April 2023

This is me after winning the mums’ race on Sports Day last week. I don’t normally wear a sticker. Or a sunbeam in my hair. Hair: Blonde “mob” (mummy bob) Is this your first blogging conference? Are you attending both days? Yes. On the Saturday, I imagine I will be more of a wraith, though.  What are you most looking forward to at BritMums Live 2014? Citrus hues and a massive grin. What do you hope to gain from BritMums Live 2014? I’d like to see how proper blogs are run, but mainly I just want to gain blogger buddies. Do you have any tips to pass on to others who may not have been before? As I haven’t been, I haven’t got any tips, but I have written three posts on BritMums Live nonetheless, which I shall blatantly list here! What To Wear To BritMums Live? I am caught between a tart and a frump. What To Say At BritMums Live? Have you done your “Murder Board” yet? Looking forward to meeting you!

If biting the bruises out of bananas is not the pinnacle of maternal love, I don’t know what is. If you’ve ever eaten the debris out of the carseat because you couldn’t face carrying it in your hand, you’ll know this – motherhood turns you into a human dustbin. Minesweeping kids’ teatime plates is a commonplace of motherhood and the bane of many a post-baby body blitz. “I just can’t stand waste,” you mumble, through a mouthful of ice cold potato waffle. Hey, it saves scraping stuff in the bin and the inevitable loss of a precious baby fork that you then have to rifle through the mushy Cheerios and double-bagged nappies for. #sb10068214a-001 / gettyimages.com The consenting, or Instagrammable, food share What could be cuter than mother and baby chomping their way to the middle of the same strand of spaghetti, ending this eminently vid-worthy experience with a delicious kiss? The closest I’ve got to this is sharing a breadstick, which ended in a soggy mess, but was cute nonetheless. And then there’s the The human food prep machine Most commonly seen in the car, this includes biting the bruises out of bananas, and eating all the skin off an apple to satisfy the back-seat partial fruit-lover. Other examples include, eating the crusts off the sandwiches, eating the biscuit around the jam in a jammie dodger (not really a hardship, that one) and eating the pith of bits of satsuma (well fiddly!). But what about the unsung side of motherly mastication? Sometimes (too often!), there just isn’t a bin around when you need one. Like when your child wants to spit something out. We were on our way to the car yesterday when my youngest decided he didn’t like Smarties after all, and spat all seven of them out into my swiftly-proferred hand. There they lay, their now-softened, not-as-bright-as-in-my-day shells cracked like my detergent knuckles, in a pool of sugary drool that was starting to drip through my fingers. The baby wipes were deep in the changing bag, I was holding onto the littlest on his scooter with the other hand, the other two boys were shooting ahead and I had to push the buggy. I did the only thing I could do in the circumstances – reader, I ate them. Out of the mouth of babes As such occasions go, it was one of the more pleasurable. I’ve eaten all sorts from the maws of my children – balled-up Marmite sandwiches, too-large mouthfuls of ice-cream, naked Maltesers. With the chocolate all sucked off, surely these last are practically a dieter’s dream? Regurgitated food is not the sole preserve of mothers and baby blackbirds, though. My friend once cooked a roast for us. My (then, only) son, aged about two, was delighted with his first taste of roast pork. Five minutes later he was still chewing, his eyes were beginning to bulge, and I gently removed it from his tired jaws. Whereupon my friend’s husband leant over and ate the rejected delicacy. “Mmm, tender,’ he said. One man’s gross is another’s gourmet, it seems. Surely I’m not the only one who has automatically licked their chocolatey finger, before recalling the leaky nappy you just changed?

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Girls have Barbie, boys have Batman. Both are equally unattainable body shapes – a Superhero Six-Pack is as hard to achieve as a Barbie waist, as my husband often complains with his paw in the Kettle Chips. But that doesn’t stop my sons aspiring. With Great Power Comes Great Risk of A&E Granted, looking like Batman is a lot easier than looking like Barbie. You can wear a mask, for a start. And a full bodysuit with built-in abs. And a cape. No one’s bum looks big in a cape. But kids want to be their idols, don’t they? For Barbie, that means a trip to the nail bar, maybe a little pastry-making, before a pool party at her girlfriend’s house. All unbelievably stereotyped (I nearly exploded with feminism when I Googled what Barbies do – good grief!), but within the realms of possibility. Batman, on the other hand, can fly. Therefore, so can my sons! “Look at me, mummy! I’m at the top of the stairs! I’m Batman!” Before I can say “specially-designed electronic wings”, they are in a heap on the hall floor. Barnacles – Captain Of All He Misleads We are huge Octofans in our house. I even used to have a crush on Captain Barnacles till he shattered my illusion with his singing voice on Creature Reports. Think Pierce Brosnan in Mama Mia. But my sons’ delusions of “polar bear strength” are a menace. The other day my four-year-old tried to get the baby (a hefty 20 month-old) up from his cot while standing in it himself – luckily I came in before we had to sound the 999. And both my older boys spend their whole bathtime submerged in the murky depths of probably three different flavours of wee – great for their water confidence, shocking for my heart. You can aspire to a bouncy blonde Barbie ’do but an oxygen tank that shoots over your head at first contact with water? Impossible, my friend. Also like Barnacles, they act as though they’re in charge, know everything and must be obeyed at all times. But they’ve been like that since birth. If ever there was an example of “don’t judge by appearances”, Yoda is it. This little green creature is the most powerful character in Star Wars. How are my boys supposed to look like him? They haven’t a chance. Now that is an unrealistic body image. Angry Birds Yoda doesn’t even have a body!

I’m well aware that males are as susceptible to body image issues as females. And that girls play with Octonauts too. As they get older, I know my boys may feel pressure to either be Harry-Styles-skinny or Wolverine-beefy. One day they too will bemoan the inefficacy of stomach crunches while turning steaks on the barbie drinking lager. Until then, I will teach them that they have the perfect bodies to be what they are: themselves.

#185500880 / gettyimages.com I used to live in the park. ‘Baby’s first swing’ was a milestone akin to (and many months earlier than) sleeping through the night. I padded my precious firstborn’s swing with a specially-brought cushion and drank in the moment. Pushing with both hands – no IPhone in sight. Seven years on, I have to admit it’s worn a trifle thin. But for the sake of baby number three, I need to banish my park fatigue. I need to get my park spark back. New Park: Luckily (or stupidly, depending on how you look at it), I’ve moved house with every baby. New area = new park. This helps to keep the interest of the jaded mother – for the first 10 visits anyway. As soon as you’ve worked out the nearest loo and escape hatch cafe, you’re set. New Child: Obviously, I wouldn’t deprive my children of the park just because I’m a tad bored of it. And of course, seeing my third baby on his first – and 200th – swing, slide and roundabout is just as much of a delight as it was first and second time round. I’ve got it all on video to prove it. Most of these videos end abruptly as I lurch to rescue the star of the show from his latest fearless feat. For, like many younger siblings, he is daring beyond his months.  New Poo: The other day we were just on the way home from a truly lovely park outing – beautiful autumn day, sun glinting off my wee one’s little curls, no serious tumbles. Until now – just by the gate, my son fell over, flat on his face. Maybe it was an uneven patch, maybe it was a rogue conker; whatever, he ended up face-planting in a pile of muck. Now, as mentioned, I’m a park veteran. We’ve had dog poo (obvs). We’ve had horse poo. We’ve had rabbit poo and we’ve had seagull poo (call it guano if you like, it’s still well gross). We’ve even had human poo – the child’s own, i hasten to add, in a particularly tumultous standing nappy change situation. But this was a first. My dear boy’s face was besmirched with Canadian goose poo. As I wiped it off, I smiled to myself for ever doubting: there is always something new at the park.