted. In fact, the only predictable thing about it all is the utter chaos it has wreaked. No grit for the dangerously slushy roads, all the schools shut and people panic-buying as if we've entered the dawn of a new Ice Age.

It's almost laughable how crap we are at dealing with bad weather. And how ridiculously terrified everyone gets. After a friend told me that her local shop had been literally cleaned out by lunch time, I pondered whether to reluctantly join the shopping frenzy or just be cool. In the end I decided I should probably get a few things in, as if I left it too late there might be nothing left on the shelves. We are living on an Island after all and although our garlic and tomatoes are the best in the country, you could get bored of eating garlicky tomatoes for every meal.

So the kids and I dressed for the Antarctic and set off through the slush to our nearest Co-op. The boy (you know you're getting old when the supermarket staff look like they should be at school) at the check-out told me only 1 delivery lorry had got through, compared to their usual 4. If this weather carries on for the week it is forecast for, it's going to be mayhem. Not that it wouldn't do us all good to starve a little...I for one certainly over-indulged during Christmas and if a cake-free week is forced upon me, well, I should really be thanking the weather gods for making my trousers less of a squeeze.

Anyway, there I was in the middle of my stockpiling spree when I just couldn't think what to panic-buy. Finally I plumped for a 12-pack of loo roll, 2 tubes of toothpaste, a mammoth carton of Rice Krispies and some dried porcini mushrooms.

Then, because they had a 50% off sale on, I couldn't resist popping into my favourite Cowes boutique, Live Like This, and came out with a nice new stripy cardigan. So that's us sorted then. Bring on the Ice Age, Armageddon etc

Thank God I didn't have twins!

2010-01-05T22:12:00.005Z

Fabulous as it has been not to be woken by the alarm clock or rush to get myself and 2 children dressed and out the house by 7.45, it is something of a relief to return to the routine of school and nursery. Albeit for a potentially tantalisingly short time - sudden snowfall may yet bring the Island to its knees...

But the latest school holidays have made me realise how very bad I am at multiple-child management. When my daughter and I spend any time together, we always have great fun. I throw myself whole-heartedly into occupying her busy mind (and thoroughly enjoy her very amusing company in the process), whether we're baking dinosaur biscuits or making a wooden puppet, painting a face mask or colouring in a card for Granny. During solo time with my toddler son, we do other stuff - completing a digger jigsaw, tearing round the playground, playing with coloured water in the sink, or building the most complex train track and Brio village yet.

But when I have the two of them together...for the whole day, no breaks, no naps, just the occasional 15 minute DVD, I kind of mentally freeze up. Like a rabbit caught in headlights, I find myself in a state of panic and simply fail to do anything significant other than the bare minimum (ie: three square meals; and preventing either child causing the other a fatality).

I mean, we can't do baking as my little boy would want to attempt everything his sister was doing but just end up either eating an entire bag of icing sugar or scattering sprinkles everywhere. And Daughter is kind of over the type of jigsaw her little brother is capable of. The indoor trampoline occupies them both for about 2 whole minutes and sometimes they even agree on which DVD to watch. But otherwise, it's a long, torturous, long, noisy, long, exhausting, long, L O N G day trying to cater to two completely different set of needs - and ultimately, I fear, failing both of them.

Looks like tomorrow will be another such trial as snow has been falling constantly since 4 pm (we just made it home in time but husband came back looking like the Abominable Snowman) and the school have set up a hotline for the morning. Wish me luck - and inspiration!

New Year, new meme

2010-01-02T16:37:00.007Z

Since one of my New Year's resolutions is to update my blog more frequently, I thought I'd better start by responding to a very long overdue meme from the glorious Maternal Tales from the South Coast. I mean, seriously overdue. Like 6 months...whoops. Sorry sweetheart! It's not that I'm not grateful to have been tagged, it's just another tragic example of my awful time-keeping these days.

Anyway, this particular meme requires me to list 7 personality traits, then pass it on to some other worthy bloggers. I like to think my personality is more multi-faceted than just having 7 traits but I guess the most obvious ones are...

1. I'm a natural control freak. Yup that's me turning all the kitchen jars round the same way and colour-coding the sequence my jumpers are hung up. I even have the childrens' books in strict height order. Sad but true. Disorder just bothers me and makes me feel uncomfortable until I've righted it. You might not realise this if you visit me on a bad day as mostly I can't begin to keep up with the chaos my kids revel in. I think this is partly why I have found motherhood so challenging - children are just something you utterly can't control. It's been a big lesson for me. One I'm still learning.

2. I can't sit still for long. There always seems to be something I feel I should be doing. So even if my favourite programme is on telly, I'll multi-task and do the ironing or sew on name-tapes or tidy toys away, sort the washing etc. My husband finds this very annoying but actually I think it's the only way I manage to keep half on top of everything.

3. I generally present a happy face to the world and will always smile if I meet you in the street.

4. Having said that, I'm not afraid to have a good old moan. I'd rather be honest about what's going on in my life rather than pretend everything's hunkydory. But I don't tend to dwell on the crap stuff and move on pretty quickly. (Especially if I'm moaning to my wonderful friend N who always gives me the best advice and makes me feel that life ain't all that bad really).

5. I have quite a fiery temper when provoked and am not afraid to stand up to anyone. As you can imagine, this sometimes gets me into trouble. I'm not sure this fearlessness is a good thing and spend my life trying to swallow the urge to right the wrongs of the world. Better to right my own wrongs before trying to fix the world's, hah?

6. I'm very chatty. But sometimes I wish I could just shut up as quite often I'll go on autopilot and babble on without pausing to think about what I'm saying. And then realise I'm talking absolute gibberish.

7. I have a very high pain threshold. Is that a personality or physical trait? Useful anyhow. Especially when it comes to having a Caesarean where the anaesthetic fails.

So there we go, meme complete. Now time to pass the buck. So I pass this on to:

Diary Of A Surprise Mum - because she hails from the Island but gives me a peek into London living

Metropolitan Mum - because she's living the kind of London life that I used to before I ran away to the seaside

Millennium Housewife - because she makes me giggle. A lot. And I think this may be one award she doesn't have. I know. Amazing!!!

Enjoy!

So did you make it to midnight?

2010-01-01T18:16:00.009Z

I amazed myself by not only easily reaching double digits (it had been a corker of a sleepless night the previous night...) but actually not succumbing to sleep 'til gone 2 in the morning! And despite only 5 hours sleep, I felt great all day today.

All thanks to a wonderfully entertaining evening. Our first, proper, 'grown-up', New Year's Eve party, in fact, for, ooh, about 4 years. The girls dazzled in cocktail dresses; the fellas donned lounge suits (whatever they are! They looked pretty darned smart anyway) and our generous hosts knocked up a fabulous feast for 18. As well as having ample space to entertain, the man of the house is something of a Gordon Ramsay. Was this the New Year's Eve golden ticket?

Well, the champagne flowed, conversation likewise bubbled along and, having feared I'd be snoring into my main course, I could hardly believe my ears when someone announced we were half an hour away from 2010. Then of course it was time for fireworks (luckily the neighbours had all been invited so there was no upset from next door) and a romantic lass had sweetly brought along a pack of Chinese lanterns to set off. This activity kept us all occupied for a good hour as people wrote their hopes and dreams, wishes and wisdom on the tissue-thin paper, then set light to the candle beneath and watched it rise into the sky.

Sadly, our hopes for 2010 (Mine: serenity, solvency, success. Husband's: Happiness. Sex. Money. - How predictable is that? Talk about Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus!) went up in smoke. Or more accurately, they were dashed against the garden shed and then went up in smoke, before we hastily prevented the entire shed catching fire. (So that's a nice positive way to start 2010...) But some people got the whole thing down to a fine art, patiently waiting for the lantern to fill up with hot air then coaxing (ok, shouting at) the temperamental objet to rise above the rooftop - particularly the shed rooftop - and over the trees, up, up and far away. At least three did successfully drift off like ghostly parachutes across the horizon. God knows where they landed. Or what the poor recipients made of our drunken messages. But hopefully we didn't set any more sheds on fire...I'm not sure that would be good 2010 karma.

A kindly guest pressed two spare lanterns into my arms as we left, "for your little ones". M was so delighted when she saw them this morning and told me she was going to wish for a little elf (called Eric apparently. Don't know why but my daughter is nothing if not eccentric) to help me with all my cleaning and tidying..."so that you will have time to play with J and me, Mummy!".

I didn't know whether to well up or hug her. I think I did both. And it's left me feeling a teensy bit sad and guilty for not being the playmate she'd like and always being bogged down with my oh-so-dull chores. Cooking meals, baking snacks, the never-ending tidying up of child-induced mess, sorting the washing out, ironing endless shirts and sheets etc etc etc...

But surely it was ever thus? I might think my life is full of domestic drudgery but 100 years ago, many mothers were little better than slaves. Up at dawn to light fires and bake bread. Tend the vegetable patch, heat the iron in the fire and crawling on all floors to scrub the floors. And just think of washing all those clothes by hand! Back then, mothers just wouldn't have had the luxury to play with their children, whether they wanted to or not.

With all our technological advances and automated machines, our lives should be a doddle. So why don't I have time to play with my children and instead feel permanently torn by my multiple responsibilities? And I'm not even a working mother!!

Note to self. 2010: must try harder.

How will you be celebrating New Year's Eve?

2009-12-27T08:44:00.008Z

Did you have a wonderful Christmas? I do hope so. Ours was a bit of an odd one because my 93 year-old Grandad broke his hip a week ago and my Mum (who we spent Christmas with) is tearing back and forth from hospital every day trying to ensure that he gets at least minimal standard nursing care, despite his great age. Sadly there seems to be a feeling that once someone over 80 suffers a fairly major accident/illness, you may as well let them pass on to pastures new, as it were. As an ex-nurse of the old school, my Mum is terribly disappointed in the current hospital care, as well as being desperately worried about her father.

I know 93 is a ripe old age and some might say, "well, he's clearly had a good innings..." but before the accident he was fit and healthy, mentally 'all there' and had a great quality of life. Still went for his early morning walk along Southsea beach every day, did all his own shopping, cooked his own meals (ok, with just the teensiest help from the culinary aisles of Michael Marks & Thomas Spencer) and loved to visit nearby Portsmouth Cathedral, regularly laying fresh flowers on my grandmother's grave and chatting to friends along the way. I hope the doctors at least try and help him recover, if only so that he can end his days in peace rather than in pain.

Anyway that aside, we did manage to all sit down (albeit rather late) on Christmas Day and eat together - bronzed turkey for the meat-eaters, cranberry-salmon parcels for the 'pescetarians'. And a hearty toast was raised to Grandad, in his (hopefully temporary) absence.

And as per our family tradition for any celebration (started by my paternal Granny who lived near the Colchester oyster beds and had a lifelong penchant for the delicacy) , we also managed to put away a few dozen fresh oysters. For those not keen on raw shellfish, I'm going to post my recipe for the most delicious alternative - oysters grilled with parmesan, spinach and cream. We call them Rockefeller oysters but in truth there's no official recipe, as the original Oysters Rockefeller are a closely guarded secret by the chefs at New Orleans restaurant Antoine's. But anyway, these honestly are To Die For and although I still like to have a few raw ones at any sitting, these are a strong contender for my alltime favourite food.

So to feed 2...

Ingredients:

A dozen oysters

1/2 bag of baby spinach leaves

Black pepper to taste

Double cream

Grated parmesan

Breadcrumbs

Method:

Shuck the oysters (you need tools here, so get properly equipped first!)

Place the halved oysters on a baking tray (lining with aluminum foil first to make the cleaning up a little easier!)

Wash the spinach leaves in a colander.

Put the wet leaves into a saucepan with a knob of butter, a little salt and lots of black pepper. Lid on and let the spinach sweat over a low heat (you don't want the leaves to burn so give them an occasional toss).

Once they've wilted, drain off all the excess water - be rigorous about this as you don't want a runny topping on your oysters. I press out the water with a big serving spoon, squashing the spinach down until no more liquid is coming off.

Roughly chop the wilted spinach.

Add enough double cream to the spinach to just form a creamy mixture (but not too runny remember!)

Mix in the grated parmesan. I've not put a quantity here as I think taste is a personal thing but roughly half a standard pack.

Spoon the spinach-parmesan mixture on top of the raw, halved oysters.

Sprinkle generously with breadcrumbs.

Grill oysters under a high setting until breadcrumbs turn golden and mixture is bubbling...say 3 minutes.

Enjoy. And tell me that wasn't one of the most divine taste sensations you've ever had??

So if you haven't already planned your New Year's Eve menu, may I strongly recommend Oysters Rockefeller? And don't forget the bubbly...

Happy New Year! And may 2010 bring you all that you desire - or at least need!

Dipping into my past life.

2009-12-24T20:42:00.003Z

Well the presents are all wrapped, bags packed for our sojourn across the Solent to my parents' house and I've just the stockings to, er, help Santa with.

At least there's one less present to wrap - and buy - this year. Six months ago, Husband and I decided not to give each other any more 'stuff' (lovely as 'stuff' undeniably is...) this Christmas. It was partly induced by the shocking state of our finances but also by the fact that our little cottage is heaving with things and I just couldn't bear to add to all the clobber. Ok, I probably could have just about squeezed in a little blue box (Elizabeth Taylor's code for a present from Tiffany's, the sparklier the better) but given the credit crunch, that wasn't going to happen.

But that's not to say that we wrote Christmas off. Oh no. In fact, we did something almost better (almost...!) than a blue box. We revisited my former life. Which because of my background in theatre (a long time ago now but the memories of which are etched into my skin) and my passion when I was a city-dweller of spending any spare cash and time at the ballet/opera/theatre, meant a trip to Theatreland!

So last weekend, we settled the children at Grandma's, begged a bed for the night from some old friends and hopped on a train to the Smoke.

Coming out of the tube at Sloane Square was alone worth the trip. Every tree was hung with sparkling LED snowflakes, some seemingly suspended in mid-air, others dripping off skeletal branches. It was never lit up like this when I was a Londoner. Clearly no credit crunch in effect here! I must have looked such a country bumpkin as I stood in the middle of the square for far too long, mouth agape and eyes soaking up this entrancing Christmas scene. I even took photos. What a tourist!!!

As soon as I managed to get a grip of myself, I swung into an old and wonderfully unchanged haunt, Oriel's, and waited for my old friend M to arrive and join us for a quick pre-concert bite. After some delectable food and an even yummier glass of Voignier, we nipped round the corner to the Cadogan Hall to see...Nick Heyward and Haircut 100!!! Any readers younger than 35 won't have a clue what I'm talking about but let me just say that he has the most heavenly voice - so much so that I was almost disappointed when the rest of the band came on and his voice was diluted by their guitars, drums and backing vocals.

The following day, our lovely hosts laid on a fabulous spread for breakfast and then dropped us at the tube to make our way into town. We just had time to fly round the National Portrait Gallery and have a Pret wrap (ah, old times...) before dashing off to the Haymarket. We'd promised Grandma we'd be home in time to put the kids to bed so a matinee was all we could squeeze in but hey, once you're in the magical world of a theatre, as the lights go down and the curtain rises...you can't tell what time of day it is and it really doesn't matter.

What did matter was that the leading lady, who had to go on stage that evening as well, showed her face. And she did. Well, a bit more than her face but let's not split hairs. Anna Friel in Breakfast at Tiffany's was very different to the legendary Audrey Hepburn but equally fabulous. And it was interesting to see a production that was far closer to the original book than Blake Edwards' film (memorable as that was).

Then after our heady 24 hours of culture, we ran for Waterloo and sped back to our babies, the Island and family life. But not without an extra spring in our steps. And a promise to do the same next Christmas.

Exhilarating as it was, I'm not sorry to have left London. But oh it's nice to dip back into it now and again. Hey I might even take the bambinos next time...

Christmas craftiness

2009-12-22T17:41:00.009Z

Oh what a relief it is not to be racing out the door each morning at 7.40 am, with 2 littlies in various states of dress, trying to remember the requisite snacks, clean gym kit, book bag, wellies and a strictly-proportioned 'pocket' toy. Plus any half-eaten bits of toast left over from breakfast in case one or other child decides half-way to school/nursery that they are actually hungry after all. Ahhh, happy holidays!

But the thing is, once your child gets used to the marvellous organisation and stimulation of an educational institution, holidays are really anything but - for parents that is. And when I say parent, I mean the stay-at-home variety, in most cases (but by no means all)...us mums!

So if we want happy children (and therefore happy mummies), we have to get a bit creative - especially at this time of year when we can't just head to the park (Brrr) or turf our beloveds out into the garden (ditto).

Once you've made some glittery Christmas cards (we used Christmas stamps bought in last January's Cox & Cox sale), baked a few mince pies and decorated the tree together, what next? Well we've just spent the afternoon painting some salt dough shapes that we baked yesterday and I can highly recommend the activity for cost (ingredients: flour, salt, water, acrylic paints), ease (my 2 year old managed to cut out and paint his own shapes with barely any help) and delight, as well as all round festive usefulness (thread ribbon through and hang on the tree afterwards). Ta da, instant crafty Christmas appeal!

So if this appeals to any frazzled parents out there, here's what you'll need:

1 cup of plain flour, 1/2 cup fine tablesalt, 1/2 cup water, rolling pin, some pastry cutters (hearts and stars are good for tinies; snowflakes and gingerbread men for more adept bakers), baking trays, a skewer, some pretty ribbon or silver thread.

Method:

Mix all the edible ingredients together.

Roll pastry out, using extra flour to prevent sticking.

Cut out shapes and place on baking tray.

Using a skewer, make a small hole at the top of each shape to insert ribbon later.

Bake in a cool oven (100C) for 2 hours.

Leave to cool before painting. Reds and greens are most traditional and some white piping round the edges works a treat. I also think a bit of gold paint is a must.

You can also varnish decorations for serious longevity. Personally I think ours will have a lifespan of this Christmas only but maybe next year...

Thread red gingham ribbon or silver thread through hole and hang for maximum satisfaction and show-off factor.

Now how easy is that?

In my daughter's shoes.

2009-12-01T20:46:00.005Z

Oh, oh oohhhh! Am SOOooooo excited! M's teachers (there's 26 kids in the class so they have 3 form teachers sharing the responsibility - not like in my day when it was one, very green, very harassed college grad for 25 of us!) have asked me to organise a cooking class for the little darlings tomorrow. My first cooking demo ever to the under-5's market. Husband reckons I should give each of them a business card to take home to their parents...ever the entrepreneur! (S'ok, I won't).

So corny I know but at this time of year, what else is there to make but mince pies? So I have packed my child-proof mini-muffin pan, which makes the dinkiest and most chic mince pies ever, pastry cutters, icing sugar and miniature rolling pins. And tomorrow, instead of dropping my little girl off at school, I shall be following her footsteps and going into the classroom with her! At last I'll get to see what it's like to be in her shoes. Kind of. Except I'm meant to be in charge, or something.

I don't know about teaching but I can't wait to get all those little kiddies rolling and cutting and mixing and baking. Just think of how much mess we can make with just 1 bag of flour and an icing sugar duster! The teachers will never forgive me...but hopefully M's classmates will have a ball. I can't say my chosen recipe gets top marks for nutritional value but I think in December, there are some things you just can't fight and mince pies are one of them (Kate, take note...). Officially, I believe it's obligatory to accompany said pies with steaming mulled wine but I think if I hand round my thermos, I might never get asked back. Which would be a shame.

The only thing that's bothering me is what to wear? Do I go for the smart grey wool trousers and linen shirt option? Or a more funky Boden skirt and stripy jumper combo? Are black leather knee-high boots inappropriate in Reception? Will my eco-friendly felt Timberlands have them snickering at me behind their pudgy little hands?

Advice please. Any time between now and 8 am tomorrow morning....no pressure...

Why Kate's missing out

2009-11-29T12:44:00.011Z

I'm still reeling from Kate Moss's indescribably stupid comment on diet advice,

"Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels"

And before anyone starts defending her as being taken out of context (the rest of the quote was, "You try and remember but it never works". Does that make it sound any better??!)

As an ex-ballet dancer, I've seen more than my fair share of eating disorders...in fact, in a company of 60 professional dancers, I was the only one who ate real food. My fellow athletes chain-smoked and took intravenous caffeine - with a vitamin chaser of course - to survive. Which they barely did. I saw more than one admitted to hospital, to be force-fed and pumped up with life-saving steroids. Others would swallow a boiled sweet or spoonful of honey, in lieu of food, to give them a quick burst of energy before they flitted onto stage. (It may have done but I still had my heart in my mouth watching these skeletal girls wobble through 2nd Act of Giselle).

Health and nutrition aside, I think the saddest thing about this attitude is how Kate and other extreme dieters are missing out on a richness to their lives that food can offer. I don't just mean the sensory pleasure of eating a delicious morsel but everything that goes with that experience.

I like few things better than choosing a mouth-watering recipe by one of my favourite food writers and carefully sourcing the ingredients on my next outing - choosing the glossiest aubergines, the most fragrant oranges, fresh peppery watercress, a pungently ripe cheese. Next comes the cooking - contributing to the amazing alchemy that turns raw ingredients into a delectable feast never ceases to thrill me. Tasting it, of course, is the pinnacle of all that effort but even better is sharing the moment with friends. Food should be a celebration - of delight and gratitude that we are able to partake of such things at all. This to me is what eating is all about.

I would hate to lose this dimension in my life in order to wear Kate's skinny jeans (For the record, I'm a size 10). That wouldn't feel like living to me. Just existing. And Kate must know she's missing out at some level or she wouldn't be desperately seeking sensory thrills from illegal (and frankly dangerous) drugs.

Why is the Y chromosome SO much trouble??

2009-11-26T23:45:00.007Z

Ok I know this is the wrong attitude. Especially when it's referring specifically to my own apparently-cherubic 2.5 year old.

As he frolics along the high street, jumping merrily into puddles with his white-blond hair whipped up by the wind into a halo and huge blue eyes gazing innocently at towering passers-by, other mothers chuckle fondly, sailors dodge his splashes with kindly amusement and little old ladies pause to gaze at him wistfully. He's even capable of causing the grumpiest of shop assistants to rush over and distract him mid-meltdown.

Which is just as well because yesterday I thought we were about to get banned from our local Co-op.

I'd had both children off all week with Slapped Cheek disease otherwise, clearly, I would not have braved the supermarket with the two of them. At 4.30 pm. Without £1 coin to rent a trolley...

So there we were trundling along the aisles - I say 'we'...my daughter was very sweetly carrying her own basket, chattering away to me and helping me choose food from the shelves. God bless little girls! Son Number One (a slightly pointless nickname as I very much doubt I'll be brave enough to ever have another) was using another shopping basket as a kind of skateboard and whizzing it along the aisles, narrowly dodging fellow shoppers. Shop Assistant 1 gently suggested he might hurt someone and that her manager would be along soon. When her comment caused bottom-lip syndrome, she hurriedly went about trying to put a smile back onto his perturbed face. Well-meaning though she was, she clearly didn't have kids herself as she actually encouraged him to hop into the wheely basket (you know those deluxe shopping baskets with a cool extendable handle) and asked my 4 year old to push him along. This proved something of a physical impossibility and caused both children to have a bit of a 'moment'. The shop assistant mumbled something about, "Who's in control here? Ha ha..".

But we got over this trifling episode and I was just turning into the vegetable aisle when I realised my little chap had peeled off to play with the automatic double doors. And a 'Wet Floor' sign with which he had started body boarding. I kid you not.

I call his name. 3 times. Then desert Daughter to go over to him and remove said 'body board'. Naturally this causes some consternation. Actually I think I felt the foundations of the entire supermarket quaking from his screams. How could I have ruined his fun??

I scoop him up under one arm and with the other, try and move on hurridly, desperately grabbing the things we need for supper and, by now, pretty keen just to get the hell out of there. It seems as though elderly shoppers are glaring at me from all directions. I think I even see some calling Childline on their mobiles.

It's only after a few minutes when he takes his hands down from his face that I see there's blood everywhere. I mean, everywhere. We stop in the nappy aisle where there are less disapproving rubber-neckers and I fumble for a muslin in my bag. Pretty soon it's covered in tell-tale red stains and his top lip has started to swell way beyond it's normal bee-stung proportions. I am horrified on so many counts but mainly for my baby - as I extricated the shop sign from him, in his anger he must have bumped his nose on the floor and bitten his lip.

After we finally manage to limp home, he whimpers with every sip of drink. I feel awful beyond belief and on my way to my cooking show that evening, I am utterly consumed with guilt.

Of course, I know that 'boys will be boys' and I do keep reminding myself that he's not being naughty (at least not in his mind), he's simply exploring his world. With great interest, determination and energy it must be said. And an unswerving inability to listen to the pleas of his mother.

But despite my allowances, I do find him ten times harder work than my little girl, who though inquisitive and quite sensitive, is a whole lot calmer and biddable. I don't think he's an extraordinarily difficult little boy per se. I guess it's just the difference between that all-important X and Y chromosome.

My mum had three boys (with me in between) and somehow she survived it. I'll have to ask her how. And soon.

All work and no play.

2009-11-23T21:36:00.011Z

When my daughter started Big School in September and Littlest in turn tentatively began nursery for 2 whole mornings a week, I thought I would have more time on my hands than I knew what to do with. In my rose-tinted dreams, my nails would now remain perfectly manicured, my in-tray empty and my blog updated on a daily basis.

But for some unfathomable reason, not one of these things has happened. I seem to spend an unholy amount of time in the car on the school run (my fault for choosing schools the other side of the Island). Or lurking outside nursery waiting to whizz my son home for a pit-stop lunch and power-nap, before turning round to collect Daughter. My nail polish is looking disgracefully chipped right now (...must remember to hack it off before tonight's cooking show) and, well, you can see what's happened to my poor abandoned blog.

It's not that I don't long to post about the latest ups & downs of our Island life. Not only do I LOVE the creative and cathartic act of writing - as well as receiving comments from my fellow bloggers - but for me my blog acts as a kind of online diary. Somewhere I can record my most difficult or poignant or amusing moments. Or work out my latest angst, you know how it is.

Yet most of the time I barely have time to even read my favourite bloggers' posts, let alone check in to Blogland myself. I find this acute lack of time deeply frustrating and not a little depressing. But I'm starting to think that perhaps I'm just hopelessly optimistic (or maybe ridiculously ambitious) with all that I want to achieve. Either that or I need an alter ego to get everything done.

The trouble is, as soon as the slightest chink of space opens up in my schedule, I manage to instantly fill it with something else. Or three. So Daughter starts school, I start a Book Club (with my friend N and six others). And up my Pampered Chef cooking demonstrations to once a week. And choose my next OU Life Sciences degree module. Alongside marketing the house for sale and attempting to be an otherwise Domestic demi-Goddess.

But I know I'm not alone in this crazy juggling act. Motherhood is all about putting our childrens' needs before our own, right? And fitting our own stuff in as and where we can.

I have to admit though, I am incredibly curious how other mums manage to devote themselves to mothering AND do a fraction of the things they need/want to. And blog.

????????????

When time-out goes wrong...

2009-10-28T17:17:00.003Z

It was 5 pm. Do I need to say any more? Some of my friends call it the witching hour, my brother goes one step further and refers to it as Hell Hour. Whatever you call it, I think it is universally acknowledged to be a, shall we say, somewhat trying time of the day. It's that magical combination of tired kids+tired Mummy+hungry everyone that seems to produce the most monumental battles between siblings and parents alike.

Anyway, as I was saying, the big hand on our kitchen clock was just approaching that dreaded digit when the kids really lost it. They were arguing about some fuzzy felt figures and when I tried to patiently (I know, get me - think it was the toffee popcorn that I was secretly munching that boosted my tolerance levels!) share the kit out between the two of them, Youngest went into full melt-down mode. He threw himself on the floor, legs in the air, arms flailing, house-quaking screaming. Needless to say, innocent fuzzy felt figures were dispersed EVERYWHERE. Still, they were probably better co-lateral than his sister.

At this point, I thought a few minutes quiet time might be useful for anyone to regain their composure. I scooped Youngest up and started to carry him up to his bedroom at the top of the house. By the time I'd negotiated the first flight of stairs with this unhelpfully flailing creature, I decided the bathroom right opposite us would be just as good a location. I mean, what harm can 1 two and a quarter year old come to in a clean, spacious bathroom? Well might you ask.

So in he went and 'shut' went the door. I sat outside listening to his blood-curdling wails for maybe two minutes. And then, just as I was about to put my hand on the door handle and ask him if he was ready to rejoin civilisation, I heard something that made my blood run cold. The click-clunk of the lock inside the bathroom being pulled across. Oh. My. God.

I tried to remain calm and started asking him to pull the lock back. "The OTHER way, darling, move it the other way". He tearfully kept saying he couldn't do it and pleaded, "Let me out, Mum, let me out". I tried to think of other ways I could get him out but there's no other door into the bathroom (funny that) and although there is a window, it was, naturally, well and truly locked.

It was around then that I started seeing images of the police being summoned to break the door down and take my son away from me as a clearly irresponsible mother. Or firemen climbing ladders at the back of the house and having to smash the window to get at him. Or neighbours phoning social services in response to my child's terrified screams. I kept up my entreaties to Youngest to open the lock but of course it had obviously been a complete fluke that he'd pulled it across at all. He didn't even realise what he'd done and now thought that Mean Old Mum was keeping him imprisoned.

So I did what any desperate housewife would have done. (No, not the gin, not yet...). I called Husband. For about the millionth time since I became a mother, I thanked the powers that be that my other half works approximately 2 minutes round the corner from our house. He was back home in half that time. After a bit more cajoling, it became clear that Youngest just didn't have a clue what we meant by 'lock', so Husb. asked him to stand back and gave the door one almighty, man-sized shoulder shove. The lock pinged off and Youngest stood there, blotchy-faced and red-eyed, blinking at his saviour. In a pitiful echo of Jenny Agutter in The Railway Children, he bleated gratefully "My Daddy!". I swallowed hard and thanked those powers that be again for such a swift release from a potentially hideous nightmare.

So I won't be using that option again, methinks. That'll teach me to try and cut corners with my punishments! And there's nothing like a bit of guilt for a slap-up tea...pancakes with bacon and maple syrup anyone?

La petite fille

2009-10-22T17:53:00.003+01:00

M had a French day at school yesterday. She was even more excited than usual to get to school. I'm not sure what was the best bit - trading in school uniform for a Red/White/Blue outfit or pommes frites for lunch.

Personally, I still can't get my head round my little girl having proper lessons, at like, real school, let alone learning another language there and coming home talking about Mademoiselle Noot and how she had Lait instead of L'eau at snack time.

How the time does fly...

2009-10-18T20:13:00.003+01:00

Well it's been almost a month since I posted anything and I do feel incredibly guilty that I've let my blog fester for such a time. But the truth is that life has temporarily got in the way of anything and everything else.

Unbelievably, the house selling/moving situation is no further on. We've played many silly bargaining games with buyers and vendors alike. The vendors of Dream House (having agreed on an offer from us 4 months ago) suddenly decided they wanted their asking price, which meant us finding an extra $30K. After much wheedling and prevaricating on our part, they eventually remembered that the entire country is still ankle-deep in a recession and agreed to come down fractionally. But by this time, our buyers had got cold feet and wandered elsewhere. Enter, Buyer No 2. Who laughably offered us $60K less than our asking price. They want an investment you see. I couldn't decide whether to be offended or amused by such a ludicrously low offer. Did we really seem that desperate? And where exactly did they imagine we could possibly move to with such meagre proceeds that would be any better than where we are? In the end, we gave them short shrift and told them that if they wanted an investment they were very much looking at the wrong place. Finally, we had a cash buyer looking round at the end of last week. So who knows, perhaps he'll be our man.

To be honest with you though, I've sort of lost interest in the whole thing. Obviously I still desperately want more space and a garden for my children. And Husband is pretty keen to be in Dream House on account of its proximity to the Creek (therefore boats, sailing and ensuing Swallows & Amazons lifestyle). But right now, our little cottage feels so cosy (I'm writing this on the laptop, whilst buried in our squashy sofa opposite a roaring fire) and snug that the thought of packing up and moving somewhere new, that needs completely gutting and decorating throughout, fills me with a slight shudder of horror.

Then I've been somewhat inundated with cooking shows (for my Pampered Chef sideline) which is all GOOD but busy busy busy. And the boiler packing up, which has meant no hot water for the past week (thankfully we've been able to bathe in the cottage next door) rather put a, well, dampener on things.

And last Wednesday, I was struck down, along with both babes with (I think) Swine Flu. It must be SF rather than just your regular seasonal 'flu because not only have we all had high temperatures and a myriad other symptoms but I've also been hit by a most unfamiliar and annoying fatigue. For the past few days I've barely been able to drag myself out of bed and then when I do, it's only to collapse on the sofa, where my eyes involuntarily close and I'm no use to anyone. I do hope it's on the way out as my To Do list is growing hourly and I just can't afford to have my eye off the ball any longer.

So whilst that may sound like a very tedious and protracted list of excuses, I hope you'll forgive me my absence and understand that I shall be back in Blogworld as soon as I can wrest control of my life again.

Sold! But not.

2009-09-20T18:47:00.009+01:00

So we had an offer on the house on Friday. Yes, I know. Huge excitement. Except that it wasn't a brilliant offer. No, because of the bl@@dy stamp duty ceiling, which soars a ludicrous 2% on houses sold above £250K (why, oh, why doesn't the government raise this pathetic tax to a more credible threshold for 2009??!), we've been offered £30K below our asking price. I completely understand the desire to avoid giving Gordon Brown an extra £5000, it's just that I don't want to be personally penalised because of it.

In truth, we wouldn't care that much if the people WE want to buy from hadn't just 'read on the internet' that house prices are on the up and have decided to hold out for their asking price. Which is, you've guessed it, £30K more than we'd have if we accept this offer. In other words, suddenly out of our reach.

So what should we do?

Our pad has been on the market for, what, four months now? I am sick and tired of trying to keep the place presentable for viewings - which pretty much means denying my two babes their absolute right as children to create chaos and mayhem with their every breath. Or at the very least, have the majority of their toys out and about to play with rather than boxed up out of sight - some, evil mother that I am, even in storage.

And our potential buyer has already sold his own property which makes him that elusive and wondrous prospect in the property game - a cash buyer. He is looking for an investment, lucky thing, to live in part-time but mostly to rent out for all the big sailing events in the Cowes calendar - of which, there are many and for which our cottage would be perfect. I'd kind of prefer it to go to someone who loved the place like we do but hey, beggars can't be choosers.

So what do we do? Implore the bank for a big hike in our mortgage? Sweet-talk the vendors of Dream House? Wait for something better to come along (which means probably delaying a move until Easter now)? Or accept this offer, rent something to live in and start the search all over again. Sigh.

I never thought getting a much-longed-for offer would be so bittersweet. But the optimist in me hopes that this is just the beginning of the journey to our new home and that there may yet be a happy ending...

Memories are made of this

2009-09-15T13:02:00.006+01:00

Gulp.

Sniff.

I didn't think it would be THIS hard.

Ok, so I knew that washing, ironing and photographing each and every tiny item of baby/toddler clothing would be laborious. Not to mention the individual listing to write for each skirt/dress/coat for it's sparkling debut on the grand democratic marketplace of eBay. That was why it was far easier to wrap the out-grown clothes into tissue paper and pile them into boxes to store under the bed.

But our plan to move house has made me start examining some of these forgotten stores. And be honest with myself as to why I'm hanging onto them. Am I really going to use them again? Highly unlikely. Having had 2 emergency C-sections, I'd have to have an elective Caesarean if I was to have another baby...and I really, really don't want more surgery. (Ever had your insides hoovered? That's exactly what it feels like when the anaesthetic doesn't work and the surgeon is trying to whip a baby out from your belly, whilst battling the tangle of intestines, bladder, liver, stomach and kidneys all competing for space in there). Plus, having just committed ourselves to paying for the education of the two little darlings we have, means that - lottery wins aside - we just couldn't afford a third.

So (writing briskly, to keep any lurking broodiness making itself heard), it's got to go. Not only will this free up some much-needed storage space (can one ever have enough?!) but hopefully, we might make a few pennies in the process...which might just pay for the school uniform I've just forked out for! Perhaps most importantly though, the clothes will be used again, by someone who needs them. And this is where I keep tripping over my good intentions.

As I hang out the little pink duffle coat that I used to snuggle my daughter in for winter days at nursery, or iron the soft tartan baggies my youngest used to bounce around in as a groovy 6 month old, or check the sizing of the gorgeous Petit Bateau pinafore that Daughter wore for her Sunday Best, I can hardly bear to imagine another child wearing it. As I work my way through the remarkably box-fresh looking clothes, memories of my babies dressed in each outfit comes flooding back. And not just how they looked in it but what we did then, the proud smile as Daughter strutted around in her first proper party dress, the T-shirt with a train embroidered on it that Youngest was so attached to, the first shoes worn outside.

Thoughts of the gorgeous reefer coat I'm longing to get Youngest and the new winter boots I could buy Daughter with the proceeds are the only thing pushing me onwards. And so I plough on through the sniffles and the memories.

But then, would you believe, somebody actually had the audacity to bid for something! And not just something but my daughter's first cot - her bouncy Amby hammock. I remember so clearly searching the internet after our first week of newborn nights for anything that would tempt our sleepless bundle into the land of nod. And finding THIS. Oh the bliss that followed the receipt of this marvellous invention. OK, so it wasn't like we had instantly unbroken nights. But we did at least have a tool to lean on in the overwhelming mad world of new parenthood. We could bounce our screaming baby in her cosy nest, swing her to and fro, and give our arms a break whilst distracting her from her temporary distress. All this, without actually getting out of bed. Better still, she quickly learnt to do it herself! A little wriggle here, kick of the foot there and the hammock would start bouncing away next to me until Daughter had re-settled herself until the next feed. The only thing that could have bettered it, in my eyes, was a full-size version for me and Husb.

Anyway, back to the post in question. So I reluctantly put this beloved contraption on eBay and in less than 24 hrs, Kitty The Milkmaid (who??) has outbid my reserve! I can't believe I'm actually going to have to part with our hammock. And that another baby will bounce and giggle in its warm embrace. Weirdly, there's also a little bit of me that is kind of jealous of this Kitty Milkmaid buyer. That she is probably just starting out on this amazing path of motherhood. Seeking a bed for her own much-adored, gorgeous little baby bundle. Something I'll never do again. It's goodbye on many levels I suppose.

So tell me, what have you done with all your children's outgrown clothing, toys and books? Are you hanging onto it all, to avoid the bittersweet pain of the attached memories, like I was? Or did you pass everything on the minute they couldn't squeeze into them any longer?

7 days, 2 accidents and 1 certificate

2009-09-11T17:54:00.012+01:00

End of Little Girl Po's first week at Big School and I am washed alternately by waves of relief and gratitude that it has been such a painless adventure so far. Her only disappointment to date has been that she's been unable to go in at the weekend too.

At 3.30 pm each day, she has bounced out of the classroom, beaming with happiness and volunteering her satisfaction with the establishment, "I've had such a lovely day at school today, Mummy, I had such fun!". After that first gush of enthusiasm, precise details are somewhat hazy. Direct enquiries are met with a steely, "Can't remember" followed by blankly looking out the car window. The pre-schooler's equivalent to 'Sod off!'...

But with a little detective work, I can piece more of the jigsaw together. The menu pinned on the school noticeboard tells me she had Bangers & Mash for lunch today, followed by Princess sponge for pud (no wonder she likes it there!). In her schoolbag, an envelope bearing an official stamp contains an old Christmas card with her scribbled writing inside - and so I learn that she went to the school Post Office that afternoon. A painting emblazoned with numbers 1, 2, 3 suggests they had numeracy yesterday. Unfamiliar notes sung in the bath reveal the song she's been taught to sing in the daily assembly. And if I eavesdrop on her make-believe games re-enacted at home with Little Bro Po, I can work out who's she's been playing with (Macey, could you pass me the teacup? Amy, do you want this cake?). Also, twice on collection, the teacher has had to pass me a little plastic bag containing wet knickers - testament either to high excitement or settling-in nerves.

But best of all, today she came home brandishing a certificate stating that,

'Little Girl Po is invited to sit on the STAR TABLE next week

at snack time and lunch time'

I'm not quite sure what she did to deserve such an honour (she muttered something about sitting up straight) although I suspect as one of only 6 new pupils in the class, the teachers may be sweetly trying to boost her confidence - especially after the two little 'accidents'. Whatever, this certificate is now centrally displayed on our fridge with more pride and delight than any other achievement to date.

It's not quite as good as being a fly on the wall, but all these little scraps give me some inkling (and huge reassurance) of how my darling girl spends the hours out of my sight. Although in truth, her smile says it all.

I know it's not January 1st but...

2009-09-08T20:25:00.029+01:00

Autumn may not be the traditional time of year for spring cleans and new resolutions but September is the beginning of the school year (our own first school year, at that) and the air in this little household is prickling with change.

So with Daughter blissfully settled into Big School and Youngest not-so-blissfully resigned to a couple of hours at nursery each week, I'm thinking I might just be able to reclaim a little bit of Me for the first time in, ooh, four years. My children will still come first - I suspect they always do and always will. But I'm hoping that there might now be some available space for Project Me.

It's not that I'm looking to reinvent myself as such, it's just that motherhood has been such a white-knuckle rollercoaster up 'til now that I could use a moment just to catch my breath and see whether I'm still travelling in a direction I actually want.

One of my fatal weaknesses is being over-ambitious with the time and energy I have available. Hence I frequently end up stressed and exhausted, meaning I don't have enough energy left over for the people who matter to me most - my children and my husband, as well as the rest of my family and friends. For example, as well as being a full-time Mum (my mother has both children 1 day a week and Daughter has gone to nursery for 2 mornings a week since she was two but otherwise it's me at the helm from dawn til dusk.), I'm also half-way through an Open University science degree that I began whilst first pregnant (with a view to retraining as a nutritionist) and recently started doing weekly Pampered Chef cookery demonstrations in order to try and raise some funds for school fees. Most of the time, I feel stretched in opposing directions and feel that there's lots of areas of my life that suffer from this internal tug of war.

I came across a poem this morning that crystallised how I'm feeling. Here's a snippet.

'TIME is the coin of your life.

It is the only coin you have

...and only you can determine HOW it will be spent'

These potent words made me even more resolute not to waste this precious currency. For me this means prioritising the stuff I have to do (school runs, food shops, cooking meals, cleaning the house, studying, writing assignments, cookery shows) with stuff I love to do (hang out with my children, blog, exercise, read, watch films) - as well as all the stuff I've been longing to do. That teetering stack of hopes and dreams that's been gathering dust on the top shelf of my life, for the past few years.

And here in black and white is that very wishlist, minus the dust.

Get up half and hour before the rest of the house is awake (such indulgent bliss to enjoy a few milliseconds of peace at the beginning of the day)
Keep to a regular yoga practise. Not only my favourite kind of exercise but also, to quote an esteemed yogi, "like ice-cream for the mind". And another chance to soak up the calming influence of my teacher and wonderful friend N.
To sew something with all the beauteous scraps of material and fascinating buttons I've been collecting for the past few years. I'm not an accomplished seamstress but I am stubborn and the pleasure of making something from scratch and see it come together into something useful is joyous beyond belief.
To make myself a bit more presentable. If all the other mothers can manage to slick some mascara on in the mornings and change their nail polish before it peels off of its own accord, maybe with a teensy bit of effort I could too.
Read something other than my biology textbooks. Have made a start on this one by a) beginning a fiction book and b) joining a book club. Double whammy incentive so a good chance of sticking to this resolution.
Start dating. Worry not, Husband. I mean YOU! We never go out. Well, hardly ever. This is partly from not having a babysitter and partly through worry about children waking in the evening to a stranger. But now they fairly reliably sleep through (at least to the wee small hours), I think it's high time Husb. and I took off our Mummy and Daddy hats and went out on the razzle. Or even stayed in to razzle...
Spend less. This goes completely against the grain for me but with Daughter's school fees taking a big bite out of our monthly income, it's either rein it in or pay crazy interest rates on spiralling debt. And after reading India Knight's fabulous Thrift Book, I'm actually quite excited at the prospect of economising.
Sort out the ever-increasing boxes of baby clothes (and now toddler clothes too), toys and books that are sitting, oh-so-carefully boxed up in our attic. I'm pretty sure now we won't have need of them again so it's better that someone else makes use of them. Sniff.
File my mountainous paperwork before it decomposes. I save it up and make little piles that become big piles and then have a blitz every couple of months. And this is when I discover that my MOT is a month out of date and I need a new tax disc. Not smart. Must try harder.

So there we go. it's a start. I expect the list will grow and shrink again several times over the course of the next few weeks. But now that's it's written, it does at least give me something to aim for. And perhaps even an audience to check up on me. Wish me luck!

Dear So and So

2009-09-05T18:19:00.013+01:00

I've been so captivated and amused by Brit in Bosnia's letters to the world at large, that I just had to have a go myself. Think hers work so well because it gives one a window into another truly-fascinating culture - whereas the only culture shock you'll get from the Isle of Wight is the fact that residents still think they're living in the '70s. Some have never even left the Island. I kid you not.

Anyway, here goes...

Dear Prospective Buyers,

Thank you for flooding us with interest and looking round our little cottage with such enthusiasm. We appreciate the hope you instil in us - and I must say, it's a good motivation to get the place clean and tidy on a regular basis. But tell me, if our house is, and I quote, "so lovely", "beautiful" and "the best thing on the market"...why aren't any of you snapping it up? We'd take an offer you know...

Come on! My kids need a garden.

Trying not to sound too desperate,

Mamma Po

Dear Sellers of Dream House

Hang in there. Please, hang in there. We'll be with you just as soon as we humanly can. I think about you (or rather, your house, since I haven't actually met you) all the time. As soon as we sell our place, we'll be knocking on your door with a big bag of cash. Well, as big as we can muster.

Thanking you in anticipation,

Mamma Po

Dear Estate Agents,

Do you have children? Was it such a long time ago that you were a parent to chaotic little ankle-biters yourselves? Please, please, please, could you give me more than an hour's notice if someone wants to view the house. And not be pissed off/disappointed with me when I say no. That'll be because the house is an utter bomb site and I would fear for your health and safety - if you could actually make it past the front door, that is. We do want to sell the house, really we do. It's just that it takes me roughly 24 hours to clear away the kids toys and make the place fit for human habitation again.

Most courteously,

Mrs. M Po

My darling children,

Whilst your voices are to me like the dulcet harmony of a heavenly chorus, I do sometimes wonder if you come with a volume control. If so, please could you use it in the vicinity of your Mother as her nerves are a tad frazzled of late. If not, please go and fight, sorry, play next to your father. He loves that sort of thing.

In a whispered hush,

Your devoted Mamma xxxx

Dear Class Teachers of F3,

I know you must shake your head in pity at the pathetic clinginess of us mothers. But you have my most precious treasure in your hands for seven long hours every weekday. This little girl was hard to come by (2 miscarriages, 43.5 wk fraught pregnancy and emergency C-section in the making). Please, treat her with all the love, generosity and kid-glove-care you can muster for another mother's child. She might take a while to relax around you - so don't be put off by an occasional frosty stare. Once she's sussed out who you are, she's a bundle of fun.

Pleadingly,

Mother of Little Girl Po

Dear Other Mummies of F3 children,

Sorry I'm not always in full make up with my hair neatly coiffed and my nails immaculate. To be honest, it's as much as I can do right now to make it to the school gate for 8.30 with two children in tow. I can only applaud you for the effort you make (and secretly wonder what godforsaken hour your alarms went off for you to achieve such groomed perfection). Perhaps in time I too will be able to line up alongside you without flinching with embarrassment.

Apologetically,

Mamma Po

Dear frisky teenagers,

Why are there so many of you pushing buggies? I can't believe these are all your younger siblings. You do realise don't you that condoms don't just make great water balloons? And that if you have sex without protection, you will almost certainly get yourself (or your partner) pregnant. Do you really want a child? At 14? Is there nothing else you want to do with your life? If you really are brimming over with maternal/paternal desire and long to be responsible for another human being, attending to its every need, whim and entertainment for the next 2 decades, please could you conceive somewhere other than beneath our bedroom window. What's wrong with the public loos?

Pompously,

Mamma Po

Dear Fishmonger

Thank you for having the guts and foresight to (finally!!) open a shop in Cowes. You are everything we have long been waiting for. Not only are you a 3 minute walk away and really, really nice (you, your wife and your mother - like, is that genetic niceness?!) but your fish is outstanding. I would eat it every night of the week if I could afford it. Also, I do hope you start those sushi classes that you mentioned. After that amazing salmon tartare we had the other night, I've got a taste for raw fish. Bring it on!

Mouth-wateringly,

Mrs Po

'Dear' Seagulls,

If I put the rubbish out the night before, so as not to forget that it's Bin Day, please do not see this as an invitation to get your mates round and rip them open to pick over all our scraps. It's disgusting. And lazy. Go catch some live fish, why don't you? Also, isn't it a bit dumb to wake up the entire neighbourhood with your deafening squawks at dawn? If you tiptoed around I probably wouldn't notice you were there - and wouldn't be nearly so pissed off. As it is, an abruptly shortened night's sleep makes me really cranky and I have no qualms about coming outside in my nightie to beat you away and re-bag all the leaking rubbish.

Grumpily,

Mamma Po

Dear IOW Council

I do my best with recycling, honestly I do. But the fortnightly collection throws me into a weekly whirlwind of worry and chaos. Is it THE week? Did you collect last week? If we have that many bottles in our recycling bin, we MUST be due a collection...mustn't we? Wouldn't it just be easier on everyone if you made it a weekly thing? Oh and while you're at it, how about adding plastic to the recyclable items?

Forgetfully,

Mrs..um...

Darling Husband

I know I can be a crabby ol' bag at times. I do realise when I'm being snappy or impatient. And I'm sorry for it. I will never stop trying to be a better wifey. Just as I will never stop trying to be a better mummy. However I think it may be a life's work. Guess I should be very grateful that you're the patient sort.

In love and heart-felt appreciation,

Me xxxxxxxx

Is it just me...

2009-09-05T14:58:00.003+01:00

..or do these mini-meringues remind you of anything? Bit lopsided I suppose, but hey, that's nature for ya!

They were delicious spread with chocolate paste for tea. The meringues that is.

And all was well

2009-09-03T22:12:00.010+01:00

I just have to say how deeply proud I am of my brave little daughter.

From the minute I woke her up at 7 am (she's an 8 o'clocker at heart), to the moment she gratefully fell into bed 12 hours later, she's been sunshine personified (and yes, I'm allowed to gush - mother's rights).

When we arrived at her new school, she skipped brightly in whilst I tried to consign every microsecond, every footstep, the feel of her hand clasped in mine, to my memory hard-drive. It felt like such a milestone moment, I didn't want to miss a single breath. Once in the classroom, she sat down at the Play-Doh table to make a rainbow ("Red first, Mummy, not yellow..." when I absent-mindedly passed her the first plasticine ball to hand). Then, pragmatic as ever, a passionate embrace at my request and "Goodbye Mummy". Pathetically I hovered by the classroom door, peering through the glass to check she wasn't wobbling or perhaps just to give her a final reassuring wave. But she didn't even glance my way. The other mothers, whose children had been attending the school for the past year, looked down at me with a mixture of sympathy and pity. And reluctantly I dragged myself away.

As I drove off, I thought that although Daughter would be the youngest in the class, at that moment I was so glad she had been born on August 30th - and not two days later. If she'd had to wait another year for this moment, I think she'd have been bored to tears and had us all climbing up the walls in frustration. Clearly, she was so, so ready for this next stage in her life. The stimulation, the mental challenges, the responsibility, the interaction.

Once home, it felt strange not to have the soundtrack of her inquisitive chatter all around me. But begrudgingly I had to also admit it was ever-so faintly pleasant to have the space to think - and to devote myself wholly to my little boy. He kept asking where his sister was and repeating "Where Mangi (his name for her), where Mangi?". But when he wasn't missing her, I think he too began to enjoy being my sole charge and bask in the spotlight of Mummy's attention.

As everyone promised me it would, home time came around quicker than I'd dared hope. We bundled ourselves into the Po-mobile (well, VW Polo) and whizzed off to Ryde. I say whizzed because that's the state my mind was in but actually the traffic crawled, in fact, I've never known the roads to be busier. But we finally got there with minutes to spare and as I ran to the school gates (pretending I was dodging the rain..), I fervently prayed all had gone well and that her face would tell me she'd had a blast.

Then I reached a queue of other mummies waiting for the teachers to match child to parent and realised I was just going to have to wait my turn. Fifteen - I kid you not - achingly-slow minutes passed before my little blonde bundle burst out of the classroom doors. Her face was convulsed with giggles and she could hardly speak for delight. "I had a really good time at school, Mummy. I ate sausages for lunch and baked beans and 1 spoonful of mashed potato." That was all the news I got - I never found out what she'd actually done all day but I'd heard the important stuff.

She liked it. She had sausages. And in her bag I found a painting she'd done - as well as evidence of the baked beans all over her school uniform. So I think Big School gets the seal of approval.

(Note to self - relax tense shoulders, unclench fists and breathe a long, long sigh of relief)

The last day of summer...

2009-09-02T16:02:00.009+01:00

...and nothing will ever be the same again.

I know I sound like a bit of a drama queen but it really does feel like we're on the brink of huge personal changes. Daughter starts Big School tomorrow, which means that she'll be out of my sight from 8.30 'til 3.45 Monday to Friday. Five long days for my only-just-four year old. A shock to both of us after the three short days she did at her sweet little Montessori nursery. We visited her classroom this afternoon to find out where her peg was and meet the teachers. It all looked very welcoming, colourful and organised and the atmosphere was remarkably relaxed and fun. After a touch of initial shyness, M was soon exploring the toys while I got to know some of the other mummies. We both found friends we knew from swimming or music classes and overall it was a very positive introduction to the place. I know I have nothing to fear really - she's going to lap it up.

It's just that Youngest and I are going to miss her so much. When she so much as gets out the bath before him he's mournfully pining, "My sister..she's gone!" Then again, my little chap starts nursery himself next week so he'll have his own distractions. He'll only be going for two mornings a week - and I'm sure to start with it'll be more like two hours, as I'm called to the rescue of my tearful toddler. For a boy, he's amazingly un-macho and asks for me if I so much as leave the room...at home! Over the summer holidays, I thought I would try and gently break him in by putting him in a creche for the occasional hour. But our first attempt ended in heart-broken tears (for us both) so nursery will pretty much be the first time he's been anywhere without me. Unless you count a few hours baby-sitting by doting grandparents or 1 successful solo play date with his buddy T (same age son of my dear friend, the very like-minded N).

To be honest, I think I'm more nervous about him than Daughter. I'm not sure my nerves are up to listening to his sobs as I camp outside the nursery counting down the minutes 'til I can pick him up. Still, the advantage of it being one's second child is that you do know they will come through the other side and very quickly learn to love the interaction with other children, the fab crafty projects that surpass anything Mummy can dream up and the structured play that provides such a reassuring sense of security. Plus they have a garden. With grass and everything. And hopefully, having seen me drop his sister off there and return to collect her a few hours later, he will realise that he's not being abandoned.

But maternal heartache aside, this does actually mean that I might get a smidgeon of that elusive thing all mummies fantasise about...TIME! For four long years I have been a stay-at-home Mum and the only nod to external commitments has been the Open University nutrition degree that I started whilst first pregnant. Which is exactly what I intended, always wanting to be totally and fully available to my babes whilst they were tiny. 'I' went on hold and my studies were all done in the evenings, when the wee ones were in bed. But in the very forseeable future, I shall be able to study in daylight hours. I can hardly begin to imagine how much easier this will be on my brain. Plus it might even free up the evenings to tick off my other never-ending chores. Or even, heaven forfend, hang out with Hard-Working Husband. I shall hardly know myself...

New beginnings for us all then.

Tiaras and no tantrums

2009-08-30T17:14:00.009+01:00

Ta da! Well Metropolitan Mum did want to know how Daughter's crown cake turned out so, co-operative blogger that I am, I have instantly obliged. The secret is in the sweeties - the more colourful and shiny the better, although I couldn't resist a teensy bit of my favourite dark chocolate (and in this top shot, you can't make out the squillions of glistening, sugar-based orbs studding the sides of the cake but believe me, they were there in glorious technicolour. In fact, I had great difficulty in actually cutting the damn thing as my knife kept getting clogged up with Fruit Jellies and Sugar Hearts all over the place. Not exactly the Domestic Goddess In Full Control of Sharp Implements image one wants to convey when surrounded by a bunch of critical 4 year olds awaiting their sugar hit with baited breath and scathing pity.

But anyway, we got there in the end and despite judging me somewhat lacking in basic kitchen skills, I think most party guests had a good time. Daughter certainly enjoyed herself - and, I have to say, so did I! The only real disaster was the burnt popcorn which was hastily assigned to the patio. But otherwise, the cake only required one attempt (unlike previous birthday bakes!), the meringues didn't crack, the chocolate for the strawberries didn't split, the creme patissiere didn't curdle, the cupcakes rose to the desired level for icing, the strawberry blancmange slid out of its mould with but the gentlest of taps, the face paints didn't smudge and not one little Princess (no boys allowed) had a right royal tantrum. What's not to like?

And although I get all misty-eyed thinking about this day 4 years ago when I was holding my bright-eyed little girl in my arms for the first time, I'm defiantly not dwelling on the details of her birth. An emergency C-section, following 3 day of labour, 23 days after her due date, was not part of my birth plan. So I like to gloss over all that trauma and just remember the beautiful bundle I'd waited so long to meet.

Who is now a very grown-up 4 year old. So much so that in a few days time, she'll be off to Big School. And of course, with a birthday on August 30th, she'll almost certainly be the youngest in the class. But apart from the nervousness of going to a new place (new teachers, new classmates etc) and the exhaustion of five long days of school in place of the three short days she went to nursery, I think she's going to love it. She's more than ready for the next stage of mental stimulation and will I'm sure rise to the challenges thrown at her.

The real question is, am I? It's sure going to be quiet here without her cheeky, giggly, observant, wise, sometimes demanding, sometimes hysterical but always so loving and happy presence. How did this day come around so soon?

Fit for a Princess!

2009-08-28T11:56:00.002+01:00

I know, I know. Awesome, hah? Now pick your jaw up off the floor and stop drooling. I should probably point out here that the above splendid creation is not mine but that of the amazing guy who started making sandwich sculptures to convince his picky son to eat. I thought I tried hard by using cookie cutters to create enticing bites for my fussy foodies but this Dad has gone waaaaay beyond the call of duty. Check out his gallery at Funky Lunch for more inspiration - the piano sandwich is beyond words.

I for one will be attempting the above design to complement the Crown cake that Madam has ordered for her 4th Birthday on Sunday.

Will let you know if it met with her Royal Highness's approval...

Murky depths

2009-08-20T19:52:00.012+01:00

I took the children over to Portsmouth today to visit my Grandad, who is a fit and sprightly 93 year old. It was great to see him and he was full of smiles for us all, proudly showing us off to his neighbours and bombarding us with questions about life on the Isle of Wight and our trip over. The children loved running around his garden and then, thanks to the glorious British summertime, we had an indoor picnic on his living room carpet - which, down to both the high standards and awesome organisation of my Mum, was complete with linen napkins, checked tablecloth, potted shrimps and chocolate mousse. Divine.

I happened to mention that a photo of my late nanny as a little girl looked a lot like my daughter - his great-granddaughter. This caused my Grandad to disappear for a while, finally emerging with a suitcase of ancient photos and scrapbooks. Ever eager to know more about my grandparents and own family history, I seized them and lost myself in the carefully catalogued, black and white pages. My grandfather beamed out of the photos, looking a little broader and a lot more sun-tanned than I knew him. I was also stunned to see my frail, twig-like nanny, who passed away last year, climbing Swiss mountains, walking in the Italian countryside and posing confidently for group holiday shots with my Granddad. To me, she always seemed so thin and weak that I feared she would snap in the breeze. In my memory, she rarely moved from her favourite armchair except to greet us, with perfectly-coiffed hair and skyscraper high heels on at all times to counteract her tiny frame. She trembled unstoppably just holding a cup of tea (with matching bone china saucer naturally) and seemed to exist solely on a diet of Ryvitas and sugar-sprinkled toast. Yet here she was bounding athletically across the hills like a buxom extra from the Sound of Music.

Then I found pictures of my Mum and her sister as little girls. One particular shot made me do a double-triple take - it was Daughter to a T. The nose, the eyes, the expression - everything! There were photos of the two sisters dressed up for Mothering Sunday celebrations in pretty velvet frocks, giggling at a party, playing on the beach. Photos of my Mum sunbathing with her hair in curlers, then shyly peeking out from a head full of curls, then leaning against the bonnet of a car - a teenager on the verge of womanhood. They looked happy, carefree pictures.

But then I came across the letters. It started off with...

Dear Mummy, I hope you feel better soon. With loving love, C.

The address was Mrs H. St X Hospital.

Fair enough, you might think. Everyone gets ill from time to time. This was just a little note to wish mummy better - perhaps she was in hospital with new baby sister.

But there were more letters. Pages and pages of them.

Dear Mummy, I asked Daddy if you could please please please please take us out today. Love P xxx

Dear Mummy, I love you very very very very much. Thank you for the present. C xx

and heart-wrenchingly...

Dear Mummy, will you be home for Easter? C xxx

Several of these love notes had been illustrated with child-scribbled stick men. But again, there was a clear theme to them all. There were pictures of ambulances and nurses and hospital beds. One had a complete set of drawings for what had obviously been a traumatic week. Monday - mummy in ambulance, Tuesday - mummy in hospital bed, Wednesday - mummy sitting up in bed, Thursday - mummy standing with nurse nearby, Friday - mummy leaving hospital, Saturday - mummy hugging 2 children, Sunday - the family reunited.

Of course, I knew that my grandmother had been bi-polar (what they used to call manic-depression, think Britney Spears in her shaved head phase) and that my mother's childhood had been somewhat disrupted because of it. Mum had mentioned witnessing her mother doing hugely embarrassing things, staying up for nights on end and only able to be restrained by ambulance men. I also knew she'd had electric shock therapy and had been on some pretty heavy drugs (Lithium was all the rage then). But none of that prepared me for the images of this stolen childhood. These letters from two little girls who couldn't understand why their mother had gone away or when she'd back.

They were saved I think by their amazing father, who was born to care and who brought them up with so much love and nurture that they survived with their own ability to nurture safely intact. It's no surprise perhaps that my Mum went on to become a brilliant nurse (at Great Ormond Street Hospital) and have four children of her own, before setting up a hugely successful primary school in South London (having been sent to eight different schools before the age of 11, she certainly had experience in knowing what constituted a good school!). My only wonder I suppose is that she somehow managed to patch over those awful scars, the heart-breaking memories of a mother missing, and turn herself into the best mother (and grandmother) anyone could hope to have.

I shall be a little more wary next time I dare to open the scrapbooks of my family history. And be sure I'm ready to see what lies there.

Wanted - The Shoemaker's Elves.

2009-08-14T09:34:00.012+01:00

Does anyone else feel that since becoming a Mum, they've entered a world of relentless drudgery?

Since the minute I'm abruptly woken, just before 6 am, life with my two under-4's is a non-stop, frenetic cacophony of service. There's meals to shop for, cook and clean up, washing to sort, hang-up, iron and put away, entertainment to lay on, sibling battles to extinguish, outings to organise, toys to tidy and so on and so on. All conducted at ear-splitting decibels - even when they're enjoying themselves. By 7.30 pm, when the babes are hopefully tucked up and peaceful at last, I feel physically shattered and mentally drained.

But I daren't collapse. Not only is it time to tidy away all the detritus that I haven't managed to keep tabs on during daylight hours - if I want husband to be able to walk through the front door without breaking his neck - but there's also our evening meal to prepare, more ironing (will it never end??) and my studying to tackle.

Obviously I know that some of all this I bring on myself. No-one forced me into doing a distance-learning degree, who cares if the pillow-cases aren't ironed (...actually I do but perhaps that's my hang-up) and I could just cook beans on toast and slob on the sofa all evening watching re-runs of Friends. Or something. But I can't actually do that either. I've tried, honestly I have. But I just get all fidgety and think about the many, many jobs I should be doing instead.

And admittedly it IS the summer holidays so there is absolutely no respite from Beloved Babes (other than the week in July when I went to an OU summer school and spent 12 hours in a lab each day, examining caterpillar innards). So whilst it is heaven not to be frantically getting us all ready for the nursery run each morning, in term time I could at least look forward to two hours in the middle of the day when Youngest napped and I could get through some of my jobs in relative peace.

But right now, I feel as though I have not a single minute in the day that is mine. And if the kids aren't calling for me, then Husband is asking where he might find his shoes/boxers/phone. Everyone seems to need a little bit of me all the time.

Sometimes I look at hubbie and envy his ability to step out the front door and leave all that responsibility behind to immerse himself in His world. Pre-kids, I had a job that I both enjoyed and that payed me handsomely. It fulfilled my creative spirit (and paid the mortgage) but also allowed me to meet friends for sushi lunches in Soho or dip into the pretty boutiques around Charotte Street. I went out every night, often twice; and although I could never do lie-ins past 8 o'clock, weekends were nevertheless a relaxing breather - brunch by the river, strolls through Richmond Park, cinema matinees, dinner with friends. Life was all about how to enjoy myself. It was utterly and blissfully selfish.

And I'm not for one second wishing a return to that life. I know how lucky I am to have my Sailor Boy, my blonde bombshells and my cottage by the sea. I just wish there was room for Me too.

But whenever I start to feel like I've drawn the short straw in this gender division of labour, I remind myself how much easier women have it now than 50-100 years ago. At least we're no longer having to wash soiled nappies by hand, or bake bread each morning before the rest of the household is awake, or grow all our own food, or have 10 children because contraception is illegal (as in Ireland until the '70's!). I'm not saying that any of those things in itself is unbearable (I quite like baking my own bread) but all together I think that historically a woman's role was back-breakingly tough. Unless you were aristocracy I suppose.

Or the elves paid you nocturnal surprise visitations!

I'm very lucky to have my wonderful Mum around and she comes over to see us once a week (she lives on the mainland, otherwise I know she'd be round every day!). Not only does she care for the children on her Granny-day but she also manages to top up the fridge, cut down the ironing and generally wave her magic wand around the house and all of us.

So I really shouldn't moan. But still, if there was an elf out there looking for a worthy cause, please, do consider us....?

Cowes Week memories

2009-08-06T20:16:00.006+01:00

I've been a tad slow in posting this week but I hope you'll forgive me... No sooner had I returned from summer school than I was plunged headfirst into the chaos and revelry that is Cowes Week.

For the uninitiated, Cowes Week is the highlight of the sailing calendar, when anyone who has ever been on a water-borne vessel of any description, dons their deck shoes (the more ancient the better) water-proofs and sunblock and descends on our little town to sail, drink and party. In reverse order.

Ever since I moved here, six full years ago, I have looked on this first week of August with a little excitement and a lot of trepidation. Sure, it's fun to see the place buzzing - and the water packed with a technicolour rainbow of yachts is a fabulous sight to behold. But having to elbow my way down the High Street and queue, yes queue, at my local shop is irritating beyond belief. Plus drunken sailors don't believe in sleep and I have had to resign myself to putting up with their singing, quarrels and crazy antics through the night, whilst I lie in bed wishing them horrible hangovers.

But it was not always so.

Seven years ago - almost to the day - I was invited down to Cowes by an old friend and would-be flame. Newly divorced and determined to steer clear of romance for the forseeable future, I refused his cheeky suggestion to stay the weekend but was nevertheless looking forward to my day trip to the seaside (packing a toothbrush and clean knickers, just in case I missed the last train home...).

Instead of overloading me with travel information, my friend asked me to call him at each change I made, when he would then explain the next step of my journey. "Waterloo main line? Ok, find a train to Southampton Central. Then call again". So I'd just negotiated the free bus link from the station to the ferry, when my next set of instructions came through. "Walk past the entrance to the passenger ferry. That's right, go straight past it. Now go down some steps and walk along the jetty. Whoops, mind that last step. Ok, can you see a navy blue RIB?"

Heading straight towards me was a rather stunning sight. I hadn't seen this friend for a number of years and he'd just spent the last year skippering a yacht round the Carribean. Now here he was sailing toward me in a huge blue RIB (a kind of motor-powered, inflatable dinghy) with white blonde hair luminous against his exotic tan. As he courteously helped me on board, I felt my inhibitions and protective armour slip away and felt immeasurable relief to be in such capable and gentlemanly hands. I'm not sure I believe in love at first sight but my heart certainly did a few somersaults at that moment.

And I never did make the last train home. As the day progressed, I slowly realised that I was having more fun than I'd had in ages and promised myself that as soon as I stopped enjoying myself, I would make my excuses and depart. Well, that moment never came. Not that weekend or any of the other weekends that I came to visit for the following year.

Seven years on, although we have our disagreements and even fights at times, it's never stopped feeling right. So Cowes Week will always have a special place in my heart, despite the crowded streets, swaggering sailors and drunken brawls. It introduced me to my lovely husband and every year, around this time, my heart lifts a little bit as I remember that first journey across the Solent to what was to become my home.

Summer school ain't just for the kids.

2009-07-26T17:23:00.006+01:00

Nope. Some of us crazies get to go ourselves!

And so I find myself, aged 36.5, at my first residential school in several decades (ouch, that hurt!). After four years of studying with the Open University through their amazing distance learning scheme, it's kind of strange to be face to face with other students, who I've only ever had contact with via web forums. And the novelty of being in a real live lecture hall, as opposed to poring over my books solo, is really quite edifying.

Today, since this is a Biology course, we were in the laboratory all day. I got to use numerous little test tubes and glass pipettes and other thrillingly scientific stuff to measure blood sugar levels (not our own I'm sorry to say). Later on we calculated our metabolic rate by breathing into some enormous apparatus called Douglas bags. It was wonderful. We even plotted graphs with all the measurements on. Oh, I know how to enjoy myself!

The food, obviously, is hideous and I am inordinately grateful that I thought to pack some peppermint tea, oatcakes and seed bars with me. That and a few apples I squirreled away at breakfast is the only thing keeping my diet healthy. But besides the lardy school dinners and the student accommodation, it's great fun. I'm relishing having interaction with other students and am soaking up the tutor's comments like a very thirsty sponge.

My only sadness, of course, is that I had to leave my babies behind for the week. At one point I did consider finding a little pad for us all to stay in but when I found out I'd be doing 12 hour days, it seemed a little pointless to drag them all the way to Nottingham just so I could have breakfast with them and kiss their sleeping forms when I got home at 9.30 pm.

So, having set up a busy rota of grandparents to help Daddy look after them and stuck a Mummy chart on the fridge for them to count down the days (6 sleeps to go!), I boarded the ferry to leave the Island. Daughter watched me beady-eyed and Littlest was waving so hard, I honestly thought his hand might drop off. I blew them thousands of kisses through the safety-glass window and just as the ferry doors shut with a thud of finality, I heard my baby (just turned 2) question Husband, "Mummy come back?".

It was heart-breaking. And several times during my train journey up north, I had to force myself not to cross the platform and race back to them all as quickly as I possibly could. But, this being the 21st Century, we do at least have certain technological advances that make things like this marginally easier. I am talking of course about the internet. And webcams.

The first thing I did on my arrival is set up my laptop and sort out an internet connection. We now have thrice daily video chats (and sometimes three times just before breakfast!). It's such a joy to see their little faces and lovely to be able to talk to them with some semblance of normality (I find the phone just doesn't work with littlies, they're bored after the 1st sentence). I think it's also comforting for them to be able to see that Mummy hasn't disappeared off the face of the planet and is just a computer call away from them right now. Daughter is able to show me her drawings and the art projects she's been making. And Littlest? He climbs up onto the desk and kisses the screen.

Now must sign off before I start blubbing.

Flamingo dancer

2009-07-23T16:05:00.004+01:00

Once upon a time...in a galaxy far, far away...at least, long BC (before children) and even before I entered the world of television...my first foray into gainful employment was as a professional dancer.

Not the exotic sort, in case you were wondering (didn't have the, ahem, body for it). Nope, as you can see from the photo of me, aged 22, I was a ballet dancer. Swan Lake, Giselle, Nutcracker...that kind of thing.

I loved it. It was a fun, mad, exciting whirlwind and the people that inhabited the stage world were always fascinating and uber-talented. Whilst dancing for the Berlin Ballet, I stood behind Sylvie Guillem at the barre and watched Rudolf Nureyev do one of his last ever performances (conducting that is, as once he was riddled with AIDS he wasn't up to dancing) as well as being privy to the incredible rehearsals and performances of countless other amazing artists.

But I became disillusioned by the casting couch syndrome - missing out on interesting parts because I wasn't interested in shagging the Director or Ballet Master. And bored of continually being told I had to lose weight. Obviously these things are relative. These many years later I am still a size 8 and given that I am a good stone heavier than when I was dancing, you can probably surmise that I was still fairly slim - if not anorexic. I never could understand the sticking-your-fingers-down-your-throat diet. So, soon after this pici was taken, I kissed goodbye to my ragged pointe shoes and started working in TV as a PA, then researcher and finally Producer/Director.

Both my children have inherited my love of music and movement and we frequently prance around the living room together, creating moves The Royal Ballet would kill for. I did start taking Daughter to a wonderful ballet teacher a few months ago and initially, it was a hit. Then suddenly, she decided she didn't want to go any more, threw enormous wobblies if I attempted to take her and we had to call it a day. I'm hoping she might change her mind one day - not that I want her to follow in my satin-clad footsteps (I wouldn't wish that on anyone, especially not my daughter!) but I do think it teaches one some useful attributes about body awareness, poise and rhythm.

So in an attempt to spark her interest, I showed her this photo from my youth and asked her what she thought Mummy was doing?

"Mummy's being a flamingo"

Right. Well, it's a starting point I suppose. I mean, she does at least like flamingos. Mummy-shaped or otherwise.

Holiday creche hell

2009-07-20T18:56:00.020+01:00

Day 2 of the summer holidays (said in a Big Brother voice) and already my plans have gone awry.

A month ago, when I was anticipating how I would entertain my two little darlings over the summer stretch, I have to admit I was somewhat nervous. Without three days of nursery for the nearly-4-year-old and extra-curricular music for both, I wondered if they'd be so bored by the end of the first week that we'd all be climbing the walls. And with my part-time degree picking up speed, I could really use a couple of hours each week to catch up with my studies.

So, after a little soul-searching, I booked them into our local creche for Monday morning sessions for the next six weeks. It would give them a brief change of scene, different toys to play with, some peer-group interaction - and allow me a few short hours to complete the chores I normally fitted into Youngest's nap time, now obsolete as I'd be entertaining Daughter non-stop. There's also a soft play centre just down the corridor, which the creche has open access to, so the kids get to benefit from all that action. And the place is used by my dear friend N, whose judgement I trust 99.9%. She sends her two sproglets there regularly so I figured it must be more than ok. All in all, I had high hopes that this would work well for the three of us - as well as giving Youngest a little dress rehearsal for the nursery he starts in September.

But when we arrived yesterday morning, friendly as the girls (and I do mean girls - average age...22?) were, I looked around the slightly chaotic room and wondered what on earth my 2 and 3.5 year old were going to DO for the next two hours? The few toys they seemed to have on display were strewn haphazardly across the otherwise bare room - and looked distinctly uncared for (naked dolls on the floor outside the dolls house, dolls house furniture stuffed in one room, three beat-up toy cars to play with in the little garage, inside-out dressing-up clothes stuffed into one big box...um, couldn't actually see much else). There was a table with some manky-looking PlayDoh on it but I couldn't see evidence of any other activities set up. Outside - a narrow strip of covered concrete - an ancient plastic ride-on car loitered near an almost empty sand table. The children already there (mainly babies and toddlers, as the older kiddies were off on a group outing) were wandering around the place looking rather lost. I couldn't blame them and was starting to feel a little bit sick about leaving my babies there.

Daughter was obviously thinking the same thing as I could see her eyes nervously darting around the place desperately seeking some reassurance or even reason to be here. Clearly, as I write this, I realise I should have followed my gut instinct and grabbed my darlings firmly by the hand before sweeping briskly out of there, never to return. But, thinking of my friend N's faultless judgement and the long list of errands awaiting my attention, I decided I had to at least give it a whirl. I'd probably just caught them at a bad time and the girls would all swing into action as soon as I left them to it.

I bossily asked for some colouring for Daughter and, to give credit where credit's due, a very smiley girl set up a little drawing table next to the play-doh. So I knew Eldest would be occupied for at least 20 minutes. Then I figured they'd haul the kids off to the the soft play zone, after that would be snack time and before you could say, 'Mummy, get me out of here', I'd be back. My little boy had found one of the sun-bleached plastic cars to clamber into so, with his words ringing in my ears ("Come on, Mamma"), I beat a hasty retreat. Just as the door shut, I heard him burst into tears.

Knowing there were four friendly members of staff there and that, although it all looked a bit messy, they were at least loving and would have scooped him up in a comforting cuddle, I bravely drove off. And sent both my little darlings a mental hug, whispering loving encouragements through the ether. Then I raced round the grocers, post office and ironmongers, at breakneck speed, ticking off my list of dull but pressing jobs.

A breathless hour and a half later, I raced through the front door and hit the phone, to find out if the twosome had settled happily once I'd left. The answer I received did not reassure me.

"Um, well, J has been a bit tearful. He's, well, he's crying a little bit now."

So then I ask if he actually stopped crying after I went at 9.40...or whether he's been crying pretty much the whole morning.

"We-ell, I won't lie to you. He, um, hasn't really stopped crying".

I don't think I waited to reply.

If I'd had a flashing blue light I could have stuck on top of my car, I would have done. With only half an eye on the speedometer, it took me approximately 4 minutes to drive the 2.5 miles back to the creche (you do the maths. Sorry - this was an emergency.). When I got there, I could hear my children's cries above any other noise and followed the sound out to the concrete 'garden'. My heart nearly broke in two when I saw them facing each other, sobbing pitifully. Daughter was clutching her pink cuddly tiger and Youngest's eyes were red-rimmed, his sobs and runny nose threatening to choke him. I leapt over the plastic detritus in my path and clasped them tightly to me, cursing myself for ever leaving them - even if it was only for 90 minutes. Seeing my distress, one sweet-looking helper (who was already comforting another little tiddler), said that Daughter had only just started to cry, in response to her brother's tears.

Maybe. But I think I'll be haunted forever by the image of the two of them huddled together like little lost orphans.

Despite being booked in for the morning, we extricated ourselves as quickly as possible. In the car home, Daughter told me she was sooo thirsty as she'd missed out on getting a drink at snack time (isn't that a legal requirement? Dehydration and all that...). I asked if she'd played with any of the other children? "No, just my tiger cuddly and my brother". The image that came to mind when she said this made me feel all wobbly. And they hadn't been taken to the soft play zone at all. So it had pretty much been an hour and half of boredom morphing into purgatory, by the sounds of it.

I spent the rest of the day trying to make up for their traumatic morning with fun-filled antics. We went to the soft play centre we'd all pinned our hopes on earlier, had hot chocolate afterwards (AND a biscuit!), Husband put up the wigwam tent in the garden and we made a tea party for their cuddlies. Books on the sofa followed, then a lovely long bubble bath. By the time their little heads hit their pillows, I was hopeful that any thoughts of the morning's stress had been totally obliterated.

Out of interest, I've just looked up the Ofsted for the creche in question and it's really quite good. So maybe we just had a bad experience. Nevertheless, I won't be sending my two back there and will be cancelling our booking for the summer forthwith.

But lots of other mothers use creches all the time. So please tell me, is this the norm? Am I asking too much from a baby-sitting service? As my husband said, they're not claiming to educate or even entertain kids. They're just doing they're best to keep children safe, fed and (ideally!) watered for the time they're in their care. Obviously if the kiddies enjoy themselves too, that's better for everyone and more likely to result in further bookings. But I now realise it's not an essential requirement. Perhaps I was expecting too much.

Boden fun and games

2009-07-19T20:55:00.008+01:00

My daughter is like me in so many ways (...poor thing). One of which is her love of shopping.

And as we live in the shopping desert of the Isle of Wight - no offence intended, the Island makes up for this lack in many, many ways - most of our shopping is done via that wonderful creation known as the world wide web. A particular favourite of mine is the Boden site. Just flicking through their catalogues, chock full of happy, shiny photographs, makes me feel that if I were just wearing that polka dot swimsuit or brandishing that yellow patent bag, I too would have a megawatt smile and cool, flippy hair.

These marketing mind-games are not lost on Daughter. As soon as the Mini Boden catalogue pops through our letterbox, she rips it open and settles herself on the sofa to scan its primary coloured pages, full of sun-tanned children prancing across sand-dunes or jumping waves (all the while, flashing gleaming white smiles, naturally). Within 5 minutes, she has chosen her season's wardrobe, including matching accessories and sleepwear. Not that she gets any of it, of course. Given our usual cash flow (or lack of it) I normally wait until the mega-sale and then scramble to find one thing left in her size. Occasionally, we manage to get the odd knock-down skirt in a pattern no-one else was brave enough to go for or a funky dress that she will grow into, one day.

So when Boden sent out a flyer, several months back, to win £500 of their clothes, we were both hugely excited. For the competition, you simply had to decorate a picture of a double decker bus, name it and send it off. And as Daughter loves nothing better in this world than to draw/colour/stick, this seemed a good enough way to while away an afternoon. Out came the art box and we set to cutting and gluing. I say we, but really it was all her. I laid out the tissue paper for her to scrunch and dug out some wire flowers that I'd rescued from an old birthday card. And she enthusiastically proceeded to create 'Flora The Fabulous'. Then came the sequins, glitter and of course feathers. What bus would be complete without feathers?!

When our work was done, we carefully consigned Flora to a jiffy bag and kissed the envelope for luck. After handing it over to the nice lady at the Post Office, we pretty much forgot about it.

Until about two weeks ago. What is it about children's brains that they just remember everything that's ever happened to them, in the most uncanny, almost scary way?? I guess perhaps because they haven't filled their little heads up with as much useless information as us. Anyway, I digress...

A fortnight ago, Daughter starts asking when we're going to find out if she's won her Boden wardrobe. Clearly, she's convinced her Bus is destined to be the winning entry. Ah, the confidence of a 3.5 year old.

Finding out the fate of Flora the Fabulous becomes an obsession for her. Every morning at breakfast and every afternoon when I pick her up from nursery, she asks if the postman's brought any news about her Boden bus. And every time, I have to sadly say, "no darling, no news yet". There's no information on the website either so I'm still optimistically hoping that they've been deluged with decorative double-deckers and are still sorting out the final few runners up. Fervent prayers pass my lips more than once.

Then last week I decided enough was enough. I telephoned the lovely, friendly (and no doubt shiny-haired) people at Boden's Customer Service department and asked for some insider info. Had they picked any winners yet for their Bus competition and if not, when would we find out, as we were all going insane with anticipation? I'm not sure who was saddest, me or the sympathetic Scotswoman who had to break the news to me.

"I'm so sorry but the winner and runners up were informed by post last week"

It took a few minutes for the message to sink in. If they were informed last week.....and we hadn't received anything....that meant....surely not........FLORA!!!! Consigned to the Boden bin.

My next thought was how I was going to break it to Daughter.

Well, I'm sorry but I chickened out. I just couldn't do it. Instead, I bought her the smallest denomination Boden gift voucher I could and as soon as it arrived in the post, I told her that although she hadn't won (I couldn't lie entirely), the judges had awarded her a special runner's up prize for trying so hard.

I know one shouldn't lie to one's children and I certainly don't want my daughter growing up under the illusion that she's the best at everything she attempts. We all have to fall short sometimes and realise that that is just life. Pick yourself up, dust yourself down and get back out there to try and try again. But this time, I chose to go for the little white lie option, which saved us all from a temporarily broken heart. So shoot me.

From one birthday drama to another...

2009-07-11T15:16:00.007+01:00

Yay, he made it! Not the cake. I made that (of more, below...). But Youngest made it to his 2nd birthday party, after the pencillin worked its magic and erased all tell-tale signs of the spotty viral infection he went down with earlier in the week.

As it was a swimming party we'd planned, I scanned his naked body with an especially critical eye this morning. But there was not a single spot left to give the game away. So, many thanks to Maternal Tales for her inspired suggestion to camouflage him with a wetsuit and Metropolitan Mum's creative idea to give the party a last-minute retro theme of red spots. But in the end, we got away with it!

And fun was had by all. For my part, I was relieved that all I had to do was bake a birthday cake, as the swimming-party-deal meant that party guests were all treated to a slap-up birthday lunch at the adjacent cafe.

Which really was very fortunate since - I'm embarrassed to admit - the above cake took me all, and I do mean all, of yesterday to complete.

I thought I'd be really smart and and get the cake made first thing, leaving me plenty of time to construct the 'sandcastles' on their island base, ice them with appropriately sand-coloured icing and adorn them with some beach-themed decorations. I imagined I'd have it all wrapped up by lunch time, leaving me free to enjoy a leisurely evening and much-needed early-ish night. So at 7am, I mixed the batter together, divided it into two cake tins and popped the sandcastles-to-be into the oven. Feeling rather pleased with myself for such efficiency, I set the timer and went to get the children dressed.

25 minutes later, I carefully lifted the two cake tins out of the oven. The surfaces looked a teensy bit wobbly so I left them in their tins for a further ten minutes, before turning them out to cool. And that's when disaster struck. The first one flopped out fairly happily. But as I tried to extricate the second cake from it's non-stick mould, it kind of imploded, leaving big corners of chocolate cake on the cooling rack and hot, gooey chocolate mousse dripping all over the kitchen floor. I bravely tried not to mind and salvaged what I could (ie: served the kids, husband and myself cake for breakfast), scraping as much of the un-set chocolate mess into bowls (I'm sure it must be useful for something, mustn't it?).

I then made a quick batch of cupcakes to take to our playdate - phew, all fine, so I obviously hadn't completely lost my touch.

My next chance to attempt the birthday cake again was at lunch time, when Youngest was napping and Daughter was concentrating very hard on colouring in a picture of Ariel. So, armed with freshly-bought supplies and a clean dishwasher-load of baking tools, I re-read the recipe and followed it to the absolute letter (I swear!). Into the oven, Cake No. 2 went. It couldn't fail this time; I'd done everything right. Except that fail it did.

When the timer beeped at me, I nervously opened the oven door and checked the surface of the cakes. They still looked fractionly wobbly so I left them cooking for a further 5 minutes. When I looked again, the edges were starting to turn black so I whipped them out pronto and figured that since they were close to burning, they must be cooked. Right?

Gently tipping the cakes out onto the cooling rack...wahddya know? Once again, the second cake just fell apart on me. Set outside; molten inside.

Now I consider myself a fairly proficient baker. It's a rare week that I don't knock out a batch of cupcakes, flapjacks, muffins or brownies. And I'd never, ever, EVER had a cake do this to me. What was going on?? Was the oven broken? Was the recipe a dud?

Not daring to test the latter for a third time, I shunned Peggy Porschen (of Konditori & Cook fame, so she should know...) and turned desperately to Nigella's Chocolate Cake Hall of Fame.

Thankfully, Nigella won the day and, ta da, I now had my chocolate sponge base. All I had to do was chop them up and pile into sandcastle impressions. Which should be easy, shouldn't it? Except that with two under-4s running around the house, desperate for attention and Sailor Boy insisting on authenticity for the sandcastles in relation to their island (what direction the waves should be lapping compared to the flags; what height the island should be to the sea-tinted buttercream icing without it resembling a tsunami etc etc), I was starting to lose the will to live.

Now I'm all for perfection. But by 11pm, I really had run out of steam and ended up scattering a load of chocolate shells over everything and just hoped the 2-year old guests wouldn't be too demanding.

Next year, I won't set myself up for such a fall. I've heard Waitrose do very nice, themed birthday cakes. And even though there isn't one of their scrummy supermarkets on the Island, I think it's well worth the ferry fare across the Solent.

A spot of bother

2009-07-08T20:55:00.011+01:00

In two days time, number two child will turn two. Is that too too many twos in that sentence? Or just two too many? Sorry, think I've been reading too much Dr Seuss tonight. Oops. There I go again! Too bad ;-)

Anyway, the point is, we have a BIG birthday looming on the horizon, with a party venue booked, guests invited, cake ingredients bought, party bags filled...and the little chap is ill. I think he must have caught sister's bug but, wanting to prove his independence, he's taken her lurgy and added some symptoms all of his very own. One of which is a particularly fetching blotchy red rash. Hundreds of tiny little red spots all over his face, neck, back, chest, arms and legs.

At first I thought maybe it was just a heat rash but we're now on day 3 - plus he's clearly feeling utterly lousy - so we trooped off to the GP's (had to sit in a special side-room and everything, away from the other, rash-free patients) and were given a large and, judging from the reaction, disgusting bottle of penicillin.

Part of me (and I wouldn't normally do this but it is his birthday, for God's sake) was thinking that even if he is still ill on Saturday, I could just dose him with some Nurofen and we'll limp through the party. But 4 months ago when I was in party-planning mode, I decided what my energetic little boy most needed when he turned 2 was...a swimming party!!! Nice one Mum, that's going to be a really good look, isn't it - little tiny swimming trunks and...squillions of red spots adorning his otherwise naked body.

His 1st birthday had been a bit of a (s'cuse the pun) wash out. Much as I adored my beautiful boy, he'd been a mega-stressful baby (I think the kind description is 'high-need' , for which you can read 'noisy, fretful and demanding' or just 'screamed 24/7') and I was grateful just to have made it to that 1st milestone with all our minds and bodies intact. So an at-home tea party with a few friends and family had to suffice.

But another year on, with my sanity slowly returning and wanting to make up for this rather lame effort, I thought he'd love splashing in the pool, throwing the unbreakable rubber toys everywhere and generally causing mayhem in a wonderfully contained environment. But the swimming-trunks-and-rash look is not going to go down well with the other Mummies, is it? I could tell them it was heat rash - or maybe a food allergy? - but once they hear him coughing and see me administering top-up Calpol, I think my game will be up. And that's if the swimming instructor let's him get into the pool at all. Do rashes spread in water?

Must not panic; must think positive. We've got a good, ooh, 48 hours so anything could happen in that time. The rash could fade, his cough might clear up...and I could grow a halo!

Sack Queen!

2009-07-03T21:27:00.011+01:00

This morning I was going to write a moany post about how tough things have been here recently and how demanding and all-consuming motherhood is....ergo how utterly spent and lifeless I've been feeling.

But as we had Sports Day at Daughter's nursery, I didn't have time.

Both she and her brother went down with yet another dreaded lurgy a few days ago, complete with high temperatures, fractious moods and sleepless nights. All round. It's the second bug we've had in a fortnight and we're all exhausted from the toll it takes.

But life goes on and Daughter was determined to make it to her much-rehearsed, hugely anticipated Sports Day so we drew a mental line under the latest terrible night (was it 2 or 3 hours sleep we had in total, I can't quite remember...) and all squeezed into the car for the big event. When I dropped her into nursery for registration, she was a tearful wreck, clinging to me like a limpet and I was convinced the whole trip would prove a ginormous waste of time.

Still, she managed to pull herself together and trooped out with her classmates to the designated sports ground (er, back garden of the church hall). Next to their healthily chubby figures she looked frighteningly skinny and pale. I feared she would fall over in the breeze and the vacant look on her normally sparkly face showed how completely her energy had been zapped by this latest bug.

She limped through the running race (10 metre sprint?), steadily persevered with the egg and spoon (last to finish but at least she didn't drop the egg) and looked amazingly graceful balancing a bag on her head for the, um, beanbag-on-head race. Her classmates then progressed to an obstacle course but she seemed to get overlooked for that one. Perhaps she was so translucent and waiflike that the teachers simply didn't see her amongst the other rosy-cheeked children.

Next up, the sack race. She gamely clambered into a blue sack (purpose-made cotton numbers with ingenious shoulder straps to hold them up, not the scratchy sackcloth bags I remember from my youth) then......Ready, Steady, GO!

I happened to be holding the finish line at the time, with her Daddy kneeling right next to me and Granny holding little brother nearby. The minute she set off, we cheered like mad, willing her just to finish the race. Umpteen times I thought she was going to fall over or just give up from exhaustion but as she heard our boisterous cheers, her chin went down, she gripped the straps tighter and the little blue sack bounced on. Her pale, drawn face became redder and redder as she pushed herself to reach us. Classmates fell by the wayside and still she shuffled forwards, locking eyes with her Daddy as if he could somehow pull her towards him. Amazingly, brilliantly, (as much to her astonishment as to all of ours) my little girl jumped her way into the finish line...and won the race! How I wished I'd had a gold medal to award her at that moment. But she was just as happy with a bear-hug from me and the hand-made, paper disc on a ribbon that her teacher hung round her neck.

All these hours later, dropping with fatigue as I am, I'm still bursting with pride to think of the determination she harbours in that tiny frame of hers. To feel as ghastly as she did and still push herself to the max, must have called for every ounce of energy she could muster.

Whilst praising her fantastic win, I was also secretly astounded by her extraordinary strength of character. I'm sure it'll stand her in good stead in years to come but right now, this insight into her character has had the wonderfully restorative effect of wiping out the memories of the last few torturous days, helping me see past the waring tetchiness of a sick and tired child. Introducing....My Daughter: The Sporting Champion!

You know what they say about buses?

2009-06-25T18:50:00.008+01:00

Well, it seems to be a universal truth. Nothing happens and nothing happens and nothing happens. Then suddenly, the estate agent calls up twice in one day and makes a flurry of bookings for prospective buyers.

We had our first viewing today (a lovely couple, just slightly older than me who are looking for a holiday let property). But with less than 12 hours notice, I'll leave you to imagine the scene in our house last night. I must have looked a little like Roadrunner, with the spectre of Future Buyers my Wile E. Coyote hounding me into activity. Long into the night - and much of this morning too - I frantically packed away toys, cleaned floors, made beds, wiped shelves, polished furniture and mirrors, dusted surfaces and generally laboured to turn our cosy, lived-in little cottage into a minimalistic show-home that might appeal to an infinitely wide range of the population. As if that were even remotely possible.

But I was at least glad that we had just that day moved a cart-load of stuff into a storage unit. Call it extra-sensory perception or maybe the power of positive thinking, but it certainly was good timing. And clearing the decks of some of our unnecessary clutter not only makes it easier for buyers to see what they're getting but has also lifted all our spirits. Daughter is no longer troubled by seeing me pack all our worldly possessions away into cardboard boxes but is revelling, along with Little Brother, with the new-found space. As are we all.

When I finally put away my Marigolds and hid the washing-up bowl (so it wouldn't detract from the gorgeous reclaimed marble sink...), I looked around the place and thought to myself, well, if no-one wants to buy this house, I wouldn't mind living here a little bit longer myself. We'll just have to turn the beach into our non-existent back garden for the children.

But...with a second viewing tomorrow afternoon and a third on Saturday, perhaps it won't come to that.

Change is no good for a rest

2009-06-23T19:51:00.005+01:00

I'll do my utmost to complete this post but if you notice the words suddenly blur into utter drivel (ie: more than usual), that'll be because I've fallen asleep on my keyboard.

I'm not quite sure why I'm any more knackered than usual but I literally haven't felt like this since there was a newborn in the house. For the past few nights, I've been crashing out (ostensibly for a reviving horizontal moment) after bedding the babes, only to stir two hours later with the best part of the evening written off. My never-ending list of chores is thus growing scarily long, as I trade the only Me time I ever get to slothfulness. What a waste of time!!!

Certainly the last week or so has zapped my emotional energy, ever since Daughter decided to revert to the terrible twos (she's nearly four)...just as Son approaches his second birthday. Nice timing, kiddos.

She can be a sensitive little flower on occasions (when meeting new people, for example) but generally she has always surprised me with the maturity with which she handles uncomfortable situations. I have always explained things to her as honestly as my own knowledge will allow and she seems to respond well to that approach. But recently, the slightest disagreement (bath-time; sharing a toy; unappealing supper) has resulted in major meltdowns like I've never seen. The throwing herself onto the floor, shouting at the top of her voice kind of tantrum, followed by barking grumpiness for aeons afterwards. All this from my kind, caring, funny, intelligent, observant little girl.

Having never experienced this kind of behaviour before, I genuinely don't know how to react. At first, I think I got angry back (not in an abusive way; more an unsympathetic 'get it together' kind of response). Which didn't help. Then I tried to just let it wash over me, which at least used up less energy on my part but didn't really help her or shorten the tantrum.

But talking to my wise friend N this morning, it struck me that perhaps these fits of rage are a demonstration of how my not-yet four year old is struggling with all the changes going on in her life right now. She starts 'Big School' in September, with her best friend going to a different school. She knows we want to move house but I don't think understands why nothing is actually happening yet (ditto!). And a few days ago, I started filling packing boxes with all our excess clutter, in an attempt to make the house more of an appealingly blank canvas to prospective buyers.

When I talk to Daughter about moving house, she's nothing but excited (about having a garden, maybe a dog too, growing plants etc etc). But when we have these semi-adult conversations, I sometimes forget how young she is at heart and that, emotionally, she may not be able to put all that she's feeling into words.

Even though all this change is going to lead to a good outcome, it's necessarily unsettling. Not only the sadness at saying goodbye to old friends (our lovely cottage, nursery buddies, our friendly neighbourhood) but also the uncertainty of what the future holds. I know how she feels. I just don't know what to do about it.

Leftovers for lunch...in this house??!

2009-06-19T19:21:00.004+01:00

It's not that I don't applaud the idea. It's just that there's rarely any food left after a meal to save. I know, I sound like such a glutton. My only plea in my defence (and attempts to keep squeezing into my size 8-10 wardrobe) is that a) at least the food isn't wasted :-) and b) it's generally really, really healthy (eg: supper tonight is Cornish samphire, some wild mushrooms wok-fried with a dash of soy sauce and lemon juice and a handful of mini gnocci, dressed in tomato pesto).

Anyway, it was the only food-related pledge I could find on Recycle Now's website and since I was tagged by Maternal Tales AND it's Recycle Week next week, I had to do something.

They tell me that 6.7 million tonnes of food are thrown away every year. Which is criminal (or should be). So what I want to know is, if all that food's being chucked, why are obesity rates soaring?

Anyway, back to my pledge. I've promised to use my leftovers for lunch and, if I fail, will pay the forfeit of eating an entire lemon in one mouthful. The forfeit didn't sound too gruesome to me (think would just be like a really potent sorbet!) but I don't think I'll find it too difficult to recycle our meals, as it were. Although I guess I'll have to hold back on clearing my plate in order to find out. What's good for the planet will be good for my figure too.

And ever since I saw a new Facebook buddy's profile pic depicting her in a skimpy bikini (yes she has children, two of them), I've started to think that maybe I could lose a little of my insulating layer. Don't think I'll ever be brave enough for a bikini again though (pregnancy-stretched tum and two C-sections put paid to that idea) but hey, it might be nice to fit into more of my size 8 clothes than the size 10 - if only to double my choice of clothing without going shopping. All in the spirit of recycling.

And I throw the gauntlet down to:

Not Waving But Drowning

Surprised and Excited Mum

Perfectly Happy Mum

Eve Upshall

and Mum in Chaos

But obviously, anyone can join in. Go on, it's for the best cause - our lovely planet!

...and I thought my births were traumatic.

2009-06-17T21:22:00.009+01:00

Having suffered two miscarriages before falling pregnant with Daughter, I was soooooo careful to do everything right throughout her 9 month incubation. As well as all the usual no blue cheese/wine/pate/liver rules, I took my healthy intake one step further and only ate organic, wore organic, washed organic. I drank disgusting Ayurvedic herbal brews (to tone the uterus apparently), switched to formaldehyde-free nail polish and practised positive visualisations on a daily basis.

And having read an inspiring collection of natural birth stories (Japanese women squatting down in the middle of a paddy field to deliver their baby, then getting right back to work with newborn in an impromptu silk sling), decided to go for a home birth. I hired a birthing pool, downloaded some inspiring music on my iPod, filled the room with candles, lined up the homeopathic remedies and practised my pain-relieving yogic breathing.

But sadly, the universe had other ideas about my baby's arrival. For one thing, Daughter was having such a great time in utero that TWENTY ONE DAYS past her due date, she was still firmly ensconced. I was officially a Ten Month Mama. Several sweeps, pineapples, curries, long walks, bumpy drives, hot baths and, yes, all the other old wives tales, later and the contractions finally kicked in. They started, they stopped, they started again. After two days of this, I finally relented and went into hospital, where I knew all the midwives by name, having had daily check ups for the previous 2 weeks. A lovely, senior midwife broke my waters and things finally started to hot up - I was so excited...at last, I was going to meet my little girl and hold her in my hungry arms! But after 12 hours of strong labour on gas and air, I was still only 3 cm dilated.

Some numpty decided to put me a drip to try and speed things up (although this was never the problem as my contractions were already 1 minute apart). Almost instantly, baby's heartbeat went into panic mode, the midwife found meconium and the on-call obstetrician decided enough was enough. Red lights flashed, an anaesthetist was brought in, some nurses tipped me onto a surgical trolley and off I went to theatre to have an emergency C-section. My only memory after that is asking someone to please turn off the Robbie Williams track blasting out across theatre (Angels, I think it was). SO not what I'd had in mind for my baby's birth.

But one hour later, I was giving little M her first feed. Ok, I hadn't had the birth I'd wanted but at least we'd both survived the experience. More than survived. My darling girl was a bouncing picture of health - alert, bright-eyed and beautiful.

Two years on, 10 days overdue with my son, I stubbornly/optimistically thought I'd have another go at a natural birth. Although I knew I couldn't have a home birth because of the Caeasarean scar (fear of rupture during contractions or something), I'd read up on the statistics and loads of women have successful VBACs. But yet again, fate had different plans. J was born in a carbon-copy replica of his sister's labour and birth (3 days of contractions = 3 cm dilated. I was clearly not made to give birth). Only this time round, it was slightly worse because the Russian anaesthetist (nothing against Russians per se but her grasp of language was so minimal, she didn't even know the English for penicillin - to which it turns out I am allergic), pushed the epidural needle in fractionally too far. Result: leaking spinal fluid, ineffectual pain relief, awareness of most of the grossly invasive operation and a splitting headache for three weeks post-op.

Anyway, again all's well that ends well. My baby was gorgeous and wonderfully healthy. He slept well, fed well and smiled at 2 days old.

Fast-forward to last Friday. One of my best friend's, N (not my 'twin family' friend N), was just getting ready for her last day at work before going on maternity leave. Her baby was due mid-July so she was looking forward to a month of pregnancy yoga, making up the new cot and washing babygros in preparation for the new arrival. Only, all of a sudden, her waters broke, contractions started and however much she crossed her legs, it seemed like this baby was coming out - a whole month early.

She too had wanted to try for a home birth (so much more appealing to remain in the comfortable nest you've been feathering for the past however many months than a stark, clinical, brightly lit hospital room with a Robbie Williams soundtrack). But since it turned out that her membranes had broken probably 2 days beforehand, the community midwives were keen to get her into hospital. When labour failed to progress, a scan revealed the baby was breech. Still, my friend insisted on trying for a natural birth. But a kind mifwife took her to one side and explained that now so many breech babies were delivered by Caesarean, the midwives literally didn't know how to deliver a breech any more. She was whipped into theatre smartish.

I don't want to say too much about the details of the birth out of respect for her privacy. But if I tell you that it made me count MY blessings, then perhaps you'll get an idea.

Her tiny baby was taken straight to the neo-natal intensive care unit and put on oxygen to help her breathe. An X-ray of her lungs quickly followed to check there was no physical damage (thankfully, all fine). Meanwhile, N was taken to the maternity ward, without her baby. Armed only with her determination and a hundred photos of the little one, amazingly, she managed to express some breastmilk, which was then fed to her baby through a nasal tube.

For the next few days, N was not allowed to either feed directly or even hold her baby, for fear of over-stimulating her - she needed all her energy to grow. The doctors wouldn't commit to anything but they've suggested she may have to stay in the NICU until term (ie: another 4 weeks). N is over the mental shock of having an unplanned Caesarean (she's one tough cookie) but worries about bonding with the baby girl she's not even allowed to touch. The little one lies in her incubator with tubes everywhere, hands bandaged to protect the IV drips and dressed only in a nappy. To change her, the nurses have to put their hands through holes in the sides of the incubator.

I've been praying and fretting and thinking of them all constantly and happily, thankfully, as I was writing this post, just had a joyous text from N, saying baby P has turned a corner today. She's thriving on the drip-fed breastmilk and N had actually been able to hold her briefly today.

I am so relieved. But am still off to light a candle and say more prayers. If you can spare a thought, please send one their way.

Happy Campers

2009-06-14T19:27:00.012+01:00

It's never difficult to come back to The Island, as it is affectionately known by its inhabitants (despite there being numerous other contenders to that title, here in the British Isles). Living here is like being on one long holiday anyway. For example, this morning, on waking, we saw the sun lighting up the world outside our window and headed straight for the beach. Like I said - not exactly an effort to be home again.

Nevertheless, it was quite a wrench to leave our campsite in Dorset. Sure there were a few creature comforts that I missed but, in truth, this was cheat's camping and the hardships were few and far between. We had a loo in our log cabin-cum-tent, we had a wood burning stove to cook our meals on and we had proper beds for Chrissakes - with duvets! Ok, so the showers in the Portakabin block were rubbish and you had to hide every scrap of food away when you left your tent (as I learnt to my detriment after a cheeky squirrel invited a few mates round and feasted on the crusts left from our picnic sandwiches, a croissant in a paper bag, the best part of a pear and an impressive amount of Green & Blacks chocolate spread). But really, it was a blissful week and we all found it hard to tear ourselves away.

The kids in particular had an absolute ball. The field that held six of the tents had a huge communal sandpit in the centre, as well as an old-fashioned water pump and a gigantic fallen tree stump. Hence, all the children congregated there at various times of the day and it was easy to keep an eye on them from our elevated position, tucked away in the woodland. They also loved hunting for eggs in the ridiculously large chicken run (Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall would definitely have approved of these free-range hens), watching the calves being fed, feeding the orphaned lambs and checking on the hourly status of Pinky & Perky, the very cuddly pigs in the car park.

We managed a few excursions (steam train trip, Studland beach, a chocolate factory, Corfe & Lulworth Castle) but to be honest, the babes were just as happy to potter about on the campsite. This was made all the more enticing by us holidaying with some wonderful friends, who have children the same age as us. Their daughter is three weeks older than M and their youngest three weeks older than ours (I know, we couldn't have planned it if we'd tried!); on top of that, as adults we have huge amounts in common and though N is one of my newest friends, I already count her as one of my dearest. Even though she was suffering (very bravely, I might add) throughout with the vile bug that I fear Daughter must have passed on, it was great to all hang out together and naturally the kids loved it.

So I think the only remedy for (mild) post-holiday blues is to book again for next year - think we'll stay longer though next time...

Welcome home, Mummy!

2009-06-03T16:13:00.018+01:00

Well, I've got to be honest. It's been one helluva week. Have meant to blog each day, as every little drama unfolded but literally haven't had one minute to myself until now (thank you, Granny & Papa for taking the kids out for a walk/buggy ride...)

Pretty much the minute I touched down on Monday, after a four day trip to Greece, I've been made to pay dearly for my absence.

The first night, Daughter woke several times in the night, feeling hotter and hotter each time I went up to her. When I tried to put the hallway light on at a 2am waking, nothing happened. All was pitch black and deathly silent. Presuming a fuse had gone, I cursed silently and stumbled around in the dark. Realising I couldn't keep going up and down unlit stairs to my restless daughter, I scooped her into our bed, where she settled instantly. Unlike me. Not only is she an incredibly active sleeper at the best of times but she also frequently chatters away in her sleep. It's quite unnerving really as she shouts out with eyes firmly shut, "Grandma! Grandma, watch me jump! Look at me on my trampoline". Still, what's one bad night when I'd just had a few days away to recharge? No real complaints yet.

The following morning, still no light. And no kettle, toaster, hot water, computer, DVD player, phone or mobile charger either (in other words, everything that one has become frighteningly reliant on). On to Southern Electric, where a jolly Scottish lass cheerily confirmed that, yes there did seem to be a power cut in our street, they'd already had one call about it and they'd try and get someone out to investigate it as soon as possible. Hmm...not the best start to a groggy morning but optimism still prevailed (I'm a sucker for a cheery Scottish accent).

I'd already decided to keep Daughter home from nursery so that we could have a bit of a reunifying day together. But when I took her temperature and discovered she was edging towards 40C, there was no question of us going anywhere. I ran for the Calpol, which did its stuff on the fever front reassuringly swiftly but didn't affect her mood - the poor darling lay languishing on the sofa, looking very sorry for herself. Unlike her brother who kept trying to pounce on her or bestow slobbery wet kisses, neither of which are particularly welcome when you're poorly.

As any mum knows, it's not easy juggling two kids at the best of times but when one's ill and the other's bouncy, it's even more of a challenge. Still, I did my best and with mini-trips to the park and shops (Daughter bundled up in the buggy, Son running and jumping alongside) and a few naps on the sofa (her not me, sadly), the day trundled along. Every time we passed the 5 Southern Electric vans parked outside the house, I tried to keep the pleading note of desperation out of my voice as I asked politely how they were getting on. There was scary talk of cable explosions under the pavement, massive road-digging operations and a mass re-wiring of the whole town. As supper-time loomed and the prospect of sandwiches for tea and cold baths seemed ever more likely, I caved in and took us all off to Husband's office so I could at least make myself a restorative cup of tea.

To cut a long story short, the lights finally came on just after 9 o'clock in the evening. I passed out soon after.

Another broken night followed and the next day, Daughter's fever had gone - hurrah! - to give way to the most horrendous attack of diarrhoea. The 'Mummy-my-skirt's-wet,-I-think-it's-wee'-that-turns-out-not-to-be-wee-at-all kind of diarrhoea. I won't go into the gory details but suffice it to say that as fast as she drank water in, it was coming out the other end. In one hour, she went to the loo 8 times. Naturally she didn't feel like eating anything and, waif-like at her heaviest, after four days of this awful bug, she became increasingly thin, irritable and unhappy. The nights were dire, the days worse. My mind was toying with finding a cheap flight back to Athens as quickly as I possibly could!

On top of that, I had two cooking shows to do in 24 hrs, an assessment to complete and a family camping holiday to pack for. I wasn't sure whether I would pass out from exhaustion or my head explode with stress.

Well, the fact that I am here writing this post is testament to the power of adrenaline. Daughter is now recovered, thank God. The cooking shows went really well (sold £650 worth of stuff) and I just threw the entire contents of our house into the car for our camping trip. We leave for our week on a Dorset farm tomorrow and I think I shall relish every single minute of our break - no assessments, no shows, hopefully no more bugs and certainly no power cuts 'cos there ain't no electricity anyway! Here's hoping it doesn't rain...

Home sweet home

2009-06-03T15:18:00.003+01:00

Well, we all survived my 4-day dash to Athens.

The conference was great - so inspiring and uplifting. Not to mention the most amazing Greek feasts, three times a day. I managed to persuade the wonderful resident cook to pass on a few of her diet-busting recipes to me and am looking forward to making the Ouzo Custard, Greek Coffee & Chocolate Pudding and delicious Spinach and Potato Bake myself - although I doubt the ingredients I use will have quite the same home-grown freshness, that made those al fresco meals such a sensory explosion.

And, Maternal Tales was right, it was weird at first both to travel alone (too, too easy) and to be independent of my babes for the first time in four years. But I surprised myself how quickly I adjusted to my child-free experience. Of course I missed them like crazy and worried intermittently about whether they were eating/sleeping/happy. But it wasn't a constant gnawing hole in my heart, which I'd feared it might be. I think, basically, I knew they were in impeccably good hands and my frequent calls home revealed that Grandma was keeping them far busier than I ever do!

The good weather (hotter on the Isle of Wight than in Athens, would you believe) allowed them to spend their days at the beach, picnicking, visiting adventure parks, swimming, decorating pottery and generally living it up. They're lucky if I manage one such trip in a week! Good old Grandma - what a gal!!! Think they were so exhausted at the end of each day that they fell gratefully into bed - and had to be woken at 8am the following morning. By the time I got home on Monday evening, after the joyous hugs, kisses and present-unwrapping, Daughter curled into a little ball on the sofa and quietly murmured, "Mummy, please put me to bed". It was only just 7 pm.

I asked v tired-looking Husband if the round-the-clock childcare had been an interesting insight into my world and was pleasantly surprised by his response. He said that normally he only gets to see them when they're tired and cranky (ie: when he gets home from work and they're mid-meltdown). By taking a few days off work and being with them all day, he'd got to enjoy the highs as well as the lows and said that it had been a real pleasure to be with them.

Ahhhhh! Methinks I should go away more often...

Islander abroad

2009-05-25T20:57:00.010+01:00

Tomorrow is a big day for me.

For the first time in over four years (ie: pre-babies), I shall be leaving my husband and two children at home, boarding the ferry alone and heading off to Heathrow to catch a plane bound for Athens, where I shall proceed to spend the entire long weekend without them.

It's not exactly going to be a holiday. I'll be attending a three-day conference on Ayurveda medicine - something I've been interested in for years and used to follow fairly avidly BC (before children). I'm hoping the study of this ancient Indian, holistic system of healing, that uses food, herbs, massage and yoga techniques to heal and balance, may complement my own Western nutritional studies. The lectures are always intriguing and inspiring; the doctors who host the conference witty and spirited. And on top of the fascinating subject matter, there'll be scintillating discussions, unbroken nights, wonderful Greek food, twilight walks in the mountains, yoga at dawn and good company. In other words, it won't be a holiday...it'll be heaven!

But boy will I miss my babies......!

Sure, we all fantasise about escaping now and then. And four nights of undisturbed sleep will, I'm sure, re-energise me no end. But I know that within a few hours, I'll be wondering what my darlings are up to. Did Husband manage to get some food into Maya; has Joss had any sleep today; is my beloved managing to keep a watchful eye on Youngest as he tries to clamber over the 12 ft high climbing wall in the playground, whilst managing Daughter's 4 o'clock meltdown???

I've drafted in our extended family to provide support and distraction (and they really are very extended in our case - 2 uncles, 2 aunts, 5 cousins, grandma and grandpa - and that's just on Husband's side!). So I know the kids will be wonderfully entertained and cared for. No doubt, they'll barely notice I've gone..."Oh, are you back already, Mummy?" they'll note casually on Monday, before turning back to the absorbing Snakes & Ladders tournament they're ensconced in.

But, apart from the all the little worries about their welfare and general happiness, what I'll miss the most is tip-toeing upstairs, just before I fall into bed myself, and watching their peacefully sleeping forms - checking their blankets are all tucked in, that they're not too hot or too cold and then listening to their steady breathing for a few calming minutes. It makes me certain that all is right in my little world and I can rest easy, for another few hours anyway.

2000 miles away, in the Greek mountains, there'll hopefully be access to a different source of peace. Just as long as I can place my faith in my husband and family to care for my darlings in my absence.

5 Things I Hate...

2009-05-25T07:38:00.009+01:00

My Island friend, Surprised & Excited Mum, just sent me this very pretty award. I am not only honoured, per se, but really quite delighted with such a girlie, genteel offering. It beautifies my page no end. Thank you S&E Mum!

Naturally, there are conditions to be met on receiving such an honour and the deal with this award apparently is informing you of the things that I hate the most. So here goes...

Pet hates:

Cruelty - the obvious stuff (I literally couldn't read or talk about the Baby P case) but also more subtle acts of evil: pompous oafs humiliating a fragile soul, ignorant parents taking out their stress on their offspring...anything like that just makes my blood boil.

Buzzy people. You know the sort - they rarely stop talking (even to breath/eat/drink/pee), are maniacally hyperactive and frequently entertaining but change conversation tacks roughly every 15 seconds. I am left reeling in their wake. But here's the really scary part...I fear I may be verging on the buzzy myself. Hence, I suppose, any more external stimulation and my head just explodes.

Noise or the wrong kind of music - same deal. Call me intolerant but I guess my brain is just tuned to extra-sensitive mode when it comes to sound! This can be tricky when Husband wants to start the day with some loud music from his youth ('70s). I do try and grit my teeth until he's had his fix then swiftly change the ITunes playlist to Carmen. Or Coldplay. Or whatever music will sooth my soul at that precise moment.

Burnt food. Ok, I know this seems a trivial one but for someone who loves eating as much as me (you'd never know I used to be a professional ballet dancer would you?!), it is really really irritating. A waste of potentially beautiful food and usually my fault. Eg: put the rosemary & garlic-tossed celeriac in to roast, check it after 20 minutes, think, "Oh that's only just starting to tan, we've got a long way to go yet". Go and start the ironing, rush up to settle sleepless child, on the way downstairs realise the bath toys need clearing away etc etc. By the time I make it back to the celeriac, it's toast. And toast is all I'll then be having for supper :-(

Dust - how does it get onto every conceivable surface when you only just cleaned??! Hurrumph.

Well that's my 5. So now I pass on my pretty award to the following and ask them to do the same:

Maternal Tales - because she writes such a lovely blog and I think this is one award she doesn't have!!

Perfectly Happy Mum - because she has been so very lovely and supportive recently and an award is the very least I can offer her.

Metropolitan Mum - think she may already have this one but hey, you can never have too many presents, even virtual ones.

Laura Driver - always brings a smile to my face

Eve Upshall - I have only just discovered this blog but I think it is quickly going to become a must-read.

I could have passed this on to so many others of you but I think you all have it already! For those of you who don't already have it...enjoy!

About last night...

2009-05-23T08:42:00.011+01:00

Well, Dear Readers, you will be glad to hear I didn't collapse in a heap on the kitchen floor or run off into the night, vodka bottle in hand.

In fact, shock, horror...the whole evening turned out to be rather fun!!

Admittedly, I was a bit trembly as I started off with my 'Hello and Welcome' - I felt like my voice was cracking, my hands shaking and suddenly I couldn't meet anyone's eye. I'd invited about 15 buddies, expecting at least 5 of them to drop out but instead, at the last minute, people kept asking if they could bring a friend/husband/mother/daughter. In the end, there were over 20 of us gathered round the kitchen table.

But they were all smiles and I could feel their positive vibes willing me on (bless them all) so it wasn't as daunting as I'd feared. I quickly rattled through my intro and as soon as we were on to the fun stuff...cooking, shiny kitchen toys and FOOD, I felt like I was on familiar territory. Suddenly, people were trying out the gadgets, asking questions and handing round the cookware. I relaxed into it and, unbelievably, actually found I was enjoying myself. I hope everyone else was too - they seemed to be.

Sure, it wasn't seamless and there were moments when I was trying to juggle putting cakes in the oven, answering questions about induction hobs and taking orders - without doing any of those things very well. But somehow we muddled through and I was inordinately grateful to my lovely Mum for valiantly stepping up to the role of commis chef. I would definitely have floundered without her help and Gordon Ramsay would snap her up in a jiffy if he'd seen her in action last night!

Afterwards lots of people placed orders for stuff - even people I hadn't expected to buy anything - and six people booked future shows. Next time though, I don't think I'll attempt to cook four different recipes in one evening (what was I thinking??) and perhaps will resort to a few pre-prepped ingredients to make my life easier. You live and learn.

But I survived it.

So it just remains for me to say a BIG thank you to all my blogging friends who sent me luck, positivity and hot tips. Your comments were so very welcome and gave me a much-needed confidence boost to get up there and go for it. How lucky I am to have such support. Xxx.

Pampered Panic!

2009-05-21T12:28:00.002+01:00

Just had a phone rehearsal of tomorrow's cooking show with my 'boss' and having been quite buoyed up by all my bloggi friends' votes of confidence after my last post, I am now feeling truly freaked out!!! And I've only got 24 hrs to get it together. Helllp!!

She kept reminding me of top tips I should mention about each product. And sales figures. And when the company was started. Ooh, and had I prepared my informercial (the 'About Me' bit)? Was I going to do an ice-breaker? Etc etc.

I mean, God. If I did all that she was telling me, I honestly would give my friends full permission to turn round and run, laughing hysterically, out the door - grabbing a few Mini Goat's Cheese & Thyme Tartlets on the way. Ice-breaker?? Isn't that what the vodka's for?

Anyway, I just about held it together til thankfully Youngest forced me off the phone. And having said Yes, No, and Oh, Good Idea in turn to all her prompts, I think I'm just going to try and forget the spiel and let it roll. It's my friends for God's sakes. I don't want to 'sell' to them. I just wanna have a bit of fun, dish up some hopefully edible dishes and sure, show off my shiny new (and very very cool) kitchen toys.

And if any of them feel like ordering some stuff for themselves at the end of the evening......well, who am I to deprive them of a little pampered cheffery?

Up with the lark...

2009-05-19T05:48:00.014+01:00

Ok, I don't normally willingly vacate my bed at 5 am...but having been woken up by not one but both of my little darlings at the crack of dawn, (Daughter's duvet had fallen off; Youngest wanted a drink), I gave in to the lure of the day. My attempt to go back to sleep was useless; lying there with my mind buzzing, I decided that rather than drive myself mad with my wayward internal ramblings, I would get up and do something useful. Except here I am blogging. Whoops!

Perhaps it's that I'm feeling just a teensy bit overwhelmed at the mo. As well as the usual two-child-parenting lark, Open University degree (1 chapter behind and an assessment next Tuesday), washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning, oh and trying to sell the house, that is my life right now, I've decided I need to diversify. Or at least, try and contribute to our pitiful household income (Husband is an entrepreneur and cashflow is a bit of an issue in these credit crunchy times).

So, I'm following my heart (and stomach) and have decided to do mini cooking shows at people's houses, selling gorgeous, super-covetable cookware on the side. Kitchen porn as I like to think of it, but maybe that's just me. And don't worry, I haven't gone completely bonkers (I think). It's all through a big American company called The Pampered Chef. Bit of a corny name - especially as I'm no chef. But I figured that talking to people about cooking, rustling up some yummy bites for my friends (and hopefully their friends in due course) and getting together a few evenings a month for a bit of a food-related social, really wouldn't seem like hard work. Or work at all, in fact.

My 'launch' show is this Friday and whilst I'm excited and raring to go, I can't deny the nerves aren't slightly prickling me right now. Hence the dawn start, as I went over my sales patter in my head. Actually, sales really isn't my thing - I'd be far too embarrassed to talk the talk to my mates but as my husband would tell you, my genuine enthusiasm for the stuff more than makes up for my amateur sales pitch.

In fact, an old friend of mine said my biggest problem was not getting the message across but toning it down. She felt my passion for my fab new kit (bee-yoo-ti-ful stoneware that makes the crispiest-yet-oh-so-chewy pizzas; whizz-bang food chopper gadget that minces chilli in roughly 2 seconds; funky garlic press that doesn't require you skinning the clove first; chunky glass batter bowl that makes you feel like Doris Day and my aforementioned silicone cupcake pan amongst others) was all a bit in yer face.

Trouble is, I'm not quite sure how to hold back. I really think this stuff is the bees knees when it comes to decent cookware. So, whilst honesty and enthusiasm is not going to be an issue, I've got to admit that standing up in front of 10-20 people (even/especially if they are my mates) is definitely outside my comfort zone. Public speaking has never been high on my Things To Do Before I Die list.

So in an attempt to wrest control of the situation, I've put my TV Director's hat back on and started writing myself a script. Obviously I won't be able to refer to it on the night but perhaps it'll lend me some confidence to get up and strut my stuff. Either that or have a bottle of brandy under the table!

In the meantime, if you'll excuse me, I have some pancakes to whip up with my new batter bowl, stainless steel whisk and titanium-anodised non-stick frying pan...

Big school, here we come!

2009-05-12T21:40:00.008+01:00

This morning, Daughter had her induction at the new, grown-up, bells & whistles school that she'll attend in September, just days after she turns 4. She was only there 3 hours but I was counting down the minutes as soon as she slipped out of view...

She'd been so excited about the visit (having looked round it with us once before and loved it). But at 8.30 this morning, with our arrival coinciding with what seemed like the entire primary school and their parents, she seemed ever-so-slightly overcome by it all. Mutely, she kissed me goodbye and went off with Miss Clark, her teacher-to-be.

My nerves were not helped by the head-teacher mispronouncing Daughter's name as she ushered me expertly out of the school. I wanted to run back and say, 'please get her name right, at least get her name right'. But with great restraint, I told myself that Maya was not by nature a shrinking violet and I had heard her reprimand people before on the subject...'I am not called May-er; I'm Maya (dummy!)'. I had to have faith that she could do this herself.

Somehow I whiled away the hours - although in my haste to return and find out how it had all gone, left to collect her ridiculously early and ended up having to take Youngest to the steam railway, en route, to kill half an hour and not get labelled Neurotic Mum before Daughter has even started.

Anyway, I think the photo says it all. The smile on her face when I met her and the unsolicited, constant patter for the rest of the day about how much she'd enjoyed herself, "I had such fun today at my new school, Mummy! Don't I have to go to my nursery any more?" etc etc were the best reassurance I could have asked for.

This is the picture she drew of herself in her new school uniform, the minute she got home.

Her best bit was me helping her draw in her favourite cuddly - a genetically-modified cow/zebra hybrid.

Mine was the smile.

Testing testing

2009-05-09T22:15:00.018+01:00

I found my little darlings particularly trying today. As if the Universe is in cahoots with Husband to say, "See? You can't cope with the 2 you already have! What are you doing wanting more?". Which is just so deeply unfair.

On good days I feel like I am a fair, relaxed and loving Mummy who lets her children be the sparky little individuals they are. But today, I was dog-tired from too short and broken a night and it took its toll on me all day.

I won't go into the ugly details but suffice it to say that I was not proud of my parenting skills today. Daughter, however, was unbroken and still managed to get the last word in.

Take our little lunch-time battle, for instance... Concerned she hadn't had a particularly nutritionally-balanced lunch, I asker her if she fancied a stick of cheese (you know, the product of some genius bit of marketing whereby you pay waaaay over the odds for a stretched-out string of coloured cheese that you think might appeal to your child, instead of just slicing some off your own budget block of cheddar). Anyway, she said Yes (very decisively I might add). And thus the trouble ensued.

First off, she started shredding the stringy cheese into its constituent parts - a bit like a monkey might peel a banana skin but with less eating at the end of the activity. Some might say she was expressing her artistic side. Personally, I found it rather revolting and could see precisely where this game was going to lead us. In an attempt to nip things in the bud I calmly asked her to eat her food, not play with it. She said she fully intended eating her cheese but she needed to explore it first. In my attempt at hands-off parenting, I let her continue but 5 minutes later, she still hadn't eaten a single piece of the cheese. I started getting a bit wound up and insisted that, having asked for the food, opened it and told me she was going to have it, she really should eat at least half of it before getting down from the table. Anyway, to cut a long story short (and it felt interminably long at the time so I definitely wouldn't want to inflict it on you here), suffice it say that my daughter has an iron will and after half an hour, no cheese had passed her lips.

Taking a very, very deep breath, I tried the Alfie Kohn (more on this in a future blog) way of explaining to a child why a certain behaviour is undesirable. Without resorting to the anger bubbling up inside me, I sat down and explained to my 3.5 year old that the reason I was upset she wasn't eating the cheese was that it was such a waste of food. She wanted to know why it was a waste, so I told her that as well as the money that I'd spent on buying it, the milk (that the cheese was made from) was a precious resource from a generous cow. How would that cow feel knowing that her milk had been taken away to be turned into cheese that just ended up in the bin? She listened to what I said but bounced away unburdened by the incident.

A little while later, I was cleaning up the kitchen and ditched some leftover rice that we'd had for the previous night's supper (ever since a food poisoning incident involving day-old rice, I've never risked keeping it for seconds). My inquisitive daughter asked me what I was throwing in the bin.

On hearing my answer she breezily said, "So now we've both wasted something, Mummy".

Grrr.

That time of the month again.

2009-05-07T15:34:00.007+01:00

Without resorting to either memory or maths, I know without a shadow of doubt that right now I am ovulating.

How can I be so sure? Well, for the past 3 weeks, I have been terribly sensible and pragmatic about the hot topic of Having Another Baby. I have realised the limitations of my energy, time and patience (not to mention funds) and come to terms with the fact that two is quite enough, thank you very much. A third baby would mean a bigger car, another Caesarean (2 previous emergency C-sections leave one with little choice), a further year (realistically, make that two) of sleepless nights and a facelift to make up for all the accumulated stress. Plus the thought of moving house pregnant fills me with horror. All in all, a lot of trouble and strife. Not a good idea. At. All.

Fast forward to the last 24 hrs and I am filled with an aching broodiness that leaves my husband running scared (mentally, not physically, I might add. Like a true bloke he is maximising the, ahem, physical benefits of this temporary broodiness). Our already flaky contraception has become distinctly careless and, do you know what, I don't care! All I can think about is nurturing a new life within me, that soft downy hair of a newborn, nestling my baby in my arms, gazing into its old soul through new eyes, carrying the compact roundness of a tiny baby in the warm embrace of a papoose, its teeny tiny feet that I can enclose in one hand...then later on, marking those miraculous milestones of lifting its head, crawling, sitting up, first words....oh the list goes on.

But what if this yearning is simply the surge in oestrogen that occours mid-cycle. And does that broodiness ever leave one? Perhaps I could have 10 children and still ache for more!! So as I leap on my bemused husband for the third time in as many days, I can't help but wonder, is there another baby-soul asking to be let in or is it just my genes seeking to people the planet with Mini-Mes? Should I give in to this powerful roar from within or might I regret it again in a week's time when everything subsides and I go back to my 'Not tonight, darling' norm.?

I feel an absolute hostage to my hormones. But in the meantime, Husband...watch out!

The search is over.

2009-05-06T06:33:00.012+01:00

Don't hold your breath but...I think we may have found Dream House!!

Ok, so it's not Perfect. But it's that other, equally compelling P word - a Project. And it ticks quite a few, important boxes.

It's so close to the water that if you open the back gate in the garden, walk for about, ooh, 3 seconds, you reach a Swallows & Amazons'-esque creek. There's a little dinghy park beyond, where people keep boats to mess around in at weekends and I'm dreaming of a family-sized kayak (those ones which have a sail in situ to maximise your on-water fun) that we can take off in any (every?) evening that grabs us.

Also, river views from almost every room in the house. Mmmmm.

An alomost-private beach is a scant ten minutes stroll away.

What else can I tell you? (or, like me, are you already sold on it?)

It's 8 minutes from Daughter's new school and 9 minutes from Youngest's nursery.

It's habitable but beat up enough for us to need/want to gut it and make our mark. And not that I'm letting myself get emotionally invested in it or anything but I have already chosen all the colours for the bedrooms. Plus, it has this dodgy little annexe (the playroom?) to the side which, because it's a corner plot, we're pretty certain we'd get planning permission to either replace or build around to double our living space.

And yes, it has some green stuff! Not a huge garden; not a football pitch. But enough for the babes to frolic in, Husband to light a barbie and me to make a stab at growing some veg - or at least a couple of herb pots...

So what else was on my wishlist...umm, suddenly I don't seem to care! If this isn't Dream House, I don't want to know. I just want to live there now now now!

Baby-Led Potty Training

2009-04-30T17:18:00.007+01:00

I read More Than Just a Mother's recent blog on Baby Led Weaning with great interest. It wasn't an approach that had ever occoured to me at the time my babies were throwing their lovingly prepared sweetcorn puree in my face. But having come through the other side of those many, many food battles, I can certainly see the benefits of Another Way.

It also got me thinking about potty training and whether this too is something best dictated by your child. I say this because, quite unprompted, Youngest has taken to clutching his nether-regions, telling me 'Do-dl-do-dl-do-dl' (his best imitation of the sound effect of someone peeing) and nicking his sister's potty. More often than not, he produces.

At the tender age of 21 months, I really wasn't expecting this. Ok, his sister was out of nappies by the time she was 22 months but I thought boys were meant to be late developers! I guess having an adored older sibling to look up to has worked some evolutionary magic on him. So after a few days of this behaviour, I reluctantly followed his lead; investing in some boy-pants (M&S stripy multi-pack, if you must know!), Pull-Ups for when we're out & about and leaving two potties in prominent positions around the house.

We're not there yet - there are still moments when his bladder takes him by surprise and he finds himself, to his indignation, standing in warm little puddles and soggy pants. But it's quite nice not to be wrestling him into nappies all the time, something we were both starting to hate due to his very physical and often painful protestations (winding me in my stomach with his muscular little legs was becoming less and less amusing as the days and battles went on).

It's just strange not to be able to take any credit for his new-found potty skills. Am I redundant so soon??

Tagging fever

2009-04-28T19:36:00.007+01:00

Well THANK YOU, Maternal Tales, for passing on this truly awesome award. I am highly honoured and thrilled to have my first addition to this blog page that I didn't write, design or photograph myself. Hurrah!

And now, down to business. I can't imagine anyone is in the slightest bit interested in my answers to these Tag questions but since MT has thrown the gauntlet, here are my humble responses.

What are your current obsessions?

Food. Sleep. My children. Food. Finding our Dream Home/selling Cottage By The Sea. Blogging. Did I mention Food already?

Favourite food?

Wild mushroom and porcini risotto.

Skate with mushy peas and caper mayonnaise

Home-made pesto with, anything, but ideally...

Home-made pasta

Oysters Rockefeller

Potted shrimps on toast

Salt & pepper squid

Molten Chocolate Babycakes

Rose-scented white chocolate truffles

What’s for dinner tonight?

It was going to be some shiny-fresh plaice fillets and local asparagus…until Husband told me he’s off sailing this evening. Couldn’t muster up the enthusiasm to cook just for me (some food experiences need to be shared) so have made do with a rather scrummy (though I say so myself) freshly-baked chocolate cupcake. Might follow up with some more of the local asparagus I've been gorging myself on recently - can't get enough of the stuff!

Hangover cure?

To replenish nutrients: Fresh fruit/veg/herb smoothie (if the blender noise doesn't make your head explode).

For the feel-good factor: Fried egg sandwich

To rehydrate: Copious amounts of hot tea, herbal for me but basically whatever floats your boat...get that liquid back in!

What’s the last thing you bought?

£70 worth of Tesco groceries, which will probably last us all of 24 hrs!

What are you currently listening to?

The cars driving off the chain ferry, a stone’s throw from our cottage. And in between that, waves lapping at the shore.

What are your favourite holiday spots?

The Isle of Wight - it's one long holiday here!

Scottish Highlands - where we used to holiday every summer as kids

Umbria in Italy - great food, lush countryside, beautiful architecture. Do I need to say any more?

Croatia, by boat - like Italy but undiscovered. Or it was when I first went five years ago. Is probably hideously over-developed and touristy now. But at least on a boat you could get away from it all.

The Grenadines, by Superyacht - to get to all those deserted sandy beaches in style and comfort. Mind you, I'd be happy in a dinghy...

What are you reading now?

As usual, I have several books on the go:

Eating Mindfully

Unconditional Parenting (might have to blog about this soon...has turned my world around)

Biological Psychology: Exploring The Brain (OU text book)

Boden Summer catalogue

Use 4 words to describe yourself.

Hard-working; creative; happy; a bit manic.

What is your guilty pleasure?

Don't laugh at this but when the kids are all tucked up in bed, the house is returned to a presentable state and supper is cooking in the oven, I do like to indulge in a little, light...

Online Window Shopping!

I know that probably sounds crazy but since a) the shops on the Isle of Wight are generally pretty uninspiring and b) I miss gazing at the glittering shop windows of pretty London boutiques and c) our current financial status does not allow me to go on any shopping sprees -real or imagined - it's the only retail therapy I can get!! Very occasionally, my virtual browsing has carried me away and the next morning I've found a confirmation e-mail in my In Box, revealing that I have more than window-shopped. I have actually put my virtual wishlist into a virtual basket and clicked on a virtual checkout; then, whilst still on dreamy auto-pilot, filled in my off-by-heart credit card details and finalised the transaction. One time, the first I knew of such a sleep-shopping (like sleep-walking only much, much more dangerous) episode was when a parcel arrived that I presumed to be a present. When I phoned the company to ask who had sent me such a thoughtful and amazingly well-chosen gift, I was embarrassed to be told the giver, was ME!

Who or what makes you laugh until you’re weak?

When they’re not driving me nuts, my children invariably reduce me to helpless fits of giggles.

A couple of books have also made me laugh out loud recently - Eat, Pray, Love by the legendary Elizabeth Gilbert (what a gal!), Love And Other Near Death Experiences by Mil Millington and Toby Young's How to Lose Friends And Alienate People.

First Spring thing

Dusting down the white linen trousers. And shivering for the rest of the day!

Where are you planning on travelling to next?

Athens for a 3-day conference on Ayurveda medicine. My first time away from the children. I don't know who will find it harder. (Although I am looking forward to the unbroken nights!!)

What was the best thing you ate or drank recently?

Isle of Wight asparagus, drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with liberal amounts of black pepper - local, seasonal, perfect.

When did you last get tipsy?

The last time I walked past a bottle of wine. It really doesn't take much for me to start feeling all light-headed. In fact, just thinking about it now is making me a little giddy. Hic!

What is your favourite film?

The English Patient. A masterly piece of cinema; pure genius.

Share a piece of wisdom.

Be true to yourself first and foremost.

What’s your favourite song?

How can anyone select a single choice?? The following will always move me:

Harvest Moon by Neil Young; Elvis Costello's She; Perfect Day - Lou Reed; Blowin In The Wind - Bob Dylan; Act Like You Know Her by The Honeymoon; Pulp's Common People; Love Cats by The Cure; Mad World - the Alex Parks version; Fantastic Day sung a capella and slo-mo by Mr Nick Heyward; k.d.lang singing Hallelujah; Twinkle Twinkle Little Star sung by my son; Old John Muddlecombe sung by my daughter; Bizet's Carmen; Prokofiev's Romeo & Juliet; Pavarotti singing Nessun Dorma...I could go on but you've probably already switched off!

If you could change anything in your life so far, what would it be?

I'd like to say 'Je ne regrette rien', after all, we are the product of our life experiences and our mistakes form us just as surely as our successes. But I can't lie. I will always bitterly regret getting back with an ex-boyfriend, then marrying him, then divorcing him two short years later. I should have listened to my gut instinct and walked away when I had the chance (not that he wasn't a lovely, wonderful person - we were just terribly mismatched). The shadow I cast over both our lives is hard to forget and I still have a hard time reconciling the person who went through all that with myself. The only small benefit I derive from such a horrible experience is that it taught me a lot about myself and who I needed to be with. And also to fully appreciate the happy harmony I now enjoy with Sailor Boy.

And now I pass the Tag on to the following fabulous bloggers and my Honest Scrap award to Onshore Wife, who has a gift with words and fortitude like nobody else I know. So ladies, the game is, you answer the questions, changing one question for your own, then forward to 8 others. Have fun!

Onshore Wife

Metropolitan Mum

A Confused Take That Fan

Diary Of A Surprise Mum

To the powers that be:

2009-04-23T21:55:00.006+01:00

An old friend of mine had a rather sweet way of dealing with any problems life threw at her. She would write her thoughts and wishes down – or more often than not, requests on how to solve a problem - and place the missive underneath her pillow at night. She swore that clarity came to her as she, quite literally, slept on it. I suppose at the very least, it was a good way of unburdening her mind of angst before settling down for the night.

So although I don’t think I’d rest easy with my computer buried beneath my pillow, I thought I would perhaps release some pent-up stress and write down what’s on my mind at the moment. Which is, of course, Dream Home!

So here is my own personal wishlist to the Universe:

Top of the list has to be A Garden. I’m not asking for a football pitch (although that would be nice). Just a scrap of green stuff where the kiddies can run and jump and climb. Dig in a sandpit. Ride their bikes. Make camps. Maybe even have a little Wendy house, if that’s not asking too much…
Next up has to be a Playroom. Somewhere the kids can call their own. To keep their toys safe, do their 'art' in and generally trash without censure. Somewhere bossy Mummy promises not to tidy, until they’re tucked up for the night.
This obviously means we also have to have a Grown-Up Living Room. A still, small place to escape to on the rare opportunities the babes don’t need constant adult supervision. A toy-free zone to read the Sunday papers (...in my dreams!).
A lovely (I know this is a bit of a subjective adjective but I’m hoping the Universe knows what I mean), sunny, spacious Kitchen - preferably with a big window that looks onto the garden, so I can check the little darlings aren’t killing each other, while I make their tea (and myself a Pimms...). Maybe a 6-hob range cooker while we’re at it? And one of those curvy Fifties fridges? Nice.
Since this is a wishlist, a separate Dining Room would be great. I’ve always wanted a peaceful haven where we can eat with friends, without subjecting them to all the chaos created by my cooking. Our current set-up is rather bohemian, with a big wooden table at one end of the kitchen and all the action going on at the other. No-one ever complains but I’m painfully aware of the dirty saucepans, vegetable peelings and empty bottles littering the space! It would be so nice to play at being sophisticated for a change!
This may seem a crazy priority to some but I’d also really, really, REALLY like a Utility Room. Surprisingly enough, this is pretty high on Hard-Working Husband’s wishlist too. We are both so sick of constantly tripping over the ironing board and negotiating piles of laundry when trying to cross the living room. How lovely to be able to shut the door on all that and tackle it when one’s feeling courageous.
Oops, nearly forgot bedrooms! Three is the minimum I guess – one each for the little ‘uns, with hubbie and I sharing…for now!! (just kidding, honey). The bigger the better. And high ceilings please!
We’re pretty crazy on bathrooms as a rule and have three in our present abode. But so long as there’s at least some washing facilities, I’m not too bothered about this feature as it's so easy to fix. But a downstairs loo/upstairs bath arrangement would be handy.
Oh and Sailor Boy says, could he please be near the water? If not quite riverside views, at least within walking distance of somewhere watery? Situated as we are right now on the banks of the River Medina, anywhere inland would be quite an adjustment.

There, I think that's all. It's not too much to ask is it? Just a nice, big, perfect family home for me and my brood. Simple.

So what now? Well, I guess we just sit back and wait. How exciting!

Oh...and thank you xxx

Hunting for Dream Home

2009-04-21T22:30:00.003+01:00

Maybe we've just been unlucky. Maybe it's the state of the housing market in this rough old economic climate. But so far, all the properties we've visited (and it's been a few, it really has) have had quite major downers.

We've turned up eagerly enough, seduced by the glossy brochures and fancy words. Phrases such as 'a rare opportunity to purchase', 'highly desirable', 'viewing highly recommended to fully appreciate this unique home', 'Greasy, Vile & Son are honoured to be appointed as sales representatives for this unusual property' etc etc have all worked their ad-speak magic into making us believe that This house really is something special. "Grab it while you can!" And as we've made our way round each place in turn, our hearts sinking ever lower as the rooms struggle to match their photographic glory or over-hyped details, I've started to wonder if we'll EVER find The One.

Of the houses we've actually viewed and sort of liked, one was opposite a dairy farm and suffers from, ahem, rural smells; another is practically on the forecourt of a garage and the last was on the busiest road on the south of the Island. Sigh.

We've now learnt to check locations on Google Earth first, to get an aerial view of the plot for sale. This has saved us several wasted viewings that looked oh-so-promising at first, carefully-photographed glance: the Georgian-style, Grade II-listed former Post Office...on a busy roundabout; the 5-bedroom, mature gardened executive home...behind a car pound; the garden photographed with a fish-eye lens to make it appear roughly 5x bigger than it actually is and so many, many more.

Every night I scour the web pages of Rightmove (so promisingly titled...), running my now highly-critical eye over the estate agent photographs of umpteen potential properties. The few that leap out at me are usually several £100K over our budget. The rest? Well, I'm working my way through them but there's only so many hours in the day...

Parting is such sweet sorrow

2009-04-20T21:42:00.004+01:00

Just as predicted, Daughter goes back to nursery tomorrow and we've had such a sweet day together that I almost feel sad at letting her go.

She on the other hand is beyond excited and, when I explained that she'd be starting a new term on Tuesday, told me, "I want to be, be, be at my nursery". The triple reiteration underlining her rapture at being reunited with friends and teachers alike.

I am glad of her confidence, of course - and glad too for the memory of this special yet ordinary day. I hope when she is recounting her childhood to some therapist years from now, she'll remember this day and not the grumpy, frazzled ones when I gave her less than she deserves.

An end and a beginning

2009-04-19T07:39:00.011+01:00

It's the last day of the Easter holidays and although it has been a nice break not to have to be out the door at 8.30 am, with everyone dressed, packed lunches made and nappies/reading books/show & tells all to hand, it has not been without its stresses.

Past holidays have always been a welcome respite from routine. Littlest used to have a couple of day-time naps, which allowed Daughter and I some precious time together to indulge in creative fun and enjoy some relaxing bonding. Plus they've both been pretty easy to entertain within the limits of our little cottage - colouring, lego and jigsaws, accompanied by a bopping musical soundtrack, could keep us all merry for hours.

But this last fortnight has tested us all, I think primarily, because they've just suddenly got so much bigger. Little one is less interested in sleep, more keen to join in whatever his sister's doing - and generally a lot, lot noisier. And they're both much more physical than ever before. They want to climb trees, swing upside down, make camps, run, jump and cycle. With a matchbox-sized back yard (I can't even call it a garden), this is somewhat difficult - and unsatisfactory for all concerned. Daughter wheels round and round in a tiny circle on her smart new bike; Youngest bounces on the mini-trampoline before deciding he too would like to be a cyclist. The first of many battles then ensues, as they argue over available bikes and space.

Inside, we have just the one living room so the kids have to share their play space with me, my paperwork/study books/computer, the ubiquitous ironing, various buggies (single and double), more often than not the hoover and of course the many boxes that contain their numerous toys. It was always a precarious balancing act between children's playroom and grown-up relaxation space. But these holidays have really tipped that teetering equilibrium over the edge. And made me more determined than ever to get moving.

So there's now a prominent FOR SALE sign advertising our Des Res, we have our first viewing next Saturday to very promising candidates and the hunt is on for Dream Home.

Tomorrow, our well-oiled and slightly frantic routine begins again. Music, nursery and ballet classes all crank up for the summer term. Which gives the kids the exercise and stimulation they're craving and buys me a little time to find that perfect pad.

My babies are no longer babies.

2009-04-16T22:22:00.013+01:00

Well, I don't know why I wasted all those sleepless nights worrying myself silly that Youngest's speech was somehow defective. I know that boys are meant to learn certain things at a different pace to girls. But when he reached the ripe ol' age of 20 months and the only really distinguishable words were car, nigh-night and Da, I couldn't help comparing him to his fluent sister who, at the same age, had been speaking in sentences and cheerfully rattling off three-syllable words.

Not only was his vocabulary somewhat limited but he also had some imaginative pet names for favourite objects. So tractors were Da-doos. Aeroplanes = Nam-nams. And diggers (he is a boy...) were, wait for it, Ka-poos. In other words, they bore absolutely no relation to the roots of the words in question. I wasn't bothered that he wasn't a child prodigy. With lips like his, brains were always going to be secondary! But I did wonder if there was something up with his hearing.

So, with the gentle prompting of my well-meaning but slightly concerned Mum (ex-Great Ormond St nurse so kinda knows about kids) and armed with some newly-learned scare-facts on glue ear, care of Google and Wikipedia, I marched off to our GP. Who - amazingly - took my concerns seriously and referred me to a specialist. Who also took my concerns seriously and suggested we put Little One in an Experiment Room at Portsmouth Hospital and bombard him with a host of different pitched noises, whilst monitoring his reactions with some hard core computers and monitoring device thingies. At which point, I said, Enough! Before we subject my Son to this interesting but no doubt traumatic and definitely expensive procedure, are we absolutely sure this is a Hearing issue and not a Developmental thing? Said specialist snapped out of his scientific trance, looked in Youngest's ears, up his nose and down his throat, proclaiming them all clear as a bell and said that, perhaps there was nothing to worry about after all, come back in six months time for a check-up.

And now, a mere fortnight later, it's like a light bulb just went on. From the moment he wakes at 6.30 am to the minute he finally gives in to sleep, at around 8 pm, he does not stop talking. Choice words are repeated from my sentences like a constant echo, non-verbal sounds are imitated relentlessly (amusing when he tries to copy his father burping, less so when he copies the sound of the rubbish lorry reversing), he gabbles incessantly in a quasi-comprehensible patter and his own sentences include such gems as 'I wan more', 'cut with knife' or 'shut the door'. Tonight he put in his first menu request - 'I wan chips'. It was a perfect 'Chips' too. Clear, distinct and crisp. Anyone would think he'd heard the word several times a day, every day of his life (Heaven forfend!).

I can't believe the change in him in just two short (busy, noisy) weeks. But greater even than this fantastic progress, is the pride I felt in his momentous achievement tonight. Yes.....it's true! Youngest did his 1st wee on the potty!!!

After weeks of trying to emulate Older Sister, much sitting on the potty or loo, a great deal of grunting and pushing and effort with not a drop of urine to show for it, just a few accidental 'botty-burps'....he did it!

And what all this means of course is that my baby is growing up. He speaks, he wees. Is it University next?? What with Daughter starting school in September, I think this means I am officially now the mother of two school-children, not babies. Sniff.

Simple Pleasures

2009-04-15T20:07:00.010+01:00

Today was a good day.

Could be ‘cause I finally feel like I’ve shaken off the food poisoning from the weekend and have started to eat again, hence have a little more energy than when I was existing on hot water and ginger. Or maybe only having to get up twice in the night, meant I got in a few more precious hours’ kip than I have been of late. Or perhaps it’s the after-glow of Easter chocolate that I succumbed to yesterday…

Whatever. I didn’t lose my rag (at least not until bath time when Youngest attempted to drown his sister and said Sister screamed ‘til my eardrums were begging for mercy). I was patient and diplomatic and imaginative. I let the tantrums and screaming and sibling battles pass me by. I was Fun Mum - and my children are too young to argue the point, so lets not deviate from this rosy image.

We didn’t do anything flash – unless you count Daughter’s new Strawberry Shortcake socks (and to be honest, she probably would). Climbing trees in the park (probably frowned upon but kids were in 7th heaven so well worth a telling off), making a tissue-paper collage, a trip to the nearest adventure playground, babyccinos in M&S (marshmallows and steamed milk - does life get any better?), macaroni cheese for tea...followed by secret fistfuls of mini-eggs (I found the telltale wrappers later).

Happy smiles all round. And I feel reassured that I’m not the hopeless, perennially grumpy parent I was fearing I might be. Turns out my children are actually quite fun to be with too. No doubt, I’ll just get into this whole, hanging-out-with-the-two-of-them lark and it’ll be Back To Nursery time. Dohhhhhhh!

Cute. But trouble.

2009-04-13T19:46:00.003+01:00

Is anyone else struggling with the Easter holidays or is it just me?

I love my children fiercely but Youngest seemed to do nothing but scream all morning today and I felt absolutely ragged by lunchtime – with half the day still to get through! If there’d been an orphanage at the end of our road, I swear I’d have left him on the doorstep today. But things did improve thankfully – he slept for an hour for starters and we all went out for a lovely lunch with friends followed by a long, languorous walk in the sunshine and a dip into the chocolate Easter egg haul. Hopefully after yoga tonight I might actually feel human again. Before it all begins again tomorrow…

Admittedly, the hols did not get off to the best start what with Youngest’s vomit bug, Daughter’s tuberculosis-style cough and both of us going down with a rather nasty and persistent dose of food poisoning. Broken nights and lack of sleep do not make for patient mothers (in my own personal experience anyway). But apart from the noise (general frustration/angst/sibling battles + “I wan’ Mama” constantly) which I’m fairly used to by now and am able to let wash over me most of the time, the hardest thing I’m finding is trying to appease both children simultaneously. Being nearly two years apart - as well as different sexes – they both want to do entirely different things – and unfortunately there’s only one of me!

My 3.5 year old loves drawing, baking, painting, sticking, cutting – anything creative basically. And given the impressive art projects she brings home from nursery, I’ve been wracking my brain to come up with things to keep her amused. And whilst Youngest (21 months) would love to get stuck in, this always ends in tears – usually mine. Glitter tubes are recklessly thrown across the room, glue sticks chewed on and scissors tested on any surface within reaching distance. Afterwards, I find indelible scribbles on the terracotta floor tiles and up the walls. If I turn my back for a moment, he’s off finding new mischief to make – such as unspooling tapes in the understairs cupboard. Or eating all the homeopathic pills from my bedside drawers - still, at least it wasn't the paracetomol...

As a boy, he’s happiest being outside exploring both his physical abilities and the world around him. But as we don’t have a big garden this necessitates a trip to the local park – a beautiful green leafy paradise but a trip nevertheless. I’m working on procuring our own little Eden where he can happily dig up the flowerbeds, make mud pies, ride his trike and otherwise happily exhaust himself. But until then, how am I going to survive?

Any tips from seasoned multiple-kiddo Mamas gratefully (can you hear the trembling plea in my voice?) received. Two things I have learnt though. Those nursery fees are worth every penny. And how does anyone Home Ed??!!

Mother, O Mother

2009-04-11T20:21:00.002+01:00

I just stumbled across this poem by Ruth Hulbert Hamilton and thought it was so beautiful and humbling and poignant that I wanted to share it. Sorry if you already know it...

Mother, O Mother, come shake out your cloth
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing, make up the bed,
Sew on a button and butter the bread.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking? 
She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.
Oh, I’ve grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue, 
Lullabye, rockabye, lullabye loo. 

Dishes are waiting and bills are past due 
Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo
The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew 
And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo 
But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo 
Look! Aren’t his eyes the most wonderful hue? 
Lullabye, rockaby lullabye loo.

The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow 
But children grow up as I’ve learned to my sorrow. 
So quiet down cobwebs; Dust go to sleep! 
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.

- Ruth Hulbert Hamilton

Food of the Gods?

2009-04-08T21:19:00.002+01:00

So Easter is nearly upon us and all I can think about is chocolate. But not in an especially good way.

I was having a Nigella moment a few nights ago…well, more of a Nigella attempt, as the chocolate I was melting to cast into Easter Egg molds (the wannabe Domestic Goddess part) rudely split into a gunky, grainy, oily mess (the reality of my pathetic Nigella fantasy). Even to a confirmed chocoholic like me it looked utterly disgusting. But having spent nearly a fiver on the most expensive couverture chocolate available on our little Island, I was reluctant to relinquish it to the bin without a fight.

In an attempt to find out if my chocolate remnants could be rescued, I searched Google and was so engrossed by what I read that in a few clicks, I found myself in the hidden recesses of Wikipedia reading all about this magical, addictive, life-enhancing substance. At least, that’s what I’d always taken it be. But the more I learned, the less life-enhancing I realized it was.

PUBLIC HEALTH WARNING: Chocolate lovers looks away now if you don’t wish to end your passionate relationship with the divine dark stuff. For me sadly, it’s too late.

Ok, so I’d always known chocolate contained a teensy bit of caffeine, which we all know is not exactly a health supplement, but given that I don’t drink tea or coffee I figured this was no big deal. Plus dark chocolate – the only stuff worth eating in my book - is always being touted for its antioxidant content (bye bye Free Radicals, Merci Pour Le Chocolat). But now I was learning all about a little something called theobromine – a byproduct of cocoa and relative of caffeine.

Like its better known cousin, theobromine stimulates the nervous system (although to a lesser extent than caffeine) but it has a greater impact on the heart. Essentially this speeds up your heart rate and dilates blood vessels (thereby lowering blood pressure). Now some of these properties could make it quite a useful chemical – in someone with high blood pressure for instance. Indeed, theobromine has been used therapeutically to treat hypertension, angina, asthma and oedema - so it’s not all bad! Nevertheless, it’s such a powerful stimulant that it’s actually highly toxic to cats and dogs (in whom it causes heart attacks and seizures) and is banned in horse-racing – so no choci eggs for your pets this Easter! Thankfully we humanoids are made of stronger stuff and can metabolize it more efficiently but side effects still include sleeplessness, tremors, restlessness and anxiety.

Which could explain why I’d been feeling particularly jittery for the past few days/nights (I did say I was a chocoholic - we started the traditional Easter egg gorging early this year!). I’d be buzzing all day then unable to switch off at night and lie there looking at the ceiling thinking of all the things I should be doing instead of trying to sleep.

Annoyingly, since this so-called food of the gods (from the Greek theo + bromine) is found in cocoa, that means the darker 70%-plus varieties have the highest content. So could I bring myself to switch to the sickly sweet white ‘chocolate’ instead? As this has no cocoa content (which is why many chocolate artisans refuse to recognize it as chocolate at all) it also has no theobromine. Which makes for more peaceful nights and presumably an all-round calmer nervous system.

But hey, there’s no such thing as a free lunch. Your heart might not be over-stimulated but since white chocolate is loaded with little more than sugar, cocoa butter and various other questionable fats, you’re increasing your risk of a heart attack and maybe even diabetes. Hooray.

Seems I can’t win. So for now, I’m abstaining. No cocoa, no chocolate - but no jitters. Could’ve timed it better though…

Stress-busting

2009-04-06T21:40:00.006+01:00

Day One of house sale and I am already stressed to the max (although that could be down to the fact that it’s also Day One of the Easter Holidays…). With photographer due at lunch time, I spent the morning berating the children for playing with their toys and raced around packing away miniature tea sets, scattered doll’s clothes, innumerable lego bricks and discarded toy cars. Then realized how insane and unfair I was being and spent the next few hours biting my lip and deep breathing.

Husband assures me that the right person will fall in love with the place and not be put off by a bit of homely mess. Estate Agent just says it has that lived-in charm. (Is that actually meant to reassure me?).

Maybe they’re right but I keep hearing the voice of the first TV presenter I ever directed - a Californian ‘house doctor’. She was big on the little touches and used to bang on about how ‘the devil is in the detail’. A throw cushion here; a new shower curtain there, some fresh pot plants out the front and…Ta, Da, SOLD! Her forte was giving the most garish interior a ‘vanilla’ makeover that made previously horrified punters walk round and coo.

But the only vanilla going on round here is the iced variety, with a chocolate Kit Kat on top for optimum mess levels. Perhaps that's the answer...At least for the next two weeks when nursery and Rhythm Time and ballet and all that extra-curricular stuff that normally occupies the little ones OFF THE PREMISES is on hold. We shall just spend our days frequenting the various ice-cream parlours, cafes and kiosks of Cowes (and given that this is a popular tourist destination, there really are quite a few to choose from) and decide which flavour and venue we like best, before taking up residence in The Chosen One. Leaving Cottage 4 Sale pristine and clutter-free. There are definitely worse ways of whiling away one's time. And I reckon it'll upset the kids far less than my nagging...

Ha!

2009-04-05T21:55:00.003+01:00

Am feeling smugly justified in my earlier concerns about moving to live opposite a dairy farm.

Despite Husband laughing at my sensitive nose, a friend who lives in the vicinity just told me that she believes the properties there have reduced council tax because of the RURAL SMELLS!!! I have never heard of such a discount but I just love the fact that the Island might have such a thing. Eau de Manure is official!

Still fancy Dream House though, rural smells or not...

Survival of the cleanest

2009-04-04T15:55:00.015+01:00

In the light of our house going on the market on Monday (swimming upstream as usual), I have been thinking about how I can possibly keep the place showhome-presentable, with my two little darlings permanently running riot. Here’s my proposed survival plan. Any suggestions to add to the list, gratefully received.

Chores That Can Be Done With Youngsters In Attendance

- Cleaning the bathroom: I reckon I can clean the sinks, loo, mirror and, at a push, the floor whilst the babes are bathing. Then scrub the tub when they’re done.

- Laundry: this is an easy one. Littlest needs no persuasion either to put things into washing machine or pull stuff out of tumble-dryer. And daughter is first class little helper in handing me clothes pegs for sunny-day-drying (although admittedly any washing on the line will have to be hurriedly hidden away when prospective buyers come a knockin).

- Dusting: it never ceases to amaze me how quickly dust seems to settle on every conceivable surface (and a bit gross when you actually think how dust is primarily made up of human skin cells and hairs. Eugh!). But Youngest loves playing with the feather duster so while he ponces about pretending to be a fairy godmother (I’m not worried yet), I can actually get on and polish the picture frames, shelves and side tables.

- Hoovering: bit tricky as Youngest is mortally afraid of said machine but with due notice and distraction, should get away with it in brief spurts.

- Taking bins out: I usually do this at the last minute (ie: when reminded by the beeping dustbin lorry pulling up outside) and preferably when the kiddies are happily ensconced in their breakfast. This prevents Daughter from offering to ‘help’ and Littlest from chasing after said ‘Lol-lol’.

- Ironing: bit of cheat really as it’s only possible (from a Health & Safety standpoint) if I can persuade the babes to sit and watch a DVD for 20 minutes. Something that is immensely appealing to me but strangely not so for them. I’m lucky if they’ll sit with Charlie & Lola for one, measly, all-too-short episode. I’m sure this inherent failing is good for their brains but not so good for my teetering ironing pile.

Which leads me to….

Chores That Can Only Be Done When Kiddies Are Safely Off The Premises Or Sound asleep

- The rest of the ironing. It never ends.

- Kitchen: given the carnage that each meal entails, both on the cooking front and at the dinner table (and then there’s all the kiddies’ meals too…), this really can’t be attempted until the last cup of chamomile tea has been poured. It’s a dull and thankless task – but oh, it’s worth it in the morning when I come down to a sparkling kitchen Doris Day would be proud to bake muffins in.

- Sofas: I’ve tried doing this in daylight hours but little ’uns see it as an irrestible invitation to leap on the freshly plumped cushions. This usually descends into full-blown camp-making and, through past experience, I’ve discovered it’s best to go with it. My chance to think Zen and practice my yogic breathing.

- Tidying toys away: I (sorry, WE) do make valiant efforts to tidy clobber throughout the day so that we’re not living in utter chaos. But as fast as I’m sorting out one corner of the living room, the ominous silence tells me that mayhem is being created in another (or bedroom/kitchen/garden etc)

- Gardening: I learnt this the hard way when I attempted to sweep up our patch of concrete and turned round to find the terrible twosome filling buckets with soil from the two meagre flower pots and making mud pies.

In truth I know this is a battle I can never win. But I’m not going to be the first to give in.

How much Artex is too much?

2009-04-03T19:16:00.009+01:00

We had our second viewing of potential Dream Home yesterday and although it is big on potential (and big on dreams too, since we can't afford to actually fulfil its potential for years yet), I am trying to weigh up whether all it's Potential and Dreaminess makes up for a few teensy-weensy negatives. Any outside advice welcomed - perhaps we could even start an online vote on the topic? Ladies and gentlemen, I present the evidence:

On cue for our arrival, a horse trotted casually past, daffodils nodded and two well-fed pheasants took flight (in a suspiciously identical action replay of our previous visit...either we were having a Groundhog Day or that smooth estate agent has a well-paid cast of extras up his sleeve). This was rural idyll with a capital R. So much so in fact that as we got out the car, we were instantly enveloped in an unmistakable air of 'The Country', as my husband called it. Which is strange, because to me it smelt exactly like cow shit.

So, downside No. 1: prospective Dream Home is opposite a dairy farm. Plus points - fresh milk on our doorstep and might even be able to persuade the jovial farmer to let kids have a go at milking (or is it all done by machines now? Hell, they could press the GO button at least and see milk whizzing out a squillion udders at once, round a spaghetti junction of tubes and straight into a lorry bound for Tesco's. Educational, if lacking in bucolic charm. But there is that smell. Eau de Manure.

Moving quickly onto (and into) the house itself. Currently, it's a fairly ordinary two bedroom bungalow BUT it comes with planning permission to build up and out, giving it four bedrooms and two bathrooms. Given our budget (see earlier Little Miss Thrifty post), this is probably the only way we're going to get ourselves a family-sized home in a nice location.

And here comes downside No. 2: Artex. Everywhere. Not just the ceilings but walls too. I suspect it may even be under the shag pile if I look too closely. And it's not just amateur stuff. The plasterer who did this gaff clearly thought he was the Michelangelo of the Artex world. There is texture, there are stipples, swirls, stripes and scrolls. There are compound patterns - circles, crosses, basket weave, flowers for God's sake - laid over, under and alongside each other. No matter what you say about the stuff, this guy had talent. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, check out http://www.tucknott.net/artex). But the point is, it gave me an instant, blinding migraine. So, sadly, the Artex would have to go. Before I could step foot in the place again.

You may be wondering at this point what DH has going for it...So here comes the really really great, Unique Selling Point, simply-gotta-have-it thing about it. (pause for drumroll). The garden. Or should I say football pitch. Make that two football pitches. It is so enormous that, you see at the back of the photo where that hedge is? Well there's the same space again beyond the hedge until it finally blends into rolling fields. Did I already mention the pheasants? Other unknown birds twitter (in the original sense, not frequent status updates) and you can glimpse the Solent, if you stand on the front lawn at a 45 degree angle. Coming from a town house with a back yard so tiny the kids bump into each other as they turn round, this felt like heaven.

So, should I or shouldn't I?

DH ticks the Location box. It's a Project, which makes it exciting. And it has that garden.
But can I live with an all-pervading odour of dung (even though I know this is the country)? And will we be able to squeeze into just two bedrooms until our ship comes in? Such a quandry.

Feeling sheepish

2009-04-01T22:16:00.012+01:00

The sun shone, the sky was cloudless (bar the odd picturesque cotton wool ball), the magnolias were in full bloom and there were fishcakes for supper. There was much to be grateful for. (And on an ordinary day, any one of these things would have perked me up). But nothing cheered me as much as the thought that today I had to finish my OU assignment, whether I liked it or not.

For the last week, everything has gone on hold – as anyone who’s been round our house recently will testify – as I work long into the night, wracking my brain for some plausible-sounding answers to a ridiculously testing mid-course assessment. But tonight – midnight’s the final cut-off – it gets e-mailed to my tutor…ready or not. And thanks to darling Son sleeping for a full two hours at lunch time, I’m just 1 tiny question away from finishing. It might be April Fool's Day but nothing was going to stop me shedding this long overdue burden of work today.

To celebrate, I took the cherubs (God I hope no-one thinks I’m being literal here?? ‘Little monsters’ looked too scary in black and white and ‘the children’ too Mary Poppins. Cherubs felt sort of maternal yet ironic all at the same time) to one of our favourite Island cafes, Quay Arts (part art gallery, part theatre, part really great caff with the best brownies in town) for tea. They were overjoyed at being treated to packets of apple juice with stuck-on straws (as boring old Mummy normally only buys the freshly pressed bottled variety) and I luxuriated for almost a full two minutes on the huge – and, importantly, empty - sun deck...before Youngest looked like he was about to join the ducks in the river and I whisked us on to pastures new.

The day then escalated into a heady snowball of exciting trips with Sainsbury’s next on the agenda (still not being literal - although the babes did enjoy trying to open all the shopping in the trolley before we’d reached the checkout and then trying to wrest the wheel from Postman Pat in the money-eating, child-magnet model van outside). Made up for shopping torture with a trip to the playground where Daughter delighted in whizzing her brother round and round til he fell over and Little ‘un got her back on the see-saw, while I pondered about what would be a suitable-yet-not-too-keen hour to submit my assignment. Would 6 o’ clock make me look too much of a brown-noser? 11.58 would be cool but it would mean, a) staying up late for the 8th night in a row and b) could backfire if there were any technical hitches – server down etc…

It was only when husband was doing bathtime for the kids and I was having a final, idle read-through that I realized I’d entirely misunderstood one question. I thought it had said ‘600 words total’ for 2d) and had agonized for an entire day getting the word count up. Now I could see it meant ‘600 words in total’ for the whole of question 2 – a, b, c AND d. A quick word count later and suddenly the outlook didn’t seem quite so sunny…not only had I wasted aeons stuffing in a load of pointless information but I had roughly 700 words to lose! Suddenly midnight doesn’t seem that far off…arrgh!

Money Laundering

2009-03-30T19:18:00.007+01:00

Yay! Thank the Lord. 24 hrs without a washing machine and I am inordinately grateful to the highly skilled and oh-so-charming Bosch engineer who swung by earlier this afternoon, whipped out knackered motor thingamyjig and replaced with shiny new part in exchange for a triple figure sum. He didn't even stay long enough for a cup of tea 'n' 4 sugars. Not a bad hourly rate methinks. No wonder he was so jolly.

But I don't begrudge him a penny because now I don't have to entertain thoughts of investing in a mangle. Just watching Tom Cruise tell Nicole Kidman in Far And Away to put more welly into her mangling (no wonder their marriage didn't work out - all that money and he refused to buy his wife mod cons. Bossy too.) totally put me off those rose-tinted, Mills & Boons tales of the romantic days of yore when the simple pleasures in life were the best. Yeah right. How, how, HOW did our great-grandmothers cope with such hard labour on top of baking their own daily bread, making lamb hotpots, sewing the kids clothes, darning socks and producing 13 children? Respect.

So just to mark the occasion, I have done a few celebratory rounds of washing, including a super-hot nappy cycle and a delicate wash reduced spin. And all is well. Phew. I can rest easy in my bed tonight. Theoretically.

Chocolate cake & domestic chaos

2009-03-29T20:59:00.012+01:00

Driving home after a sunny day out in Southsea, I was rudely snapped out of my chocolate cake-induced state of bliss by the sound of Daughter projectile vomiting in her car seat behind me (perhaps that cake was a bit rich for a tiddler). Naturally I screeched to a halt but, after comforting distressed Daughter, swiftly surmised that two muslins and a packet of baby wipes was not going to go far in clearing up the entire back seat of our Polo, which now resembled a hazardous waste disposal centre. We raced home, hoping the speed cameras were on the blink.

Operation Bleach swung into action:
I carried muslin-draped Daughter up to the bathroom.
Husband lifted slime-caked car seat into back garden and set to sanitising the car.
Youngest was distracted with Bob the Builder.

It was only after I had swabbed off most of the clumpy bits of vomit (too much information?), peeled off her disgustingly wet and clingy outfit, immersed Daughter into (an unfortunately chocolate-scented) bubble bath and added the splattered clothes to an already mountainous pile of laundry that I remembered the washing machine had broken down. That morning. And because it’s Sunday evening, there was absolutely nothing I could do about it (even the laundrette would be closed).

Now we all know that Sod's law dictates that two unfortunate events must and will always be followed by a third. So all I needed now was for the guy we want to buy our house to decide to make an impromptu visitation to show his wife round. Tentatively, I chucked the washing into the largest carrier bags I could find (to face up to in the morning) and carried the towel-swaddled patient downstairs for a reviving drink. Only to find Littlest exploring the vomity car seat and, even more worryingly, licking his lips.

I can't even bear to think what he'd been doing while I was bathing Daughter so have decided to simply draw a line underneath the day and pray for better luck tomorrow - and a Bosch engineer...

My 3rd child. Age: 42.

2009-03-28T12:40:00.004Z

I love my husband. Dearly, affectionately, proudly and sometimes even passionately. And yes, this is a pretext for a marital moan.

I mean, why do I even think about wanting another child when essentially I already have three little people to look after (not including me)?

Every time my husband goes to the shops (which isn’t all that often but I think you’ll all agree is hardly taxing) - literally EVERY time - he phones me to check what he should be getting. Usually I’ve only asked him to go because I’m juggling 100 other demands on my time - and always always always arm him with a clearly written shopping list, as well as talking through what and why we need stuff, nice and slowly beforehand. But none of this helps. He still has to call me as he’s wandering up and down each aisle. Because perhaps they’ve only got ordinary broccoli instead of purple-sprouting; or, there’s no marmite will Bovril do?; sometimes its just, oh did you know there’s a new bakery opening in town? All perfectly amiable chit-chat but it kind of defeats the object of having 20 minutes to whizz through some domestic drudgery without disturbance.

Now, my husband is a highly intelligent man. Growing up, he won a scholarship to receive an exclusive public school education; he’s been an entrepreneur ever since he graduated from his second degree (sometimes making money, sometimes not); currently runs two of his own businesses and is about to set up a third; skippered a 50ft yacht across the Atlantic then sailed said yacht + charter passengers round the Carribean for a year. In other words, put his life experiences together with a pretty lightening intellect and I think he should be able to handle a little light weekend shopping.

But no, once out of the office, he morphs into my 3rd child and seeks my advice on every matter - no subject seemingly too small for my scrutiny. What jacket should he wear today, should he go swimming this morning, have I seen the butter (yes, it’s where it always is and if its run out, guess what, there’s a new packet in the fridge, just like it always is) etc etc.

What is this all about? Any psychologists out there got any interesting theories???