May 2017

The one where I forgot to make the Easter bonnet.

I’ve forgotten things before: book bags, trainers, lunch boxes, the usual. But this one was bad. The worst.

As we came into school I noticed a child wearing his Easter bonnet. ‘Oh’, I thought, ‘he must be bringing his in early’. Then I saw another, “Were we supposed to bring in your bonnet today?” I asked my middle son casually.

He shrugged. I looked around fearfully. Everyone was wearing a bonnet.

I accosted two of my friends, hissing, “Were we meant to bring them in today?”

“Yes,” came their deathly reply. “They’re having the parade today. Are you OK?”

For I had turned a waxen shade of pale.

“I haven’t made one,” I choked out in a whisper.

They laughed in horror. “Can’t you rush home and bring one in?” they suggested.

I turned to my son, who was looking dolefully at all his school trooping by in their bright and beautiful bonnets.

“Darling,” I whispered, trying to keep the panic from my eyes. “I’m going to go straight home and make you a bonnet and bring it back in – shall we pretend we made it together?”

He nodded. “Remember the farm animals. And chocolate eggs,” he said and trundled into school.

“What time is the parade?” I asked my son’s teacher, with forced jollity.

“After break,” she said.

“I just need to pop home and get his bonnet,” I said.

I ran to the car, tears pricking with guilt. But I didn’t have time for a bad mummy meltdown. I had a bonnet to make.

I raced back home and had a calming Mini Egg before starting the hunt for materials. Luckily for me, I come from the “all the gear, no idea” school of crafting, so on the occasions that I am called to craft, I go all out on securing provisions. No ribbon shop is left unturned, no adhesive product unbought. I’d also had the foresight to buy extra bonnets last year, almost as if I’d predicted this moment.

A quick rifle through the newly-reunited farm animals (hurrah for me doing a partial toy sort-out last weekend!) and I found the requested beasts. In another stroke of quite unbelievable luck, my friend had brought the boys a bag of little eggs over the weekend and my oldest son hadn’t finished his.

In under ten minutes, I had assembled all the necessary doings. All I had to do now was choose my glue weapon and hope it would hold the animals and eggs for long enough to last the parade. Turns out Sticky Fixers are the ones for the job – I do recommend should you ever find yourself in my position. But they have this blue tab at the end that looked most unsightly in my pastoral scene. I began to cut them off before applying but the ones I’d already put on couldn’t be snipped in situ. I had to think fast. I looked into the middle distance.

And saw the lawn. Of course! Grass!

I ran out and picked a load like some kind of crazy harvester type person.

But it was soaking! The morning dew glistened in all its beauty upon every blade and time was running out. Without hesitation, I put it in a bowl and microwaved it. Yep, I microwaved grass. It stank to high heaven, but it got dry. I sprinkled it liberally over the bonnet, tucked a few dwarf daffodils in the ribbon and hared it back to school.

Long-term readers of my blog may recall this time two years ago, where I shamed myself by shouting in triumph when my oldest son won the Easter Bonnet competition (this is when they announced it in front of the parents at assembly – and perhaps I am responsible for the change?). That bonnet he made himself, with a small bit of technical help from me – he couldn’t be expected to sew a Lego base on a bonnet, could he?

This year, I have no designs on the prize, and it would be dishonest to accept it since my son hadn’t even seen his bonnet before the parade. But I don’t care. All I care about is that I didn’t let my son be the only one without a bonnet. I nearly had a heart attack, but my little lamb knows I love him enough to microwave grass – and back.

Thinking of a third baby? Read this first.

Look at your two. Aren’t they cute? Aren’t they getting a bit easier now they’re that little bit older? Wouldn’t another one be nice…?

If your mind is currently at this dangerous stage, congratulations! You may soon enter the world of Three. Just be aware of a couple of things first.

Two into three does not go. There will always be one child left unmarked while you and your partner deal with the other two. This “rogue child” will create more mayhem than you thought possible while left unsupervised. Particularly noticeable at bedtime.

You will ignore your third most of the time. Especially as a newborn when they sleep a lot and can easily get completely forgotten about. In a house of three, he who shouts loudest, wins, and the youngest often doesn’t get a look in.

You’ll need a bladder of steel. Both to carry a third baby and then after s/he’s born. Two nappies to change plus a child to help to the loo is quite a challenge when mummy needs to go too.

You only have two hands. Well, duh. Two hands cannot (easily) hold three children. You will have to step up your powers of remote control over the older two siblings to keep them safe on roads / out of the biscuit tin. You will find yourself bleating, “I only have two hands” several times a day. To deaf and unsympathetic little ears.

Tiredness will take on a new meaning. Remember how hard it was having a new baby keep you up all night and not being able to rest in the day because you had a toddler to look after? Well, now you have two others to entertain, feed, worry about, bottom-wipe…

Your life will become an endless game of fox, chicken and grain. Strap baby in his carseat while the other two wait in the house and take their shoes off again. Put toddler and older one in car, baby has done a poo. Go back in house to change baby. Other two start braining each other and set off the car alarm…You get the picture. But you don’t get where you’re going on time. Ever again.

You’ll never get your kids’ names right again. There must be some algorithm for this, but you always say the wrong two names first. And then they see you are weak.

Public places of interest will be a no-go for years. Large open areas are bad enough with one bolter, let alone three. Unfenced parks, the zoo, museums or any such like become out of bounds unless you have an ally.

Supermarkets will not welcome you. Aisles are just not big enough for both a mum with three kids and two trolleys, and all the local mean people.

People will think you’re mad… Both when you are pregnant and after. They will not be afraid to tell you this.

…You will agree with them, much of the time. There is never a moment when someone is not saying, “Mum!” Someone, somewhere will always be asking for something. You will be torn in three directions and wonder what is left.

Someone, somewhere will always be fighting. It is the universal law of siblings.

No one will help you. You brought it on yourself, lady. Not realising what the jump from one to two would be like is fair enough, but subsequent children? You knew what you were letting yourself in for. Deal.

No one will invite you to anything. They have seen your house. They do not want theirs to resemble it.

Holidays will become ridiculous. Planes, trains and hotels were not created with families of five in mind. One of you (and it will not be you) will always be sat behind while the other one manages all the children. You will cram into one hotel room until they are ten, because you don’t want to pay for two rooms.

You will always be disappointing one of your children at any given moment. It is the universal law of parenting three.

You will cope. Just as your capacity to love simply and miraculously grows with each child, so does your capacity to cope.

And most importantly…

You will love it!

‘7 Years’ makes me cry. It’s the whole of life wrapped up in one beautiful song but I just want to press pause.

Lukas Graham’s hit song ‘7 Years‘ sure is a catchy tune – which also contains some sterling lessons for the parent. Such as: don’t tell your children to “make friends or they’ll be lonely” (PRESSURE!) nor to get a wife at 11 (TEENAGE PREGNANCY!). Of course, we can subtly encourage junior friendships and, when the time is right, courtships, but I think we can all agree we don’t want our babies “smoking herb or drinking burning liquor” before they’re twelve.

But facetiousness aside, the line that really makes me cry is the one on the picture of my youngest, above: “I hope my children come and visit once or twice a month”. What a paltry hope! The thought of seeing my children only every couple of weeks brings a sob to my throat.

But the tears are also happy tears – once or twice a month is not bad, really. When I’m pottering around the house doing all the things I thought I wanted to but never could when they were little, their ring on the doorbell will flood my heart with joy. When I’m power-walking up the road back from Pilates (I hope), their car outside the house will lift my feet to the front door. I will be happy that they visit once or twice a month.

And the words make me cry, too, because I don’t see my parents once or twice or month – once every two months possibly. We email, text and sometimes speak most days and that often feels like enough; or rather, it’s all I can easily manage when we live so far apart.

My parents don’t complain, or make me feel guilty. They are happy to see me whenever it happens. And I know why. We don’t raise children to keep them by our side.

But while they are by our side, we should appreciate them. I guess that is the other reason why the line makes me cry. I often characterize my three boys as a seething cloud of mayhem which I must somehow charter through breakfast, school, clubs and bedtime. Every evening I feel like keeling over.

But every night I go to sleep looking forward to seeing them in the morning (or, as often happens, 2am).

Because one day they won’t be there.

So thank you, Lukas Graham. I heard it only took you about half an hour to write the song (respect!) and I don’t know if you put this much thought into the line, or whether it was just to rhyme with “once”. Either way, thank you for reminding me to cherish this time and feel positive about the next turn of the circle of life.

But if my sons are drinking burning liquor at 11, I’ll be suing.

If you liked this post, you might like my Facebook page too.

When you can’t keep the naughty cupboard a secret, is it time to just give it up altogether?

I don’t like chocolate…I LOVE IT! Yet, wherever I hide it, the children find it, like little demon mice scampering all over my pathetic attempts to conceal sugary goodness from them.

I remember a time when I could keep everything – chocolate, biscuits, sweets, lunchbox treats – safe from everyone. Everyone but myself, of course. But I knew that when I came back to my packet of Freddos after taking the first one, there would still be five left.

However, since the children got agile, what I now find is worse than no Freddos – it is five empty Freddo packets, which for one glorious moment look like there’s at least one left for me. But no. My hopes are dashed and my breath taken away by the sheer gall of them.

I know where they get it from. I used to sneak biscuits and all sorts all the time at home. But I’d never have the nerve to leave empty wrappers! Showing not only no concern about getting caught, but no respect either. Is this the kind of ship I run, that I can be freely despoiled of my chocolate goods by my tiny crew, confident that no repercussions will ensue?

Well, it stops here, I tell ye! The naughty cupboard is to be no more!

I’ve had my eye on it for a while. It’s not the ideal naughty cupboard set-up for a number of reasons:

1. It’s right by the fridge and the microwave, so every time I am over there (which is pretty much all the time), I’m tempted to snaffle a square or two, and usually do.
2. It’s dangerous. Not (just) to my waistline, heart health and all that stuff, but to the little monkeys who climb up there and dangle in the corner while they take their pick.
3. It’s full of mouse poo. For some reason, perhaps because I have an obsession with wicker, I use a woven basket to keep my naughty snacks in. As my main treat of choice is Green & Black’s 70%, little black shavings are always escaping through the cracks, making it look like a litter basket for mice. Yeesh.

So, I’m decommissioning the naughty cupboard – but does this mean I’m turning to a life free from sugar?

I’m afraid not.

My chocolate is going in a tub in the sitting room drawer, so I have to actually consciously cover ground and go through two doors to get to it. (I’ll let you know how that goes…!)

And the boys’ snacks?

They’re going in the oven.

I just have to remember to take them out before I turn it on…

Disclaimer: This post is not sponsored by Freddos or Green & Black’s. Quite the reverse.

The one where I forgot to make the Easter bonnet.

I’ve forgotten things before: book bags, trainers, lunch boxes, the usual. But this one was bad. The worst.

As we came into school I noticed a child wearing his Easter bonnet. ‘Oh’, I thought, ‘he must be bringing his in early’. Then I saw another, “Were we supposed to bring in your bonnet today?” I asked my middle son casually.

He shrugged. I looked around fearfully. Everyone was wearing a bonnet.

I accosted two of my friends, hissing, “Were we meant to bring them in today?”

“Yes,” came their deathly reply. “They’re having the parade today. Are you OK?”

For I had turned a waxen shade of pale.

“I haven’t made one,” I choked out in a whisper.

They laughed in horror. “Can’t you rush home and bring one in?” they suggested.

I turned to my son, who was looking dolefully at all his school trooping by in their bright and beautiful bonnets.

“Darling,” I whispered, trying to keep the panic from my eyes. “I’m going to go straight home and make you a bonnet and bring it back in – shall we pretend we made it together?”

He nodded. “Remember the farm animals. And chocolate eggs,” he said and trundled into school.

“What time is the parade?” I asked my son’s teacher, with forced jollity.

“After break,” she said.

“I just need to pop home and get his bonnet,” I said.

I ran to the car, tears pricking with guilt. But I didn’t have time for a bad mummy meltdown. I had a bonnet to make.

I raced back home and had a calming Mini Egg before starting the hunt for materials. Luckily for me, I come from the “all the gear, no idea” school of crafting, so on the occasions that I am called to craft, I go all out on securing provisions. No ribbon shop is left unturned, no adhesive product unbought. I’d also had the foresight to buy extra bonnets last year, almost as if I’d predicted this moment.

A quick rifle through the newly-reunited farm animals (hurrah for me doing a partial toy sort-out last weekend!) and I found the requested beasts. In another stroke of quite unbelievable luck, my friend had brought the boys a bag of little eggs over the weekend and my oldest son hadn’t finished his.

In under ten minutes, I had assembled all the necessary doings. All I had to do now was choose my glue weapon and hope it would hold the animals and eggs for long enough to last the parade. Turns out Sticky Fixers are the ones for the job – I do recommend should you ever find yourself in my position. But they have this blue tab at the end that looked most unsightly in my pastoral scene. I began to cut them off before applying but the ones I’d already put on couldn’t be snipped in situ. I had to think fast. I looked into the middle distance.

And saw the lawn. Of course! Grass!

I ran out and picked a load like some kind of crazy harvester type person.

But it was soaking! The morning dew glistened in all its beauty upon every blade and time was running out. Without hesitation, I put it in a bowl and microwaved it. Yep, I microwaved grass. It stank to high heaven, but it got dry. I sprinkled it liberally over the bonnet, tucked a few dwarf daffodils in the ribbon and hared it back to school.

Long-term readers of my blog may recall this time two years ago, where I shamed myself by shouting in triumph when my oldest son won the Easter Bonnet competition (this is when they announced it in front of the parents at assembly – and perhaps I am responsible for the change?). That bonnet he made himself, with a small bit of technical help from me – he couldn’t be expected to sew a Lego base on a bonnet, could he?

This year, I have no designs on the prize, and it would be dishonest to accept it since my son hadn’t even seen his bonnet before the parade. But I don’t care. All I care about is that I didn’t let my son be the only one without a bonnet. I nearly had a heart attack, but my little lamb knows I love him enough to microwave grass – and back.

Thinking of a third baby? Read this first.

Look at your two. Aren’t they cute? Aren’t they getting a bit easier now they’re that little bit older? Wouldn’t another one be nice…?

If your mind is currently at this dangerous stage, congratulations! You may soon enter the world of Three. Just be aware of a couple of things first.

Two into three does not go. There will always be one child left unmarked while you and your partner deal with the other two. This “rogue child” will create more mayhem than you thought possible while left unsupervised. Particularly noticeable at bedtime.

You will ignore your third most of the time. Especially as a newborn when they sleep a lot and can easily get completely forgotten about. In a house of three, he who shouts loudest, wins, and the youngest often doesn’t get a look in.

You’ll need a bladder of steel. Both to carry a third baby and then after s/he’s born. Two nappies to change plus a child to help to the loo is quite a challenge when mummy needs to go too.

You only have two hands. Well, duh. Two hands cannot (easily) hold three children. You will have to step up your powers of remote control over the older two siblings to keep them safe on roads / out of the biscuit tin. You will find yourself bleating, “I only have two hands” several times a day. To deaf and unsympathetic little ears.

Tiredness will take on a new meaning. Remember how hard it was having a new baby keep you up all night and not being able to rest in the day because you had a toddler to look after? Well, now you have two others to entertain, feed, worry about, bottom-wipe…

Your life will become an endless game of fox, chicken and grain. Strap baby in his carseat while the other two wait in the house and take their shoes off again. Put toddler and older one in car, baby has done a poo. Go back in house to change baby. Other two start braining each other and set off the car alarm…You get the picture. But you don’t get where you’re going on time. Ever again.

You’ll never get your kids’ names right again. There must be some algorithm for this, but you always say the wrong two names first. And then they see you are weak.

Public places of interest will be a no-go for years. Large open areas are bad enough with one bolter, let alone three. Unfenced parks, the zoo, museums or any such like become out of bounds unless you have an ally.

Supermarkets will not welcome you. Aisles are just not big enough for both a mum with three kids and two trolleys, and all the local mean people.

People will think you’re mad… Both when you are pregnant and after. They will not be afraid to tell you this.

…You will agree with them, much of the time. There is never a moment when someone is not saying, “Mum!” Someone, somewhere will always be asking for something. You will be torn in three directions and wonder what is left.

Someone, somewhere will always be fighting. It is the universal law of siblings.

No one will help you. You brought it on yourself, lady. Not realising what the jump from one to two would be like is fair enough, but subsequent children? You knew what you were letting yourself in for. Deal.

No one will invite you to anything. They have seen your house. They do not want theirs to resemble it.

Holidays will become ridiculous. Planes, trains and hotels were not created with families of five in mind. One of you (and it will not be you) will always be sat behind while the other one manages all the children. You will cram into one hotel room until they are ten, because you don’t want to pay for two rooms.

You will always be disappointing one of your children at any given moment. It is the universal law of parenting three.

You will cope. Just as your capacity to love simply and miraculously grows with each child, so does your capacity to cope.

And most importantly…

You will love it!

Spot the difference?! Me at 28, 30 (pre smartphones!) and very nearly 40.

Do you swear by your moisturiser? Or is it just a hope and a prayer?

I’ve been using the same face cream for 16 years. So you’d think if I look younger than I am, it proves that my face cream works.

But does it?

I can’t ever know – because I don’t know what I’d look like if I’d used another brand that happened to catch my eye that fateful day that I bound myself to a beauty product. Nor what I’d look like if I’d used nothing.

It’s the great conjuring trick of the beauty industry. The Emperor’s New Clothes of skincare.

But I don’t want to be the little boy who points out that I might as well have used Vaseline.

Why?

Because I love my product. I love the smell, the colour, the texture, the way it rubs in, the packaging, the absorption, the plumped-up feeling afterwards.

Most of all, I love it because it makes me, me. Literally, on a cellular level. When I smooth it on, it’s like a ritual of comfort, reminding me of all the nights I have put it on over the huge changes of the last decade and a half: giggling at the evening I’d just had at the pub; preparing myself for the night feeds ahead; mentally checking the school bags for the morning.

There have been a couple of occasions, when caught in the heady lights of the duty free (while my husband thought I was buying sweets for the children’s ears on the flight), when I considered straying. Dabbling with a new brand. Dipping my toe into another product in the range. Just for a change. But nothing else is quite the same.

It’s occurred to me, as I count down to my 40th birthday in March, that I should ask the lady if I need to change my moisturiser to suit my skin, which is now classed as “mature” by the beauty industry (which I infinitely prefer to “menopausal”, as appeared on my medical notes recently!).

But I’m reluctant in case I’m told that I should switch. And to be fair, if I look older these days, I can’t really blame the product. Sixteen years is a hell of a lot of time to hold back – surely no cream could hold the weight of that.

And since I can never know whether I’d look better now if  I’d used something else, there’s no incentive to change.

The whole face cream promise, although backed by massive investments in increasingly advanced science, might be a myth, a fantasy – but it’s my little fantasy, and I’m staying loyal.

What’s your #heroproduct? Do you chop and change your moisturiser – and do you notice the difference in terms of signs of ageing?

My #heroproduct

Note: This is not a sponsored post. As mentioned above, I’ve bought this cream for 16 years of my own accord and this is my view.

This post is part of my #40till40 series – my countdown of 40 days till I turn 40.

No one should have to diet alone. But is a virtual fitness pal the answer?

I’ve got a new best friend. Always there for me, day and night. Never judges or tempts me with a night in with some prosecco. I’ve seen her around before but I’ve only really got to know her this year as I began my countdown to 40 and a slinky party dress, and thus the first sustained effort in my life to shed a certain number of pounds.

She fits in my pocket and never sleeps. She is My Fitness Pal.

I’m sure you’ve heard of her – but if you’re not one of her millions of pals, she is an app. A calorie counting, nutrition-assessing, fitness-tracking app. She works by the basic premise of weight loss:

 Burn more calories than you consume = weight loss

 Simples, huh?

But like every great tool, My Fitness Pal has its limitations. It’s only as good as the data you put in. And this is where her Jekyll and Hyde nature is revealed, as my little breakdown shows below.

My Fitness Pal: Friend or Foe?

Friend: It records every calorie you eat. So on a good day you feel virtuous and positive.

Foe. It records every calorie you eat. So when you’ve eaten 80% of your daily limit by 11am, it’s soul-destroying.

Friend: It has a huge database of every food you can imagine, generic and branded, with calories and nutrients already there for you.

Foe: It doesn’t cover things that I eat regularly, like:

Three chips soggy in cold bean juice

A mouthful of pasta and pesto with grated cheese – just to check it still tastes the same as the last million times

The scrapings of mash in the end of the pan

A pre-mouthed Malteser

The squashed Quavers in the crease of the baby carseat.

To cover these daily inevitabilities, I tried to create an entry to cover such daily delicacies, but here the app saw me coming. You can’t just put in “Sundries” with an estimated number of calories. That’s where all diets fail – the unrecorded consumption of incidental snackery that passes in front of your starved eyes when you are at your weakest.

So if I can’t be bothered to break down my casual snackage and am feeling honest enough to log it, I just do a Quick Add of 100 calories. That should cover it, right!?

Friend: You can cheat and it doesn’t say anything.

Foe: But you are only cheating yourself. Yawn. If I don’t lose the predicted weight, I can’t help but feel my app is silently glowering at me: “Well, if you’d just told me the truth, you wouldn’t be in this predicament, would you? I told you exactly what to eat to lose weight and you not only went against it, but lied about it. No, no, I’m not angry. I’m just disappointed.”

Friend: It doesn’t judge you.

Foe: But it makes you judge yourself. I suppose this is a good thing, but who really likes a friend who tells them they’re eating too much chocolate / drinking too much wine for their health?

Friend: It shows you how much of your recommended intake of vitamins and minerals you have eaten each day.

Foe (or design flaw): If you eat loads of fruit and veg (as I do most days), your Vitamin C is off the scale, but is represented in “bad” red font, like when you go over your saturated fat limit.

Foe / Design Flaw 2: It shows me that I eat way lower than my sodium limit a day – which means I now add salt to everything as I feel like I can, where I never did before…

Friend: It projects your success when you complete your entry for the day: “If every day were like today, in 5 weeks you’d weigh X lbs.”

Foe: 1) Every day then has to be like today for it to come true. 2) 5 weeks never comes…!

Friend: It’s the only person in the world who cares if you lose a pound. If I find I’ve lost a pound, I feel a bizarre urgency to rush and tell My Fitness Pal.

Foe: It doesn’t really care. It’s an app.

Friend: It works.

Foe: If you never let it go.

What do you think of My Fitness Pal, if you’ve used it? What are your tech tips and tricks to weight loss – or do you leave tech right out of it?

I’d love to read your replies while I enjoy a guilty glass of prosecco with my new best Pal…

This post is part of my #40till40 series – counting down to my big 4-0 in a couple of weeks!

Note: This is not a sponsored post. My Fitness Pal is free and this is just my opinion of it.

Thinking of a third baby? Read this first.

Look at your two. Aren’t they cute? Aren’t they getting a bit easier now they’re that little bit older? Wouldn’t another one be nice…?

If your mind is currently at this dangerous stage, congratulations! You may soon enter the world of Three. Just be aware of a couple of things first.

Two into three does not go. There will always be one child left unmarked while you and your partner deal with the other two. This “rogue child” will create more mayhem than you thought possible while left unsupervised. Particularly noticeable at bedtime.

You will ignore your third most of the time. Especially as a newborn when they sleep a lot and can easily get completely forgotten about. In a house of three, he who shouts loudest, wins, and the youngest often doesn’t get a look in.

You’ll need a bladder of steel. Both to carry a third baby and then after s/he’s born. Two nappies to change plus a child to help to the loo is quite a challenge when mummy needs to go too.

You only have two hands. Well, duh. Two hands cannot (easily) hold three children. You will have to step up your powers of remote control over the older two siblings to keep them safe on roads / out of the biscuit tin. You will find yourself bleating, “I only have two hands” several times a day. To deaf and unsympathetic little ears.

Tiredness will take on a new meaning. Remember how hard it was having a new baby keep you up all night and not being able to rest in the day because you had a toddler to look after? Well, now you have two others to entertain, feed, worry about, bottom-wipe…

Your life will become an endless game of fox, chicken and grain. Strap baby in his carseat while the other two wait in the house and take their shoes off again. Put toddler and older one in car, baby has done a poo. Go back in house to change baby. Other two start braining each other and set off the car alarm…You get the picture. But you don’t get where you’re going on time. Ever again.

You’ll never get your kids’ names right again. There must be some algorithm for this, but you always say the wrong two names first. And then they see you are weak.

Public places of interest will be a no-go for years. Large open areas are bad enough with one bolter, let alone three. Unfenced parks, the zoo, museums or any such like become out of bounds unless you have an ally.

Supermarkets will not welcome you. Aisles are just not big enough for both a mum with three kids and two trolleys, and all the local mean people.

People will think you’re mad… Both when you are pregnant and after. They will not be afraid to tell you this.

…You will agree with them, much of the time. There is never a moment when someone is not saying, “Mum!” Someone, somewhere will always be asking for something. You will be torn in three directions and wonder what is left.

Someone, somewhere will always be fighting. It is the universal law of siblings.

No one will help you. You brought it on yourself, lady. Not realising what the jump from one to two would be like is fair enough, but subsequent children? You knew what you were letting yourself in for. Deal.

No one will invite you to anything. They have seen your house. They do not want theirs to resemble it.

Holidays will become ridiculous. Planes, trains and hotels were not created with families of five in mind. One of you (and it will not be you) will always be sat behind while the other one manages all the children. You will cram into one hotel room until they are ten, because you don’t want to pay for two rooms.

You will always be disappointing one of your children at any given moment. It is the universal law of parenting three.

You will cope. Just as your capacity to love simply and miraculously grows with each child, so does your capacity to cope.

And most importantly…

You will love it!

No one should have to diet alone. But is a virtual fitness pal the answer?

I’ve got a new best friend. Always there for me, day and night. Never judges or tempts me with a night in with some prosecco. I’ve seen her around before but I’ve only really got to know her this year as I began my countdown to 40 and a slinky party dress, and thus the first sustained effort in my life to shed a certain number of pounds.

She fits in my pocket and never sleeps. She is My Fitness Pal.

I’m sure you’ve heard of her – but if you’re not one of her millions of pals, she is an app. A calorie counting, nutrition-assessing, fitness-tracking app. She works by the basic premise of weight loss:

 Burn more calories than you consume = weight loss

 Simples, huh?

But like every great tool, My Fitness Pal has its limitations. It’s only as good as the data you put in. And this is where her Jekyll and Hyde nature is revealed, as my little breakdown shows below.

My Fitness Pal: Friend or Foe?

Friend: It records every calorie you eat. So on a good day you feel virtuous and positive.

Foe. It records every calorie you eat. So when you’ve eaten 80% of your daily limit by 11am, it’s soul-destroying.

Friend: It has a huge database of every food you can imagine, generic and branded, with calories and nutrients already there for you.

Foe: It doesn’t cover things that I eat regularly, like:

Three chips soggy in cold bean juice

A mouthful of pasta and pesto with grated cheese – just to check it still tastes the same as the last million times

The scrapings of mash in the end of the pan

A pre-mouthed Malteser

The squashed Quavers in the crease of the baby carseat.

To cover these daily inevitabilities, I tried to create an entry to cover such daily delicacies, but here the app saw me coming. You can’t just put in “Sundries” with an estimated number of calories. That’s where all diets fail – the unrecorded consumption of incidental snackery that passes in front of your starved eyes when you are at your weakest.

So if I can’t be bothered to break down my casual snackage and am feeling honest enough to log it, I just do a Quick Add of 100 calories. That should cover it, right!?

Friend: You can cheat and it doesn’t say anything.

Foe: But you are only cheating yourself. Yawn. If I don’t lose the predicted weight, I can’t help but feel my app is silently glowering at me: “Well, if you’d just told me the truth, you wouldn’t be in this predicament, would you? I told you exactly what to eat to lose weight and you not only went against it, but lied about it. No, no, I’m not angry. I’m just disappointed.”

Friend: It doesn’t judge you.

Foe: But it makes you judge yourself. I suppose this is a good thing, but who really likes a friend who tells them they’re eating too much chocolate / drinking too much wine for their health?

Friend: It shows you how much of your recommended intake of vitamins and minerals you have eaten each day.

Foe (or design flaw): If you eat loads of fruit and veg (as I do most days), your Vitamin C is off the scale, but is represented in “bad” red font, like when you go over your saturated fat limit.

Foe / Design Flaw 2: It shows me that I eat way lower than my sodium limit a day – which means I now add salt to everything as I feel like I can, where I never did before…

Friend: It projects your success when you complete your entry for the day: “If every day were like today, in 5 weeks you’d weigh X lbs.”

Foe: 1) Every day then has to be like today for it to come true. 2) 5 weeks never comes…!

Friend: It’s the only person in the world who cares if you lose a pound. If I find I’ve lost a pound, I feel a bizarre urgency to rush and tell My Fitness Pal.

Foe: It doesn’t really care. It’s an app.

Friend: It works.

Foe: If you never let it go.

What do you think of My Fitness Pal, if you’ve used it? What are your tech tips and tricks to weight loss – or do you leave tech right out of it?

I’d love to read your replies while I enjoy a guilty glass of prosecco with my new best Pal…

This post is part of my #40till40 series – counting down to my big 4-0 in a couple of weeks!

Note: This is not a sponsored post. My Fitness Pal is free and this is just my opinion of it.