Silent Sunday

Self-portrait

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

Silent Sunday

Dirty rotten scoundrels!

And the winner of the muckiest feet award goes to........ Grace! 

At the end of a day out to Anglesey Abbey, Lode Mill and Thetford Forest, Grace had turned a grubby shade of dust and the wrinklies were tired with running around after Grace. Uncle Frank took turns with Grandpa running races on the lawns at the Abbey but Grace won and has a National Trust medal to prove it!

Alas on the day Grace declared her knees fully heeled from the previous wipeout, she takes another flying tumble and scrapes both knees and palms again. Poor Mummy's little soldier, a few tears but nothing a gingerbread man couldn't fix. 

We're off home tomorrow, the end of a super week away from the treadmill as we know it. It's been great spending time with family, makes you realise that Yorkshire isn't all that close to Norfolk after all....

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. 

Castles by the sea

Up and out with the lark, we made a fleeting visit to Cambridge to see Uncle Frank and then headed up to the north Norfolk coast at Wells-next-the-sea. A beautiful afternoon, warm with a sea breeze and a beach to die for. Mile upon mile of golden sand hosting castles and moats for little imaginations as far as the eye could see. Grace approached the feeling of sand and water between her toes with a little trepidation but soon shook that off and then there was no stopping her enthusiasm for it! 

Twilight Sundae

Well into the swing of our summer break in Norfolk, it feels like we were never away! The drive down was perilous and slow, a crazy combo of motorcyclists oblivious to oncoming traffic on the red route into the countryside, and mind numbing tailbacks at Sutton Bridge while the boats came through. Grace chilled out in the back watching Peppa on loop, patient with the promise of fun with Grandpa and an ice cream sundae bigger than anything she's seen before. We made it in time for lunch and Mummy made good on her promise.... 

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!

Lefty's are the mutts nuts!

She used to be ambidextrous but now she's not so sure.... Showing her flair for being a lefty, Grace exhibits 'The Cat'. Left or right handed I'm not fussed either way, but at the moment my budding artist is favouring her left hand, and doing it with poise and precision. Move over Matisse, Grace has arrived!

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.