Azbo Aaron... Judging a cover by the book

Clearing out the spare bedroom of the hoards of clothes and toys that Grace has outgrown is a mammoth task reserved for days when I've ticked off everything else on the to-do list and it's the last thing standing. I hate it, with a passion but needs must and seeing as I've not been able to open the door fully for at least a month, the deed needed to be done. Armed with laptop, camera, caffeine and the promise of a stiff drink on completion, I dug myself in an evening of dire eBay listings.

Zoom forward a week, things have sold, the room is clearer. I have some money in my pocket and said stiff drink has long since been necked (thank you Uncle Frank for the Glayva you bought us!)

Do you ever wonder what your buyers are like? Who is taking on your clutter, to them a little gem? I regularly bid on eBay for hidden gems that I refuse to pay full price for, like Converse high tops for a toddler who'll probably only be in them two months at most. So I often wonder if the person selling wonders who is buying their junk, my little gem of a find?

Assume my interest then, when a bundle of Grace's toys sold for a tenner to someone going by the screen name of Azbo Aaron. Not ASBO, but cooler, more hip. Azbo.

Now I'm not one to judge on first impressions, sometimes not even second. That said I did rather feel I ought to batten down the hatches and warn the neighbours there might be a wrong'un effing and jeffing up the street with a can of White Lightening hanging off his arm. Then I told myself not to be such a bloody snob and that regardless of his ASBO, Aaron was someones son who at some time in his life got a rap on the wrist for pissing on the bus stop and swearing at the vicar.

I reminded myself I've known highly educated professionals, Old Etonians even, who've pissed behind the curtain at a rugby club reunion, who've run naked across the beach when someones pinched their underwear while they were swimming and whom probably had more colourful language than me and my cousin Christina on an Essex night out. None of which is particularly social to the average Joe.

So I park my assumptions and ride it out. As it turns out, Azbo Aaron sent his Mrs to pick up the haul so I'll never get to put my wonderings to bed. Probably just as well, I've had enough of pot kettle black for one day.

Dragging it out?

Answer me this. If your child is overtired and emotional at bedtime, do you:

a) ignore the screaming and upset, pulling the clothes off a distraught toddler to get them into bed so they can sleep sooner, or

b) does your heart rule, slowing the process to navigate through the tears to find time in between bouts of upset for a comforting and soothing cuddle, but knowing each time you do this it's taking longer to get them to bed?

I'm usually have a no-nonsense approach to parenting but a rough week at work has worn me down and instead of ploughing on I wanted to spend time with Grace last night. Almost like therapy, my comforting her comforted me. It took half an hour to get her clothes off, she point blank refused... very noisily. But I felt better having soothed her through the process even though it should have taken two minutes. I eventually left her screaming on the change table with Matt the Husband who told me he disagreed with dragging it out and we just needed to ignore her tears and protests and get her into her jammies and into bed. I left and five minutes later once her head hit the pillow, the screaming stopped and she fell asleep.

I could have throttled him. I still want to because I think he was right and I was wrong. I know it's not about competing, about who knows best, but it does rile me to think I caused my daughter more upset by dragging it out. Hmph.

Discuss.

posted by a miserable mum in the morning

It's in the Fine Print

As the much awaited summer holiday looms nearer I thought I'd sit and gloat over the booking confirmation to remind myself how many short weeks there are between now and when I will be forced to shrug off the yeti suit and shoe horn myself into a bikini (or tankini). 8 short weeks, give or take a rich tea biscuit, but what's a biscuit between friends?

I digress.

So I'm checking the booking is all in order and reading between the lines I question the logic of "double bed and space for cot".

No cot?

Hm. I email the holiday company, and they email me back after a few short minutes to reassure me that my booking is A-ok and that Grace will have somewhere to rest her pretty little head.

It reads:  "I can confirm that a cot has been automatically requested for your infant. However, we do advise this cannot be guaranteed. We are confident the hotelier will do their best to accomodate your family's request, however the availability of a cot is dependant on the number of infants travelling at the same time."

That's one big arsed caveat* if ever I saw one.

I'm sat here thinking through my options in case it turns out by chance that every cot available to the hotelier is otherwise engaged on our arrival. It's ok, Grace sleeps in a bed (assuming they have one of those at their disposal and they can squeeze it into the room) and nevertheless I find myself a wee bit miffed that what you book ain't necessarily what you get.

For instance, I buy a pair of running shoes (a bit far fetched, but stick with me) and I KNOW they will have laces in the box when I get home. I order a pizza with stuffed crust and I KNOW the crust will be stuffed - there's no small print that says "we reserve the right not to stuff crusts during peak times". So when I book a holiday for two adults and one infant, I expect there to be some small guarantee that there will be sleeping kit for two adults and one infant. Silly, silly me.

Worry not though. The email encouraged me to contact the resort representative on arrival if there are any problems and they will endeavour to assist. Well that's ok then.

Is it me, or is it crazy to do business like this? Do put me straight if I'm being unreasonable.



*that's caveat, not cravat. That said, I'm going to pack a cravat - super handy strangling aid for the unsuspecting resort representative who tells me there is...no...cot.

Natural Born Liar!

We're driving home from seeing my parents in Norfolk and we're about two thirds of the way home. Grace has been asleep since we left and she's just rousing. She's content to sit for a bit and then she starts to fidget so Matt the Husband tells her we're nearly home. An outright lie.

Later on we give her a a packet of mini cheddars to snack on to see her through until tea time. She asks for more, we tell her they're all gone. Another lie (Matt the Husband has syphoned a handful off for me to eat as I drive).

At Grandma's house later on, she's given a piece of fudge as a treat for Mothers Day. She's not a Mother but I let it go. She asks for another piece. Grandma tells her it's all gone. Yet another lie.

Why do we do it? White lies I know, but still lies. I wonder when we will start telling her to amuse herself for another hour as we have a long way to go until we get home? Or that Mummy ate the mini cheddars so there aren't any left? Or that one piece of fudge is more than enough for a little lady inbetween meals, thank you very much?

Because it's easier to lie. To gloss over the truths with a snippet of fib to make life easier. It's wrong, but it feels so right! And so natural. I am a natural born liar.

And so are you!

Bribery: sweet sweet influence

I'm guessing I'd be arrested if I did business like this, but with a 19 month old, it works a treat and I get away scott free.

You want to eat now Grace? Wash your hands first.
You want to go in the garden now Grace? Let's put the toys away first.

It works wonders with a toddler and I'm trying it on the Husband too.

You want sex tonight? Do the laundry first.
You want sex tonight? Do the hoovering first.
You want sex tonight? Mow the lawn first (yes it is possible, we've had a string of sunny days).

Of course Matt the Husband has a backbone and his own ideas about things and consequently the marital bed is about as active as a tortoise in midwinter. It doesn't worry me. He will cave before I do. And if he doesn't? I can live in a hovel. I like tidy, not so fussed about clean.

But back to Grace. Tonight for instance, Grace came home from nursery absolutely buzzing about her day. She chattered all evening, sat through a two course meal and had a run around in the garden with the dog before watching 'In the Night Garden' on The Box until 7pm. Hitting the remote as I usually do I'm met with a shaking head and a quivering bottom lip when I gesture it's time to climb the stairs. She digs her heels in, standing her ground and pointing at the tele to be turned back on. I stand firm, telling her Iggle Piggle has gone to sleep and now it's time to climb the stairs to have a bath and go to bed. She wavers, considering throwing herself on the floor and yelling her head off so I intercept with a well timed "Come on, let's climb the stairs. Your bottle of  milk is upstairs for you..."

Bingo.

So we climb the stairs and before you know it, she's on the verge again, crying for no reason other than tiredness, sitting on the landing carpet refusing to be consoled or moved. I tell her her milk is waiting for her to have her bath but it falls short. She's wailing now, red faced and veins popping out across her brow. I'm clutching at ideas and there it is - BAM - a nugget of genius hits me between the eyes and I lay the bait. "Come on Grace, let's line your dummy's up along the edge of the bath. We can throw them in one at a time and then you can jump in to collect them all."

Worked a treat.

So she's sat in the bath, overtired, teary and ticking like a time bomb. Clean, but volatile. We try to extract said time bomb from the water only to be met with fierce resistance and screaming. She does NOT want to get out of the bath. I try with the lure of milk once she's dried and in her PJs. She shoots me a look that says she's just stuffed her face on pasta and strawberries, like a few ounces of milk would tempt her. So I resort back to the dummies. I get the bag they live in from her bedroom. It's a little toiletry bag, yellow, and she knows it's where the dummies live. She scoops the dummies up one by one, placing them into the bag. It gives her enough comfort to stand up to have the towel wrapped around her and we go, clutching the yellow dummy bag tightly under her arm.

It stays at her side, through drying, dressing and the bottle of milk that's been waiting. We don't have any more tears until the milk runs dry and we tell her it's time for sleep. Uptight again, she wails for a few short moments so I sing to her (it soothes her, to others it inflicts pain) and it works. She relaxes, stops crying and climbs off my lap and onto the bed where she snuggles up to the pillow as I pull the quilt over her shoulders. I think she's asleep before I leave the room. Bribery alive and well, and if it works, I'm not knocking it.

Talking of knocking. Matt the Husband has just loaded the washing machine and checked the weather report for the weekend. He tells me he's planning on doing the lawn first thing Saturday. Now who's bribing who?

I'm clean

Fifteen months after being referred to the doctor by the Health Visitor for post-natal depression I've been signed off. At my appointment yesterday I felt such a weight lift off my shoulders knowing I would no longer be taking support from Citalopram to help me navigate the hardest job I've taken on in my life.

It's such a shame that there is still so much ignorance of post-natal depression (and depression in general) - you'll have heard the ads on the TV and radio encouraging us not to judge those of us who suffer with it. I was therefore amazed to be sat in the waiting room at the doctors a while back to bear witness to unabashed ignorance alive and kicking, and from NHS staff. A real kick.

Minding my own business waiting for my turn, I'm half listening to the conversations of others, as you do. Tuning in and out to snippets of something and nothing. Then I focus:

"I don't get all this fuss they make over post-natal depression." said one Receptionist to the other. She's in her fifties.

"Me either. In our day we just got on with it, didn't we?"

"We did love, we did. I mean, you have to don't you? No use crying and feeling sorry for yourself."

I couldn't believe it, and to talk about it in full earshot of the waiting room. Hell, my blood was boiling and I wanted to get up and go and have a little word in their ear telling them to mind the topics of conversations they choose to have with no regard. I didn't. Instead I bit my tongue and mentioned it to my GP. I can't blame them - they're only talking about what they know. It just frustrated me.

PND for me was nothing to do with crying and feeling sorry for myself.

1) I felt I failed in childbirth - first I was induced and then I hit inertia at 4cm and had an emergency caesarian some hours later.

2) I felt I failed in breastfeeding - the one natural thing I could do for my newborn, and I couldn't. I was pushed from pillar to post by various people, the midwife, the health visitor, the breastfeeding support line. None of them diagnosed thrush in the nipple to be the cause of the excrutiating pain and it was only by chance I diagnosed myself and got treatment from the GP. By which time the skin on my nips had sloughed off completely making breastfeeding utterly impossible. I lasted 10 days and I still remember the nightmare of this experience clear as day.

3) I gained a beatiful child, perfect in every way. I lost my identity. My career. My routine. Unchartered territory that left me feeling resentment and dispair.

So next time I hear someone missing the point about PND, I won't be a shrinking violet and say nothing. I'll be up at that reception desk in a shot to put them straight. And so should you.

I have a new life now, a different identity, a new routine and it's far more fulfilling than my past life. Having Grace is more rewarding than anything else I've encountered and the rewards I get from being a Mother trump my old life hands down. Totally. After all, my Outlook Calendar and To-Do List never gave me a 'cuggle' or gave me a look that says simply 'I love you'.

Co-sleeping

You might have seen this doing the rounds on Facebook at the moment. It tickled me. We haven't co-slept with Grace, but she does come in for a cuddle every now and again, usually at weekends when we aren't in a hurry. If ever she falls asleep in our bed, we're probably looking at Jazz Hands. If she doesn't, it's definately The Stalker. What about you and yours?

Mr Bloom's Packet

Parents will know what I mean when I talk about Mr Bloom and his Nursery. They might also recall the furore last summer when lusty online Mums sparked interest from the media after it was spotted there was a collective fancy of the allotment-loving man. Mums were saying things like "my little girl loves Mr Bloom, and I must admit I fancy him myself" and "I often wonder what he'd look like without those gardening clothes on?"

For those of you who haven't a clue who I'm talking about, Mr Bloom (Ben Faulks in real life) is a character in a TV series for 'tiddlers' aimed at educating them about the goodness of vegetables using likeable characters, including for instance Sebastian the Aubergine (my personal favourite).

Before I go on let me make something clear. Mr Bloom, he's OK. I don't fancy him (much), I just enjoy his program with Grace more than some of the others we sometimes watch. Like Justin's House or Rasta Mouse. Why? Because veggies aside, he's a likeable Yorkshire lad (in character) who makes me want to string up bunting in the garden and have a go at growing radishes. Really. So what's my beef?

He's turning my own little tiddler, Grace, into a Yorkshire lass. Na' then ah'm not sayin ther's owt rong wi' t' Yorksha accent, bur bein 'alf Yorksha 'alf sahthern ah thowt grace 'ood be eur lahl less broad. Hmm.
Every word Grace says or begins to form sounds like Mummy and Daddy... neither board Yorkshire nor Queens English and plummy. She's a hybrid mix that sounds, rather, well... like Grace. However, the word she seems to say the most (Hello) is very very broad. And manly. Like Mr Bloom. In fact she's so like him when she says it, she actually lowers her voice to speak in the same octave as Mr Bloom.... my darling Grace is becoming a twenty-something Yorkshire lad. It's quite disturbing to listen to!

On the upside, she's learning her vegetables so I mustn't really grumble. He is after all quite fit. Mr Bloom can sow his seeds in my garden any day.

With Mr Bloom: Colin the Runner Bean, Joan the Fennel, Margaret the Cabbage, Raymond the Butternut Squash. (Photo: BBC)

Four Day Parenting

I'm noticing a pattern beginning to emerge. It's called Groundhog Day. Going through the motions in ever decreasing circles, my week is split most definitely in two; that of Mummy's week (4 days) and Working Mummy's week (3 days). And the guilt is slowly creeping up on me as for three days on the trot, week after week, Grace see's me for five minutes in the morning where I ask her how she's slept and kiss her goodbye and wave her off to nursery, and then in the evening it's not much better.

We chat in the car on the way home, Grace and me, talking about her day (yesterday it was baking Moon Cakes for Chinese New Year), and then she plays with her Daddy at home while I prepare a meal before she has her bath and bed. And the scary thing is, I think she's starting to pick up on the fact she doesn't get much Mummy-time on the days I work. She holds her arms out to me and clings on for dear life as if to say 'tell me it's not work again today Mummy?' It's breaking my heart.

I know I'm not alone in this syndrome, woman of many hats, juggling the ball and spinning the plates. But short of keeping Grace up beyond her natural bedtime to spend a wee bit longer with her, what can I do?

I'm on the treadmill of life and I wanna press the emergency STOP!

Any tips gratefully recieved :0)

Tick-box Parenting

Pardon my P's and Q's so early in the morning, but I'm getting just a little bit peeved at the pressures put on children and parents on what they should be able to accomplish by a set point in their development or things that parents should do with their toddler before they hit school. The Telegraph yesterday ran an article on a list of landmark events I should spoon feed Grace before she turns 3 years old, activities including splashing in puddles, visiting a museum and holding a teddy bears picnic. Yes really. As if I need a reminder that splashing in puddles is fun?! Cow & Gate had commissioned the survey of 1000 Mums on their intended activities between now and then, and I don't know about you, but I don't need a milk manufacturer telling me that finger painting and listening to classical music is going to be beneficial to my kid.

It gets worse. Opening my emails this morning, a monthly newsletter from a nappy manufacturer with three sub-headings:

1) Things your 17 month old can now definately do,
2) Things your 17 month old can now probably do,
3) Things your 17 month old may even possibly do.

Hm. A week short of the 17 month marker and I'm calling an Emergency Family Meeting. Grace is underperforming, consistently falling short on targets and if we carry on at this rate, my happy go lucky todder with a heart of gold may well be put onto a performance management program as she can't yet stick two duplo blocks together or pretend to feed a doll. FFS.

Is it just me or has the world gone mad?

No Grace can't say two words together, walk with confidence, take off an item of clothing or throw a ball overhand. What she can do is be herself. Take a few steps, crawl a while. Recognise the dog, cat, sheep, cow, monkey perfectly well one day but not at all the next if she's tired. She'll sit on my lap to read a book from cover to cover, another time she might get bored on the second page. She offers her food to me and Matt the Husband before eating it herself, and given the chance she'll offer it to Mr Rabbit and the dog too. She'll lather her hair when it's being washed, ask to have her teeth cleaned, and tell us when she wants to go to sleep. Does this make her advanced or behind? I couldn't give a flying F***.

She's my daughter, warts and all. And she will friggin well develop at her own pace thank you very much. And as for listing the activities we should be doing with our children before the age of 3, there's nothing like making the working parents feel crap more than a list of things to squeeze into the hour before bed when everyone's knackered or to cram into the weekend, when all you want to do is put your feet up and spend some unadulterated one on one time with your child.

Rant over, thanks for listening! This is a picture of Grace before bed, chosing which Teddy to take to bed. She can definately do this. Probably. Possibly even. (I'm waiting on confirmation from Cow & Gate).

EU Party Poopers!

Children blowing up balloons? "...not anymore and they will be safer for it."
What a load of cobblers.

Now I work in Health & Safety, for my sins, but having just read the latest EU regulation to hit our shores in the Telegraph online, I can fully see why my dear old Dad thinks the profession is barmy and it's all just a political ploy to make money out of us. (Yes, he's anti-EU before you ask).

I'm not anti-EU, per se, nor am I convinced health and safety is a ploy to make money out of the common folk. But when some white-collared dickhead in Brussels decided children under 8 are no longer permitted to blow up a balloon at a birthday party for fear of death-by-rubber, I fear the world, not just the EU is going crackers.

Alas, it's not just the common party balloon to take the hit. Teddy bears intended for hugging by the under three's will now have to be machine washable to prevent the risk of bacterial or disease transmission from the nasty nightly dribble from your precious little bairn.

Talk about micro-managing our next generation.

Forget blowing a party popper at Christmas or New Year if you're under 14 and unsupervised. The Big Brother EU are watching you, and you might get your arse whipped if you don't follow the guidance. Forget 'nanny state', it's more like 'fanny state'. So how will you know if it's 'safe' for your child to play with? The packaging of course will be clearly labelled with suitable and sufficient warnings. I wonder if colouring books will come carrying the warning of 'risk of paper cut'???

Don't get me wrong, I'm pro-safety and I'm sorry to learn of the number of children who choked to death on a latex balloon in the world last year. But parents must be allowed to take responsibility for the choices they make in parenting, and provided we're informed and aware of the risks, do we really need to have warnings branded all over?

Grrrrrrrrrrrr.

Too much too soon?

Having the worst Saturday in a while, my temper is on Code RED and the family are taking the brunt. Seriously, if the dog whines for something to eat off the kitchen counter one more time I may launch her through the window. Lucky for the human element of the family, Grace has taken cover at Grandmas and Matt the Husband has gone off to town to spend his pocket money on a haircut he may live to regret seeing as it's costing him a mere three bob.

Post natal depression is a peculiar thing and I wouldn't claim to have it any longer - the meds have done a cracking job at getting me back onto the straight and narrow since Grace was born and yet my temper (which has always been a little quick) has been on full throttle the last few days and I'm fearing I might blow a gasket. Dear Dr Jones has been weaning me off the Citalopram since our last visit as if you come to a halt with them you can experience withdrawl symptoms or regression back to the PND. I wonder if this is anything to do with it? Who knows. I missed Sundays tablet the first week, Sunday and Wednesday the week after and then 3 days missed this week. Too quick maybe. Or maybe I'm just being a misery guts today. I can be such an arse when I'm in a grump and hard to live with at the best of times, I really feel the endurance of Matt the Husband at times like this.

I'm going to spend the afternoon drowning my sorrows/anger/frustration on a eBay listing marathon and an endless supply of my poison diet coke. Fingers crossed I wake tomorrow in a better friggin mood.

Playing Ball

As the time approaches where we celebrate one year with Grace, I have began to recall the awful moment when we introduced Grace to the dog. A truly regrettable memory. If only I had paid attention to all the research I did on introducing a dog to a new baby. I read, I digested and then I ignored.... and so the story began:

As someone who has been there and learnt the hard way, I wanted to share my experiences and offer some easy to follow tips so that you don't make the same mistakes introducing your dog to a new baby. For me, my dog was my baby until the little pink one with 2 legs instead of 4 arrived. I've always worked in a pet environment so I was lucky enough to have access to first hand advice from veterinary staff and training staff alike on the pitfalls to expect and what measures to take beforehand. Of course plans are great if you follow them but as an excited mum-to-be making the most of what time I had preparing the nursery and waddling round some favourite walks with the dog while I still could, I shamefully didn't take a blind bit of notice of the advice I'd been given and so we fell at the first hurdle.

It is said that many dogs each year are taken in by rescue centres as the introduction of baby to dog didn't run smoothly because the dog exhibited jealousy as the baby naturally takes centre of attention. So taking a few minutes out to read this article should pave the way to a smooth transition, fingers crossed.

Way before the little nipper arrives, it's best to see your vet for an MOT - a health check and to give you the opportunity to protect against fleas and worms, both of which can post a health hazard to your newborn. Assuming the dog gets the all clear, it's time for you to think about routines. Ladies, I'm not flying the GF kite here so please do read on (!). Dogs being creatures of habit will thank you for keeping their routine as normal as possible once baby comes home, so if you anticipate problems getting the dog out for 7am, then plan for that now. For us the biggest challenge was stopping the dog from sleeping in our bedroom as of course this is where we planned for our baby to be. Ignoring advice of the dog trainer I work with, we made no alterations to the routine and the dog slept in our bedroom until I went into labour and we shipped her off to kennels. The dog trainer had told me several months prior to start to modify those habits, for example moving her slowly to sleeping at the doorway, sleeping on the landing, sleeping in the spare bedroom etc. If we'd made those little gradual tweaks, it wouldn't have been such a shock to the system for the poor confused dog on the night we brought baby home when we expected her to sleep quietly on her own behind the childgate to our room.

If you expect other changes are necessary then introduce them slowly so as not to confuse the dog with too many changes at once. It's important to allow your dog to sniff and explore the new baby areas of your house and new belongings in order for the dog to get used to the idea that baby will be part of the family. It's worthwhile having zero tolerance on letting your dog play with baby's toys from the offset as your dog should know not to take toys from baby's hand - it's not fair to risk the dog inadvertently injuring the child in play.

Another worthwhile exercise is to acclimatise your dog to children and watch how she reacts. For instance, our dog was always very wary of small children in as much as she would bark, cower or worse still chase them if they ran. The dog trainer advised we acquired a plastic baby doll before our baby was born so the dog could begin to learn that these little things aren't to be scared of. We didn't, nor did we try to introduce the dog to children of friends of ours (well we did it once and it didn't go well so we figured we'd cross the bridge when we came to it).

Some trainers advocate the use of noise CD's to desensitise the dog to baby noises beforehand, but I can't say I have any experience of these (although I have used the noise CD for fireworks and this did reduce the anxiety at New Year). Other advice comes in the form of bringing things smelling of your newborn home from hospital before you get discharged so that Dad can introduce the dog to the smell.

When the baby does come home, a third person is best to hold the baby while you greet the dog. She will have missed you while you have been away and it's important to pay attention to her when you first get home. Maybe bring your dog a new toy and a treat for when you arrive so she can associate the baby with something positive. After the initial excitement, you can start to introduce your baby to the dog. It may be safer to restrain the dog on lead while you do this. Talk to your dog, pet her and encourage her to get a good look and sniff of the babys hands and feet. Do not force a reluctant dog, and a dog that shows any warning signs e.g. barking or getting over excited should be let to rest and try again another time. Never leave the baby unsupervised with your dog and be aware the actions of the baby may scare the dog and cause her to bite in self defence. If the dog shows signs of aggression, leave her in another room until she is calm and try the introduction again later.

Needless to say the poor effort on the part of my husband and myself is something I regret immensely to this day. We didn't put in the work beforehand so the introduction was all wrong and we in theory had set her up to fail. I was away in hospital for 5 nights and was so overjoyed to be coming home, we asked Grandma to bring the dog from kennels the evening we got home - she arrived about an hour after we got home. The dog came bounding into the house and was generally very giddy to be back with the family she had missed. The baby was sleeping at this time and we didn't anticipate any problems as the dogs behaviour seemed fine. When the baby eventually cried as she woke up, the dog became agitated, over excited and as we wouldn't let her into our bedroom at this time while I comforted and fed the child, the became anxious, salivating and generally creating mayhem being separated from me. After an hour or two of this we couldn't cope any longer as the more the baby cried, the more wound up the dog became. I ended up sending her to Grandmas for the night.
The following day we tried an introduction with the dog on lead - this went badly and so we left it again for the following day - any noise from the baby triggered similar reactions to that we had seen the night before. Each day Grandma would visit and the dog stayed on lead a few hours and we sent her back again for another night. We carried on like that for almost 2 weeks - the dogs visits becoming longer, but always on lead. Needless to say I was heartbroken. She came to live with us again when the baby turned 3 weeks, and we still resorted to her being on lead at times she showed any excitable signs. Fast forward a year, and I can trust them both together. Yes the dog may pinch a ricecake, particularly if baby holds it our for her, and yes she sits and waits to clear up the kitchen floor after baby has gone through her meals. But after a lot of hard work and stress we're happy as a family again, dog and baby included.

Please put in the effort beforehand. I imagine we would still have encountered some problems as our dog has always suffered attachment to me and anxiety if ever she isn't at my side, but I could have softened the blow by taking small steps in the run up to baby's birth.
Do be aware there are many schools of thought on the best ways to approach this topic, but if you care for your dog, do some research and figure out what measures are going to work best for you. And don't be afraid to call on professional help if you're unsure.

Of course this is all my opinion gleaned from talking to folk and reading the literature. Please dont take it as gospel, or worse still professional advice. This is just our story - I hope it helps.

White lies & Pork pies

I'm certain I read somewhere it takes 9 months to put on the weight when you're pregnant and another 9 months to shed it again. Well call in the authorities, for someone was telling porkies. Yes, it comes as no surprise that Grace is now not 9 months, but 11 months old. And is her mother back to her pre-pregnancy weight? Is she chuff. In fact I'm actually heavier than I was to start with since I have changed to a more relaxed office based job coming back from maternity leave and have dropped 2 days a week. Joy.

I gather I'm not alone either from talking to fellow post-natal friends and although this brings some comfort, there are of course the ones who gave birth at the same time as me and are perfectly able to fit back into that figure hugging dress and wear a bikini on holiday. Jealous? Hell yes.

So what's their trick? Motivation I suspect. I started by diet (operation weight loss) on Grace's 8 month anniversary or thereabouts and the thing that tickles me most is instead of losing pounds, I've added a few on. The shame of it all. My problem? Gluttony. Sheer and utter greed. Not for chocolate or crisps, just big portions of the healthy stuff we eat. Yes folks, I can gain wait following a low GL diet.

Anyway, I started swimming 3 times a week at the beginning of this month and although it's having an impact, it's also encouraging me to pick up the fork as I seem to be rewarding myself for the effort of having a splash in the pool. So here it ends - my pork pie days are over, for now at least.

I'm saying to you now that I'm cutting back on the carbs which I love and this week it's protein protein protein. I'll let you know how I get on. For the moment I'm a bit cranky as while everyone in the office stuffed a very nice looking buffet today, I nibbled away at some babybell cheeses and roast chicken. No pain, no gain.

NOW

THEN

Ciao for now :0)

You know you're a Mum when...

When you find teary faces like this CUTE.

And when you find your hand stuck in the bottom of a box of mini-weetabix that's in the door pocket as you take a corner at the traffic lights on the way to work in 5th gear - all because you're having brekkie on the go as you were sneezed on by a baby with a mouthful of porridge right before you left the house so you're late because you had to get changed.

Or maybe you don't get changed - you know you're a mum when you find baby sick on your top at the end of a day spent out with friends, maybe even a mini-shreddie in your cleavage when you get ready for bed at the end of a long day.

I also find myself singing a LOT of the time - usually high pitched twaddle, sometimes something a little more structure like 'wind the bobbin up' which is a personal favourite for grace and me as well as a few other mummy's I know.

Having the washing machine on what seems to be all day every day is another classic. How on earth did we function on two loads a week before the arrival of such a small (yet well dressed) bundle? The electric bill has shot up. To counteract this we are using the rotary drier out in the garden instead of the tumble drier - and playing the hokey cokey with the wet weather (you put the washing out, bring the washing in, out in out in etc etc you get the picture) - apparently this dance with Mother Nature is another symptom of Motherhood.

Forgetting to change out of your slippers when you leave the house, presumably because your mind is on other things, probably whether or not you have remembered SPF 50 sun cream for the baby and whether the green or the yellow sun hat goes best with her outfit today. (By the way, the slippers were comfy so I didn't notice until I got half way across the car park at Asda - not cool).

Loving somebody more then your husband and everyone finding that totally normal...

Apparently you know you're a mum when you find children's toys in the toilet! As Grace is still connected to the earth by a string on her bottom we have yet to experience this, but I remember my sister once telling me a tale of coming upstairs to find her little boy shrieking with joy as he emptied every single last tampon into the toilet.

And of course, giving a running commentary of your every move - let's cross the road Grace, look at the yellow lorry Grace, shall we pay for the shopping Grace, where do we put the shoes Grace - you get the picture!

Some favourites from friends of mine include:

Getting through a 12 hour day on 2 hours sleep
Your family no longer ask how you are - it's all about the grandchild
You realise there is no difference between a weekday or the weekends any more as the alarm goes off at the same time every day!
A hot cup of tea or coffee starts to eclipse a glass of vino as the beverage of choice!
You no longer have privacy when you need to take a shower or go to the loo.
You're up so early with your little one that you can get the housework and two loads of laundry washed and put away before you go to work.
Emptying toys from your handbag to get to your purse.

And I think my personal favourite - never having a dull moment - Grace is constantly giving me food for thought in a way that nothing ever has done in my life before. Love her to the moon and back.

Any to add??

Blame it on the buggy....

Don't blame it on the sunshine, don't blame it on the moonlight, don't blame it on the good times...

BLAME IT ON THE BUGGY!

It's in the lyrics, so I have to do as it says - blame it on the buggy.

That sodding Quinny Buzz 3, with it's wide wheel base, ten tonne weight and inexorable ability to be BIG in everything it does - it has a LOT to answer for.
So what if it comes with 5 star comfort and precision steering, the ability to turn on a six pence while pushing it with my little finger.
Who cares, when this bugger of a buggy has caused me pain and suffering???

Grace, the little dear, loves it - strutting her stuff on the buggy beat around the village with the dog, waving at her play mates like the Queen, as they wave back in their Asda smartprice 4 wheelers (the commoners) and MacLaren sports (the middle classes). But this means nothing to me - Lady Grace is happy, I am livid.

So what's to blame on the buggy?

1) Not being able to get into the loo at the shopping centre - the wheels are too wide - inconvenient, but free to fix - assuming you can ignore the tuts from the wheelchair users as I decend on the disabled conveniences.

2) Not being able to get into the changing rooms at Next - the buggy is too long to fit behind the curtain - inconvenient, but free to fix - though not permitted into the disabled cubicle (it's "against policy") you can get down to your smalls in the un-privacy of an end cubicle with the curtain wide open... fine, just avoid Half Term - too many leering snotty nose kids craning their necks to get a good look at my backside.

3) Not being able to change my own tyre - I have the AA to call when the car gets a flat, but who's there to rescue me when the buggy pulls a puncture half way round Newmillar Dam? The answer is nobody - I have the man handle the hulk of a thing round on the rim. Inconvenient, but a good workout for an out of shape Mum.

4) Not being able to fit in the car. You think I'm joking. Matt the Husband and I bought the buggy based on kerb appeal and a gripping promotional video with a forgettable soundtrack. Yep, the buggy didn't fit in the car, and no amount of pushing, grunting and cursing could change that. So we changed cars.
And it still didn't fit... until we realised the back seats slid forward, so now it fits in... JUST.
And what else? That's when our AA membership really came in handy. 4 breakdowns later (3 for the new car, one for me), we're on the road again and out of pocket. But Grace loves her new wheels and the space it affords her. On a recent trip to see her grandparents in Norfolk we managed to fit in all of her favorite toys along with the dog, right there in the boot with the buggy.

I hate it. Grace loves it. It's our first mother-daughter difference - she's got her own mind, and it's starting to show! Here is a photo of Grace at 9.5 months, up in arms about the talk of replacing the Quinny with a cheaper model so we can sell the Troublesome Touran and get a Robin Reliant instead.

Beans on Toast or Sunday Roast?

It started out with me pondering family traditions. Would I follow the trend of my upbringing - the Sunday Roast - or would I create my own? It started back at Christmas when we decided how to spend our first with Grace. We opted to travel to my parents in Norfolk and then spend New Years Day with the in-laws in Yorkshire. But do I want to do this every year, or more's the point today, do I want to slave over a Sunday roast every week?

It might not come down to choice. We've started today with a frugal feeling in the air. As much as it pains me, I will be budget-busting, frugal-finding at the supermarket from now on as this month marks the last of my back from maternity leave overtime.
I draw the line at becoming a freegan. Freegans raid the bins for food chucked out by the supermarkets, and it's a trend I'm quite interested in but not brave (or crackers) enough to try. And why would I when there's a perfectly decent supermarket a stone's throw away. Besides, we're skint - but not that skint. No, we wont be turning to freeganism (is that a word?). But we will be shopping for groceries on a budget.

I always said the one thing I wouldn't skrimp on would be food, and to be honest we live pretty cheaply in that department anyway. I think the key to it is cooking with raw ingredients from scratch. It's fun to cook and it tastes so much better than anything processed, and we tend to eat a wider variety of meals rather than sticking to a tried and tested meal plan, getting a taste for some adventurous bites along the way.

Grace of course is being raised on a multi-national baby-led weaning diet. Her favourites to date include chickpea curry, meatball risotto, paprika chicken and of course the age old favourite chilli con carne. In a rush for lunch last week she ate a tin of Cross & Blackwell pasta shapes in tomato sauce with toast. I ate it with her - it was suprisingly bad... tastless slop and something I vow never to feed her again - not even for convenience. I'm glad I tried it, I see things differently now.

Healthy balanced food needn't be expensive, or at least that's what I'm hoping. We've loaded the card Matt the Husband gets as a perk from the bank - it's a pre pay mastercard that you load with cash and shop as normal - the benefit is, you get between 1-10% cash back on all your spends depending on where you shop. Asda is 4%, Sainsbury's 5% etc etc. I'll let you know how we get on. The bonus is, you can't spend more than you've loaded it up with, so there's no overspend risk.

As for Grace, she's still doing really well with her weaning. She's taken to taking little bites from an apple which is terribly cute, and she's still enjoying her weetabix for breakfast - she can knock back a whole one now, it's only a matter of time before she nails two!!

But back to the point of this post - Sunday Roast or Beans on Toast? This week marks the last weekend shift for me in a long long time. In fact ever. Every job I have had involved evenings or weekends. And at last 18 years after starting work, I am working my last weekend shift. I can hear fireworks and fanfare in the background just thinking about it. I may treat myself to a glass of bubbly.
Coke that is, remember I'm on a budget!
So anyway, once I start weekdays I think I will start Sunday roasting it. I may even attend Church every Sunday although that does largely depend on what time Grace wakes. As for beans on toast? That might be a mid-week treat as we all love beans, Matt the Husband in particular.

In essence then, traditions are what you make them. Grace will have her Sunday roasts, and she will also have her Beans on Toast. As for other traditions like Christmas, well, its a bit early in the year to be musing about that. Ask me again later. And other traditions? I'll create some just for Grace as we travel along life's path. Watch this space!

Keeping up with the Clarkeses

Neither Matt the Husband or myself know any Joneses and if we did, we'd inevitably feel we ought to be keeping up with them. They aren't runners, nor are they particularly quick, but they do seem to be leaders in the modern life must-haves benchmark.

Balls to benchmarks I say, but anyway - that's not the point of this blog.

I have a friend - a Clarke funnily enough - who is everything a modern Mum aspires to be, self included. Even Grace and Matt the Husband come over doe-eyed when they see her. Clarke is the epitomy of modern wannabe have-all, do-all Mothers. She does the hoovering - before work. She does the ironing, while watching the latest DVD with the kids and tickling her partner with her left big toe as she goes. She cooks - brilliantly and even manages to straighten her locks and apply a light organic tinted moisturiser before going to bed in case the emergency services knock on the door in the night. Oh and she's a looker too. (Read that back, I said looker, not hooker). Yes, this Clarke is fiendishly organised and tick-box savvy. A little dotty perhaps, but guuuuud!

So to the point.

Clarke has the ability to keep house, look great, hold down a job, raise two beautiful kids, and still polish the wheel trims on the car before the supermarket run, all without very much effort it would seem. I on the other hand, I am lucky if I get the hoover round once a week, bag clutter into the car if I run out of cupboard space and hope somewhere along the line Grace gets everything she needs from me in order to become a balanced healthy individual.

I've acquired a book that I'm hoping will help me. It's not chicken soup for the soul, or any other such self-help book. It's genius and I am half way through already. Obviously the hoovering is going amiss this week as my time is diverted elsewhere. Yes I hear you mutter, stop writing these sodding blogs and maybe you'd have more time for the cleaning... but YOU have Apps, twitter and wii fit. I have this blog, so nanas to you.

As for keeping up with the Clarkeses, I'm inspired. Wish me luck!!

p.s. Kim darling. This isn't about you, although we both know you'd love it to be. You're still a great Clarke mind. X X X

And i f this post goes whoosh off the face of the earth AGAIN, I will be most miffed.

Eight months Grace...

So as Grace turns 8 months, I can reflect on the following: Over the last 8 months, I have been given a period of grace from....

1) Hoovering - Matt the Husband now religiously does it all from top to bottom. On my post-op notes from the caesarian it said not to hoover and I'm sticking to that mindset.

2) Exercise - since Grace arrived I have been lucky/unlucky enough not to have time to exercise and as such I point the finger at Grace and Matt the Husband for my weight gain - Grace for taking up my time, Matt for taking over the hoovering and thus my opportunity for calorie burn.

3) Pride in appearance - this is a rather tenuous link as I never seemed to take much pride in my appearance anyway (go on, admit it - I know you were thinking as much) - and since Grace has arrived I really can't count the weeks my hair has gone without a dose of the hot irons. And what's more - I have turned into the slummy mummy who really does go to work and find weetabix in her hair and baby puke on her trousers. Nice.

4) Being a workaholic. I am now simply a wishaholic - I wish I could get my work done in the time I have.

And I wonder where did I ever find time to watch soaps, the news, google at random, and spend time thinking about doing x y and z. Now my days are very much flown by the seat of my pants (tight ones - my backside has expanded) and I reach every bedtime thinking 'WOW!' that day has whizzed by.

My compliment of the year has been dished out already - the HR Manager at work told me I had 'changed shape'. No kidding. But this is far outweighed by the compliments paid to Grace - beautiful eyelashes, such a contented little girl, those blue eyes.... it's all there and we love hearing it.

She's 8 months and blooming - thriving on life and taking each day in her stride. I'm almost certain she's half way to saying 'I love you Dada' and her other favourite rambling seems to be 'liar liar liar' - nothing to do with breaking my fast for lent I am sure....??? Push ups are mastered now and her little frog legs go like the clappers so it's only a matter of time until we see crawling I think. Sitting is officially mastered, and we have experienced our first sit-up poo. I like to think it came out looking like a fortune cookie - sorry if I'm putting you off your tea. Nursery is a wonderful place and she seems to enjoy every minute of it, it's the only day of the week where she can skip all day time sleeps and still be buzzing come bedtime. Favourite meals to date include chicken tikka masala with naan, tomatoey meatball risotto and strangely spinach and feta puff. Yum!!

So there's an update. 8 months.

Nothing more significant to post other than WELL DONE DADDY for running the London Marathon in 5 hours 26 minutes to raise money for Help the Hospices. STERLING EFFORT. x x x

Fast Parenting

You may have read in the news this week that a BBC News presenter Sophie Raworth is applying the US principle of 15 minute fast parenting at home with her children. That is spending 15 minutes per day completely focused and uninterupted time where the child choses what to do and the parent obliges. Apparently it fosters good beahviour and development for working parents in a hurry.

So I'm in bed at 7.28pm last night having done a 200 mile round trip to work in Newcastle, attended to Grace fleetingly (yes she got her 15 minutes). And I wonder to myself am I going through an episode of Fast Marriage? Believe you me, Grace is getting all the time in the world, and more. But Matt the Husband? It's not so much a case of ships in the night, rather dead lions in the night. This past week the minute Grace is in bed we have headed to bed, and trust me, there is nothing fanfare and fireworks about that statement. Tucked up with our pyjamas and hot water bottle for 7.28pm on a Friday night. Now that's dire!
We are just soooooo tired. My house is dusty, the garden is neglected and the spare room is looking like a car boot sale. We're happy and well fed. Just so very worn out. I'm assured by working parents at the office that this gets easier to deal with as we get more experienced in the art, but seriously, I doubt any of them are in bed at half seven on a friday night. Aaaaarrrggggh! I need more TIME!