To cake or not to cake…

My LO hits the grand old age of two this week.

Where in God’s green Earth did those two years disappear to? Since ‘squeezing’ out my purple, screaming, slimy baby, two years ago, my partner and I have been through the most incredible, depressing, emotional, euphoric years of our lives: I wouldn’t change them for the world.

Over the past couple of months, I’ve attended some VERY extravagant 2nd birthdays, organised by mummies I’m now very close to. They’re top notch mumas.

When I say extravagant parties, other fitting adjectives would be ostentatious or darn right mental. I’ve seen Darthvaders posing for pics with screaming toddlers; bemused ponies being lead in to garden parties and baby photo booths. For 2 year olds! I mean, really, who was that extravagant show for? The mum, of course.

The question I’m now pondering is: am I a prepared to remortgage in order to put on such a show, a show to celebrate the birthday for a tiny person who can’t even say their own name yet?

The answer is no. But if I had the money, I’d probably hire the Moscow State Circus and invite half of my town.

What is very important, I’ve realised lately, is to never judge a mother / parent for whatever they do: it’s their call.

For this special, 2nd birthday, we’ll be sticking to a Victoria sponge with sprinkles and some balloons. Regardless of what little my LO receives, he has all the love in the world, right at his fingertips.




‘Cuddle, mummy, cuddle.’

Oh my. A recent occurrence has reached our ‘ouse.’ Cuddles. With sheer elation on his face, my LO will run to me and squeeze me with his chubby arms. ‘Arrr. Cuddle, mummy. Arrr.’

It’s heavenly. Words from God.

After a pretty manic day, which excluded the much needed nap, a cuddle from my little, wild one was exactly what the doctor prescribed. It filled me with love. More importantly, a cuddle gives you some reassurance that you must be doing something right! Hard to believe sometimes, right?

Bringing up a child who loves so freely and with such warmth is truly special.

My heart goes out to those mummies, who, for a whole range of reasons, will never receive a warm squish from their child.

My friend’s son is severely disabled, but she finds her moment of sheer joy when he mouths to her, ‘iss.’ He’s non-verbal, but it is one of the few sounds he will make.

BH -before hug – my day had been pretty dire, ending in the tray I’d put our dinners on slipping out of my hand as I came into the living room. Needless to say, the dog devoured his extra-dinner of peas, beans, chicken pieces and strawberry yogurt, all congealed into a pinky, lumpy mess on the carpet. And breathe.

Without my special cuddle tonight, I wouldn’t be smiling now, but my Cheshire Cat grin isn’t going anywhere, until the 6.10am get up, perhaps. 🙈



Feeling not so hot

The Duchess of Sussex – what a beauty! You’ve got to admire her; she’s worked all her life and found great success, even before she met our Harry. In fact, her amassed fortune, which she pays US tax on, apparently titters on the 4.5 million mark.

Somedays, when I see her picture on my newsreel, and admire yet another one of her wonderfully stunning yet markedly overpriced outfits, I can’t help but slump into a glum envy. I hate to say it, but I do.

Can you imagine getting your hair blown into glossy waves everyday, and a make-up artist coming to give you a peachy, perfect glow? EVERY DAY?!

Most days, I bearly get time to brush my hair, let alone have the time or energy to find clothes that actually match. The other day, I made it until 4pm before I realised that I’d not even brushed my teeth. How does my husband find that attractive? How does anyone?

I dream of a pamper day: nails, toes, tan, bouncy blow. I’d give anything. The time just to wallow in a pool of spa-time serenity.

I wonder if Meghan will approach her attire differently if she becomes a mother. Kate certainly is never pictured with a hair out of place.

All I know is that when I’m lacking in energy and feeling particularly low, the showbiz newsreel isn’t perhaps the best place for me to look.





Dark days

My friend’s LO is battling the 4 month sleep regression, and losing.

I tried to say the right things today, when we met for a tea: you look great; it’s over in a flash; use coconut oil on your nips; you’ve lost all the baby weight.

But actually, she looked awful. Her bags resembled those on the scream mask and her monotonous mumblings were hardly audible. She was seeing me, but it was clear she wasn’t actually hearing me. The sleep monster had well and truly entered her soul.

I could have cried for her. But I was somewhat distracted by keeping an eye on my destructive, nearly 2 year old! He’d taken a liking to a petrified looking, wide eyed pug in the corner, who was obviously not used to his elderly owner poking its eyes, saying, ‘eyyyyyeeee!’

What do you say though? Like many new mums, those early days are dark: utterly dark. They leave you raw and vulnerable, anxious and impatient. They blur into one depressing fog of grey cloud. How do I tell her that she may well have another couple of months under the dark veil?

All I know is that she wanted to hear the right things. She needed to hear that she was looking better. Plus, the decaf tea and lemon cake was, I’m sure, one of the highlights of her day.



Conversation dreaming

Today was a much loved friend’s boy’s party; he’s the grand old age of two.

Aside from the joy of eating free scotch eggs, numerous Aldi sausage rolls and lots of crisps, what I most love about parties is the chat. Chat with like-minded mummies. I love it. It’s a cross between counselling and a drug. It’s through these short loved snippets of conversation that you place your crazy motherhood world into some sort of context.

Whose child sleeps the most. Whose child is eating fruit. Whose child is the best verbally. Whose child is just being a down right devil.

Due to the fact that your eyes are constantly following your child’s every move and risk assessing the next potential dangers ahead, these mummy chats are often cut short. You can’t faff around with mindless chit-chat; you have to ask quick questions or vent your woes in lightning-speed. Without this, your mummy-related questions are never answered.

I miss long, drawn out chat! Undisturbed chat, which is broken by two brews and shed loads of Victoria sponge. I yearn for it. Sadly, those days are long gone.

But as long as my LO has parties, at least I’ll still get free buffets.



Mama Mia

So seeing the new Mama Mia was a huge mistake. Now all I can think of is whisking my husband, dog and fast-approaching 2 year old off to a remote Greek island, growing my hair and renovating an idyllic, ramshackle farm house. I’d wear just a bra and high waisted, floaty trousers, although my bod isn’t quite at the remarkable Lily James standard: too much cake.

We’d live in harmony and break out into song, dancing energetically in unison, imperceptibly returning to our cooking or sunbathing when the music fades.

However, the harsh reality of my life hit me this morning. Yes, Lily James would run a mile.

6.25am wake up alarm from the other room, ‘mummy, muummmy…’ If I were not to respond, all hell would break loose. With a huge, huge sigh, my day in mummy land began.

By 9.10am, I was trying to calm a bored, jam covered toddler, in the small hope that he’d stop attempting to pull the dog’s tail.

Take me to Greece!




Mummy, mummy

Sanity. That’s why I’m starting to blog about the most wonderful, crazy and stressful thing in my life: motherhood.

I’m excited to share my thoughts with you all, and hope, in some way, that you can find comfort, humour, support and/or a warm, mummy-to-mummy hug in my words.