The little things that make us who we are

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my family for the little traits that they have passed onto my little girl.

The little things that make her who she is but also the little things that tell us where she has come from.

From my mother my daughter has inherited an over sensitive nose that can sniff out a tomato at twenty passes even if you ate it yesterday. It does mean we have many 'what's that smell mummy?' conversations. No sneaky chocolate eating gets passed her little nose.

My beloved little sister has, by only mentioning it once, given my daughter the perfect out for when I am encouraging her to eat with her mouth closed: Isobel points to her nose. Amy was a snotty child and always used a bunged up nose as an excuse to eat like a cement mixer.

Me, what have I taught my child recently?

Well, she is just learning how to eat Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Brownie Frozen Yoghurt straight from the tub.

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When I'm 64

Now, when you become a parent, there is a moment when you think 'few, at least I won't die alone, someone will care for me and miss me when I'm gone'.

Ok, so maybe there isn't really a moment but it may well cross your mind that someone will care for you when you are old and grey and can no longer die your own hair.

Well, at least you think they may pick out a not too bad nursing home in which you can rot in a puddle of your own pee.

Anyway, you think that this 'caring', the helping you dress, wiping the drool from your face etc, will happen a LONG way down the line.

What you do not expect is that every morning your not-quite-three-year old will insist on:

Not only picking out your knickers but helping you climb in them ( yes mine are big enough for a climb, though I don't quite need a rope yet);

That she will, while wearing one of your bras herself, hoist your boobies into their scaffolding, scorning any brassiere that is slightly 'scanty';

You certainly do not expect to have your under arm deodorant applied for you.


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Good mummy, bad mummy

Today we made gingerbread men:







A good mummy, domestic goddess, polish your halo kind of thing.

We even ate all our meals together at the table.

All good stuff.

But little girl should have been at a party. She forgot, and I felt to anxious about it to remind her.

Bad mummy, big mummy fail.

No tick VG, no smiley face just a big angry cross.


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Night John Boy

Now we are hardly Waltonesque in our house. Let's face it, there is only Isobel and me and I think on Walton Mountain we wouldn't even have a bedroom to ourselves.

This evening, however, I was instantly transported to those lush green hills where moonshine rules and you can build your own house from your very own trees without hiring labour outside the family.

I'm sure the doors in my house fitted once, well before I ripped all the carpets up, but now Isobel and I can chat while she is in bed and I'm on the settee. Normally this nothing more than me yelling 'go to sleep' in an obviously very soothing manner.

This evening it went more like this:

'Night Mummy'

'Night Darling'

'I not a darling. I Isobel F..... Big girl. Night Mummy'

'Night Isobel F..... big girl'

'Night Mummy F....'





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Old fool

I have always been quite a sentimental soul, keeping train tickets and theatre tickets, I have even been known to keep stones.

But, being a mum has given me a whole new raft of things to get sentimental about, that is part of the reason I start this blog really: a way to revel in my sentimentality, a way to never forget.

All that preamble is not really what this post is about, it's actually because I cannot believe the things I am sentimental about now.

Ok, so the little plastic clip that was used to clip off LG's umbilical cord is probably understandable, some may see it as yucky but let's face it is the thing that severed the last part of me from her, well physically at least.

In my collection I also have her hospital wrist band, even if it doesn't say her name because we didn't know it right away.

I'm guessing that the item in my collection that you may find the daftest is this:



Yep, a wet wipe container.

I remember going into Boots, heavily pregnant to get the glorious supposed essentials such as maternity knickers, and spying my favoured Pampers in a handy dispensing pack. So, even though I did try to do top and tailing when she was tiny, I gave up in the middle of night and this container saved my life - well my sheets anyway.

And now, it lives in the bathroom. I don't even use it.

But, I can't throw it away.

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Tangled a review or return to the blogosphere

Since Christmas I have slowly been dipping my toe back into the world of mummy blogging.

Today reminded me of what we have been missing; reminded me of all the lovely peeps you can meet and all the lovely things you can do if you put yourself out there a little bit.

I had her first cinematic experience, her first taste of Disney, we met Mickey Mouse and I saw my first 3D picture. Yes, we took up an invitation to a preview of Tangled the new Disney movie.









As in all fairy tales there was a good king and queen, a royal babe / princess, an old hag who wants to be young and a handsome rogue. From what we saw it was fabulous, funny, not quite as predictable as I have made it sound. Shrek like comedy, glorious songs and pretty, pretty long hair.









We donned our 3D specs but little girl asked to come home early, she asked so nicely I couldn't refuse.

But, all that said little girl did say something I had never heard her say before...

'when I grow up I want to be...'

Now I was expecting Penny from Fireman Sam, as she does seem to be obsessed with her...

But no, something I didn't expect from my garage owning little girl... who hates brushing her hair...

When she grows up she wants to be

Repunzel

I am shocked, but I will use it in the morning when I am doing her hair for nursery.





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Tissues Please

Yes, I'm crying again.

Bloomin' heck, what's up with her now? I hear you cry.

Actually it's a book that is making me cry: One Moment, One Morning by Sarah Rayner. I'm only half way through it, but it revolves around the people surrounding a man who dies of a heart attack on a train, and takes us through the emotions of three woman surrounding the incident, including his wife and two very young children.

The descriptions of the emotions are very real for me; I remember the feeling of seeing James after he died, of shaving him and choosing clothes for him; imaging the complete decimation that his mother and sister must be feeling while I had my own heartbreak...

But, actually while those memories are so vivid and yet so unreal, and the pain and grief still there, it is something else that is actually upsetting me most: my relationship with PD.

To say our relationship has soured with the appearance of someone new in my life would be an understatement. I seem to have hurt PD in a way he will never forgive, something I certainly didn't intend; I still love him so dearly.

He is the father of my beautiful little girl and I loved sharing her with him in our own odd little family. Now we still share her but it's not the same.

So why is this book making me cry about that?

How would we deal with the loss of the other? How we explain this to our child? Would we still pull together if anything happened to our precious girl?

It is this that is making me cry.

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Geek - who me?

Well, actually it seems so. I know I work in IT but I really am as technical as a jam jar.

As I mentioned in an earlier post I was give some geeky gifts at Christmas and I love them!

I love the iPad, I have been blogging more because I simply love the way my fingers dance on the keys as I type. Strictly has nothing on my fingers, well maybe Strictly is more sparkly.

But, I have been inseparable from my kindle. I didn't know I wanted one, in fact I didn't want one; I'd been adamant that real books were for me.

Real, tangible books who's pages I could turn; with ink I can smell and covers that look lovely on my bookcase....

How could a grey piece of plastic replace that?

Well, it has. It's more subtle than a book, less shiny than the iPad so can be surreptitiously be read while little girl plays oblivious to the fact that I am not 100% engaged in what she is doing (I know, I know bad mummy).

It's easier to fit in my handbag, I don't have to wait until the postie delivers my latest Amazon order and like a true addict I am chain-reading;
I'm now on my sixth book since Christmas and this isn't even a sponsored post.


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What happens when you're not there...

There are many joys to being a single mum, not sharing your child is both a joy and chore, sharing your child is also a joy and a chore.

No, I haven't lost my marbles; I know I wrote that twice and I mean it in two different ways.

The first, in that having someone there to share the happy moments and actually keeping all that love to yourself.

The second, well that's the sharing that means I came home tonight to a quiet house, a warm toddler free bath and had to share my fish fingers with no-one. It's the sharing that allows me to go on hot dates with a certain young man I know...

But, the second is also the sharing that has me wondering what my daughter is up to; that believes she is inevitably better behaved for daddy than for me; and wonders if she has more fun without me, especially with moments like this that I miss:










But you know what?

She loves me most of all, he misses out on more than I do and I get to have a bit of the best of both worlds.

(But I will check in her empty room on my way to bed.)

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A complete balls up?

Christmas is well and truly over.

I know this not just because I am back to work tomorrow but my sitting room seems to have grown a few feet with the removal of Christmas.

I have even wrestled christmas into the loft. And I mean wrestled.

I have a feeling I only won because Christmas left it's balls behind




(there is always something)

But, before Christmas is condemned to a distant memory I must write a little aid memoir:

Make sure that Father Christmas buys presents that are the right size. Ensure that if he sees reindeer socks hanging up that he checks whether are little girls knee high socks or grown ups ankle socks.

Also, father Christmas should be easily able to locate his snack and not have to stumble around the room trying to locate it because you, I mean HE has forgotten where it is.

Lastly, dear father Christmas you do not need to use so much paper and Sellotape, these little presents are not wrapped for show but for speedy tearing of paper and rapid present revealing.

Oh, and mummies, make sure you pack the actual stocking when you go to Grandma's for Christmas.

Hey ho Father Christmas, we forgive you it was Isobel's first stocking after all.


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Night night leg

I am typing this very quietly as I have been told that Isobel's leg is asleep.

We must leave it alone and be very quiet because it is sleeping.

Which also means it needs to carried everywhere.

Apparently it will wake up in the morning.


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Welcome 2011

Come in, put your feet up. Trifle?

We really are pleased to see you but we are feeling a little introspective and subdued.










Give us a month or six and I'm sure we will be perkier.

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