We've dusted ourselves off!

Funny how things change isn't it. Two years ago I'd be blogging daily. It's nearly 6 months since my last post now. I'm conscious that life passes us by so fast and I always intended this blog to be something Grace could look back at when she was older, curious or possibly nothing better to do than look back and reminisce. 

Fast approaching the 5 year old mark, Grace has started school in reception class, is growing in her independence and is loving every moment she encounters in her own pint size journey. I've grown too, outwards mainly, annoyingly (but hardly surprisingly). I'm on a mission this year to kick start and rejuvenate out love for all things healthy, and possibly even kick the diet coke fancy once and for all. I can try.

We've had a crazy busy few months since the new year rolled in. Launching my own business, enjoying our first Easter break away with Grace and celebrating our 6th wedding anniversary, today as it happens. Never a dull moment. Matt the Husband, now affectionately known as The Patient One or Mr Grumpy Pants, interchangeably, is doing great juggling his balls. Work at the bank, Masters degree in his spare time and being a belter of a grass-cutter cum hoover-upper, life on the street is sweet, so they say.

We moved house on a whim in January, and we are slowly, ever so slowly making our house a home. Langdale Towers, no longer fawlty. (Anyone spotted the likeness to dear old Basil? I'll leave you to rib him about that when you see him).

Grace is blotto as I sit here writing, the dog is knocked out at my feet and  I'm just about to wrap up and bed for the night before I get the munchies and raid the cupboards for a biccie. Night all xx

It's all going swimmingly

You blink and another fortnight passes. Blink twice and Grace has burst our of her four month long swimming regression to chalk off a few widths without batting an eyelid and proudly claiming her first Certificate and badge. Brimming with pride she clutched it to her to chest for most of the day. 

I'll ignore the episode in the pool this week where I hauled her out half way through the class for refusing to let go of my cossy and being generally obstructive... we can't win them all. Avoiding all eye contact with parents in the pool and more on poolside waiting to go in, I'm still torn over whether it was the right thing to do. The ensuing tantrum lasted long enough to make me feel guilty and smart sufficiently for Grace to promise to behave in the pool next week. Little madam.  

Sanity and patience back intact, we've been out to the local village charity event for Yorkshire Air Ambulance. Enjoying the last of the summer sun and a late birthday present from our dear friend Wendy, Grace redeemed herself and I felt human again. 

  

Wales weekender

Making a dash for the border on Sunday we managed to miss the bank holiday traffic and kiss goodbye to the torrential rain that was blighting Yorkshire. Grace didn't make a peep on the way over the Pennines, focused solely on Peppa Pig DVDs and a snack pot of fruit. 

Hitting the hills around Wrexham we hooked up with Laura and Matt who kindly laid on the picnic of Kings at Erddig National Trust park and ordered us to sit and eat. Grace might have let out a weeny 'no way Jose' to the sitting down, but she did munch her way through a fair portion of carrot sticks before stuffing her face on mini pork pies and sausage rolls. I'd like to say I ate like a fairy and had nothing but crudités and the delicious beetroot and sesame dip, but you know me better than that by now and I do believe I polished off just about everything edible. Gannet.

Anyway, I digress. Apart from finding we'd parked the picnic blanket on a lonesome dog turd (much annoyed), we had a lovely wee while sat by the stream, watching Grace play in the water and watching Husband Matt look like a fairy when he tried and failed to walk on water crossing from one side of the steam to the other on the stepping stones. Funny as! 

Grace was treated to a ladybird cake handcrafted by Laura, and we all got a solid nights sleep, helped along by a few bottles of vino and a beef casserole. Zzzz.

Turns out we didn't sleep all that well. Grace woke in the night for the first time in memory and insisted Daddy slept in her bed on the floor. Thermarested up with a kids duvet, the Husband was snoring within minutes leaving me to wrestle a child who was relishing in the novelty of being in bed with her Mummy. Eventually she fell asleep but I retreated to the foot of the bed to nurse my bruised ribs from being kicked and whacked from a sleeping child.

That said, it didn't dampen our day as we headed out to Cilcain for the summer fete, complete with Teddy Parachuting. Ice cream and a brass band later, we strapped up Mr Ted and sent him up for his virgin jump off of the church roof. What a brave bear....

Fortunately Grace slept all the way home which was a godsend considering we sat in a jam on the motorway for over an hour. We were soon home though and back to reality of life, work and childcare, eat (eat some more), sleep. Repeat. 

Smashing weekend. One happy Grace Bear, one daredevil Teddy. Two knackered Parents. Night all...

Silent Sunday

Stop talking, I'm telling a story...

The bedtime routine used to be simple. Clean cut. Bath, a story or two (three on a bad night), kiss kiss, sweet dreams and retreat. Clean. Straight in and out, no messing. 

Not so anymore. Grace has taken charge. 

I can thank preschool for this change. Story circle I think they call it. Where they sit and listen, quiet as a lamb while the reader holds the book a certain way so the whole class can see the page.

Yes, I have preschool to blame. 

For I'm in the throes of 'a squash and a squeeze' last night, the flavour of the day, and all of a sudden I get told to stop! Stop!

"What's the matter?" I enquire, nonplussed.

"You're holding the book wrong!" She tells me, moving my fingers to the spine and turning the book to face the room. "Like this Mummy!" She nods, satisfied.

I pick up where I left off, adjusting to the new position, enjoying our time together. As I draw to a close, I'm aware that Grace is looking fidgety. 

"My turn now Mummy!" She declares, peeling the book from my grip. 

"Really?" I concede, half an eye on the clock.

"Yes, now sit down cross-legged and be quiet. Listen!"

And so I sat. And I listened. So endearing hearing her interpret the pictures in her own way, pebbled with the odd 'be quiet!' aimed at me for joining in or laughing, or something. One book led to two and more. More! MORE! A moment to be cherished.

A bit like the moment at the end of a long day between a child's bedtime and your own. 

It was short last night. A bittersweet combo of Grace finding her storytelling wings and me needing to hit the sack early. 

Night all.

Mr Skinny Legs

If ever there was an arachnaphobe, it's me, with Matt the Husband close behind. I'm the quintessential jibbering screaming wreck who won't rest a wink until that 8 legged critter is sent packing. 

Not so Grace.

So I'm called into her bedroom the other day, summoned if you will, to inspect the mid-range monster slowly cruising the wall at the side of her bed. He's dawdling, no sense of urgency in light of the pending doom. It riles me he just saunters back and forth, that irksome hairy beast. 

I call down to the Husband who comes bearing the power of a Dyson upright. My Knight in Shining Suction. Explaining to Grace that the spider is nothing to be scared of (even though she's clearly not) while we suck him up into a whirl of dust bunnies, Grace looks shocked and concerned. We've crossed the line.

"Where's Mr Skinny Legs gone?" She asked, bottom lip quivering.

Stumped, us grown ups, we look at each other.

"Where's he gone Mummy?" she prompts me.

So we lie. We cover the fact we are shit-scared of Mr Skinny Legs and his many cousins, and we lie. We tell Grace that Mr Skinny Legs had come to the wrong house and that he lives in another village. He's getting forgetful in his old age and can't remember the way home. So the Hoover sucks him up and when we send the dust and Mr Skinny Legs along with it out into the bin, he can get his bearings and find his way back to his own home. 

Big fat liars. 

I'm not proud. But I got away with it.

Mind you, Grace isn't daft. At bedtime that night she peeked down the side of her bed to see if he had made a return. He hasn't of course. And I'm grateful that she hasn't seen through the bravado to the fearful me as I don't want to prejudice her. Yes, I know sending him up the Hoover isn't the most passive ways to remove him from the house, but the scooping him up in a glass thing never worked for me as I'd usually drop the glass before I got to the door or window by shaking so much! No, I'm grateful though. Grateful that she hasn't seen me back in my single days when Mr Skinny Legs would have been met with the crash of the cat scratching post slamming against the wall. 

God bless Mr Skinny Legs. And God bless me!

Three and counting

Who would have thought three years ago that we would be where we are today? We've come a long way together, Grace and me. I so want to sit and pen my thoughts and memories, hopes for you Grace, but life is crazy busy just now so I'm bunging this timeline of pictures on here instead, while I can, and just as soon as I can grab half hour to gather my head and put my thoughts down, I want to capture how I see you through my eyes as you turn from two to three years old. Until then, here's a little snippet, some favourites of mine...

3 years old

3 years old

2nd birthday

2 years

1st birthday

1 week old

5 days old

Silent Sunday

Postcards from Granny

Taking a break from holidaying ourselves we are still keeping focused on the summer feeling by enjoying the steady stream of postcards hitting the mat. Grace is particularly fond of this one being that it has the much-loved ice-cream van emblazoned on it.... The challenge will be to prize it away from her come bath time...

Silent Sunday

Self-portrait

A few weeks short of three years old, Grace pulls off her first self-portrait....

Silent Sunday

Taking cover

Seeking respite from the heat wave currently blessing our shores, Brandon Country Park proved the perfect hideaway. A short walk from the visitors centre, Daisy-woof was off running through the forest with Grace on the back foot, taking the trail out past the lake to the Mausoleum and heathland beyond. Temperatures hitting 30c we were grateful for the shade in the trees and particularly by the giant redwood dominating our view to the sky above. 

After a spell at the adventure playground for young and old alike, we enjoyed lunch before rounding off the day with a well earned ice-cream. 

Silent Sunday

Covert operations

Grubbier than the mind of a trucker driving the Trans-Siberian highway solo, Mr Rabbit surpasses even my turn-a-blind-eye complacency in his ruddiness today. Almost on the verge of going through some kind of evolutionary morph into a pink and white rabbit from another world I find myself turning my nose up at the sight and smell of this wretched comforter the way a prima-ballerina would turn her nose up at The Husband's two left feet. He's dirty beyond recognition. 

What to do then, when a tired toddler refuses to release her grip and insists her sense of smell is less acute than mine?

You go undercover. 

For fear of screams and tantrums raising the roof by shoe-horning the rabbit away from Grace's steely grip, I decide to go in under the cover of darkness. Tiptoeing across the landing, I pause at the door, quietly listening for regular breathing, the sign of a sleeping child on the other side. 

Snoring. 

I spit on my hand, the sign of someone about to undertake serious work, and slowly lever the door open. I'm on the back foot, wretched wood-boring Insects chomping away at the floorboards underfoot, conspiring to creak even the most carefully placed foot on floor. 

The breathing falters. She sucks hard on the dummy, nom nom, and the breathing regulates again. I carry on. 

Now most nights when I creep in to kiss her goodnight, Mr Rabbit is draped casually across her face. Easy pickings for a light-fingered Mummy. Not so today. 

As if subconscious from the heated discussions before bed involving washing machines and Mr Rabbit and words including no, never and no way Jose, I find on this night, Mr Rabbit stuffed under her chest, gripped tighter than a beggar with a fifty pound note. 

She. Will. Not. Let. Go.

She breathes heavily, lighter. She senses me peeling her fingers open, one at a time, my heart rapid with fear, the thrill! I've done it!! He's in my hand! She's still asleep.

I grab it, jubilant, triumphant, it stinks but I have it. My mission to run the Mr Bun through the wash at 90c is almost complete. I am a winner!

And just as I'm patting myself on the back for being so god damn smart, I stub my toe on the corner of the book shelf, tread on a squeaky toy left idling on the floor and say words I usually save for special occasions. She's stirring.

Cursing, I retreat. Listening at the door for the little girl who realises ever so suddenly that her favourite possession in the world has gone AWOL. It doesn't come. I'm safe. We've made it. 

I wash him, dry him and slip him back into her arms so she wakes up to a miracle the next morning. All part of being a Mum. 

Phew!

Tired bear

We're two weeks into Grace's move from the toddler room to pre-school at nursery. Two very long weeks. She's settled fairly quickly, adjusted to the new team and made some new friends to boot. Drop off in the morning is back to being smooth again and she rushes in and takes a pew for breakfast faster than you can say 'rice crispies'...

The snag, the splinter in my arse? Daytime naps. A. Thing. Of. The. Past. 

This conspiracy between Grace and her new keyworker is threatening to unravel my already loosely knitted veil of calm on work days. I have taken to counting to fifty when ten used to suffice. Tired Grace, frazzled Mummy.

Now the little bear still snuffs some z's at the weekend when she will merrily rack up 3hrs or more on the metaphorical bed post. But on a school day? Not on your nelly Mummy. 

The solution? Mild resignation to the fact I am being subjected to the 'change'. From toddler to child. Acceptance? Yes. Overwhelming sense of pride that little bear is growing up? Yes. Secret need to protect ones patience in a room soundproofed and padded with something that won't dint ones head when one knocks it on said wall? Certainly. And for everything else, there is after all vodka. 

Anyone joining me? 

Chin chin.

Our lovely village

 

 

The counting game

With Grace Rebecca at St. Aidans RSPB reserve

Taking a breather from playing Wildlife Bingo at the RSPB reseve

 

En route to buy an ice-cream from the shop

Silent Sunday

Oh Bovver!

I'm living with Eliza Doolittle. I am Professor Higgins in reverse.

One night my little sweet natured dot went to bed, slept and woke the next day with a Cockney gene. Or Essex perhaps. Not water, wa-er. Not Peter, pe-er. Not later, la-er. Not a friggin T in sight. I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I'm sure the little blighter is only doing it for effect but apart from the occasional visit from family darn sarf, I've no idea where it's coming from. Certainly not me.

It's a pet hate of mine, poor enunciation and I'm exasperated. We started off ignoring her. Now we're correcting her but I'm in two minds as I think we're reinforcing the negative behaviour and should be rewarding the good? I'm sure she's doing it on purpose - the freedom of choice to say words one way or another.... I can see it in her eyes, the triumph that she knows she's getting one over on me and I suppose in the grandest scheme of things it could be something worse but my goodness, it riles me!

At breaking point yesterday I wanted to reach for the gaffer tape and stop the noise. I did threaten but she told me she wasn't bovvered by my threats. Wotever.

I'm hoping it's just a phase.

Silent Sunday

Tea-towel sun hats... cousin Eleanor and Grace