Many an afternoon rolls around when all I want to do is switch on CBeebies and sit back on the sofa as my 20 month old daughter trashes the house. Getting up for work at 3.45am can do that to you.
But, most afternoons, I manage to resist the call of Mr Tumble and his cronies until at least 4.30pm. Instead, I don’t even let myself sit down. We go to a swimming lesson on a Tuesday afternoon and a music (read – clapping and bashing a drum) class on a Thursday. Every other afternoon I look for activities or playdates in advance. Continue reading
It’s fair to say the last week has been tough in the mum stakes.
Tantrums on top of tantrums – on top of more tantrums – haven’t mixed well with the sheer exhaustion that comes with being up at 3.45am every day for my new job. By the time tantrum number 3,479 has hit in the afternoon, I’ve regularly melted into a pool of (melodramatic) tears.
But today has been different. Continue reading
Today’s post is brought to you by Frog. I don’t want to muddy her creative waters so without further ado, please welcome my 16 month old daughter to the stage…
I went to the shops today. Mum was muttering under her breath that it would be a quick trip, because the shop’s only over the road. We needed some of that delicious white stuff she likes to give me before my nap, so I was well up for going. Continue reading
Before I became a mum I liked things to be tidy. “Just so”.
I’d make my bed as soon as I got out of it in the morning. There was rarely a film of dust covering the TV. I even cleaned the kitchen floor if the mood so took me.
It got worse when I was pregnant.
I embraced the “nesting period” with gusto. With a baby way past her due date and little else to do I scrubbed that kitchen floor until it shone. And then I hoovered. And dusted. And hoovered some more. My house was sparkling.
Frog has a new toy. It cost me, well, let’s just say it was very very cheap. As cheap as a box of treasure comes, in fact.
At nearly 16 months, my daughter has decided she’s not particularly interested in toys any more. She’d rather play with real stuff. It doesn’t really matter what stuff, as long as it’s stuff.
Useful stuff is best; a bowl, a wooden spoon, some pegs. Anything that isn’t a real toy and which I’m likely to need within the next half an hour. Continue reading
When I was huge and pregnant, the thing that got me through those long restless nights and sick-filled mornings was imagining what I would do with my baby when he or she was born.
At the time, I didn’t know Frog was a girl. And I didn’t know she’d take on squatter’s rights in my womb, so reluctant was she to enter the world. So I was still all rose-tinted spectacles about motherhood.
I imagined my year of maternity leave to include countryside walks, painting pictures and playing with play doh. I looked forward to Christmas with glee, under the illusion that I would find lots of time to bake with my baby and make homemade decorations.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. Continue reading
My baby reckons she’s the next Judge Jules.
Her favourite past-time is to sit in her Baby Diva Seat (not the actual name of the toy, although I do think it is a far better name than the real one) and to spin the decks. She also chunters into the microphone and bangs the keyboard. Not far removed from my attempts at musicality actually.
Babies are so lucky.
Because, while Frog pretends to be the next Fatboy Slim or Britney Spears, she is learning. So, therefore, it is a perfectly valid activity. She’s got it so good.
I keep telling her to make the most of it. By the time she’s 27, any pop star impressions will have to be done under wraps. Unless she’s drunk of course. I don’t suppose she’ll have the excuse that singing into a hairbrush is actually educational. It hasn’t worked for me at any rate.
So this leads me onto my entry for The Gallery at Sticky Fingers this week. The theme is Education. And I’ve chosen a picture taken less than half an hour ago of Frog spinning the decks. The big yellow thing is supposed to be a microphone, not a block of cheese.