October 2023

Then: my mum holding my baby. Now: my mum stimulating my baby’s visual recognition skills

“Messy play” – or “mucking around with his Weetabix”? While the basic tenets of parenting remain the same through the ages, the phrases I come out with sometimes make my mum look at me like I’m bonkers. But think about it, a lot of the labels we use these days are a teeny bit daft.

THEN: Baby “touched things”.

NOW: Baby does “sensory play.”

THEN: Baby “picked up some food”.

NOW: Baby does “baby-led weaning”.

THEN: Baby “went back to sleep”.

NOW: Baby “self-soothes”.

THEN: Baby “bent over”.

NOW: Baby “does baby yoga”.

THEN: Baby ”heard something.”

NOW: Baby “receives auditory stimulation”.

THEN: Baby “jumped on the sofa cushions”.

NOW: Baby “does soft play”.

THEN: Baby “picked up dangerously small stuff”.

NOW: Baby “practises fine motor skills”.

THEN: Baby “shook a rattle”.

NOW: Baby “does Monkey Music”.

THEN: Baby “used crayons”.

NOW: Baby “does mark-making.”

THEN: Baby “battered a toy into submission”.

NOW: Baby “problem solves”.

THEN: Baby “whacked something that was thrust in its face”.

NOW: Baby “exhibits hand-to-eye coordination”.

THEN: Baby “pushed a car along the floor saying brrm brrm”.

NOW: Baby “practises imaginative play”.

THEN: Baby “walked”.

NOW: Baby “mastered gross motor skills”.

THEN: Baby “was naughty”.

NOW: Baby “explores boundaries”.

THEN: Baby “was told off”.

NOW: Baby “gets descriptive praise”.

THEN: Baby “watched TV”*. * For the one hour a day that there were children’s programme in the Dark Ages, as my mum never fails to stress.

NOW: Baby “rescued mummy’s mental wellbeing via the medium of Peppa”.

I’m not saying who’s right or wrong – all I know is, 24-hour Nick Junior is progress – nay, a human right – and I’m all for it – call it what you will!

40 before 40? So over! It’s all about 24 before 2 and a half! Here’s my list of things you MUST do before you turn two and a half:

MY MUCK-IT LIST

1. Bungee-jump off a changing table. Nothing beats the thrill of diving for the floor, dangling only by one foot caught in the safety strap and the other in your mum’s hand.

2. Swim with poo-phins. Never mind the most intelligent creature of the ocean, nothing beats swimming with your own floater.

3. Learn a new language. It’s fine to make up your own. Yes = no; no= yes. Mummy = daddy; daddy = mummy. More = if you force one more spoon of that mush into my mouth, I’m going to regurgitate it all over you.

4. Start a retirement fund. Swallow a penny.

5. Tantrum like it’s 1999. Let no floor be un-pummelled, no car seat be willingly sat in, no drink go un-spilt, no mouthful be un-spat, no thing be right. Make mummy cry in public.

6. Do an up-the-backer. If you try really hard, you can push the contents of your nappy right up into your hairline. For extra points, dip your ankles in it while you’re being changed and pound them on mummy’s clean shirt.

7. Seize the day. And the night. Life is for living, people! Sleep is for losers. Never rise later than 5.30am.

8. Get your hand stuck in a vending machine. Preferably while your brother’s running off in the other direction. You’re doing your mum a favour, at least she – and everyone else – knows where you are: you’re the one screaming and refusing to let go of the Fruit Pastilles even though the vending machine flap is closing its grip like a vice.

9. Get your head stuck in the banisters. Railings are also good.

10. Fall face down in a puddle. Best done when you are late for school / the doctor / a bus. More haste, less speed, mother.

11. Decide who your favourite parent is. Clue: Which one does the most for you? It’s the other one.

12. Get your siblings on side. Take the heat for your older brothers and sisters a few times and they’ll have your back forever.

13. Lead by example. If you acquire a younger sibling before you are two, show them how much you love them by bouncing on their head whenever mummy turns her back. Establish that everything is in working order by hitting them all over with your toy hammer. Teach them what pushes mummy’s buttons.

14. Learn how to take your own socks off. This is an invaluable skill. It can keep you occupied for hours in the car / buggy. The key is to lose one or both of the socks just as you get to where you’re going. For example. your own christening.

15. Find a comfort item. Muslins, dummies, blankets, cute floppy bunnies – all these are good. But mummy’s better. Don’t let her out of your sight.

16. Establish a good sleep routine. I suggest feeds and cuddles till approx. midnight, then a couple of wake-ups between 12 and 5.30am.

17. Cut out an entire food group. You should never eat a balanced diet. One food group must be shunned at all costs. Popular ones are Fruit and Veg – but I find these a bit of a cliché. I have chosen Carbs. Yep, watch mother fret about you getting enough calories / eating out and about when you refuse sandwiches now.

18. Get tech savvy. Work out the code to mummy’s phone and delete all her apps. Get to grips with the TV remote and always remember to hide it before you go to bed.

19. Establish good personal hygiene. If this means squeezing the entire bottle of baby wash into the bath, so be it. Wipe your nose on mummy’s shoulder – better out than in. Wash your hands ten times a day, not forgetting to ‘wash’ your whole top and trousers at the same time.

20. Have a 6-month cold. May as well get it over with.

21. Read 100 books. By read, I mean pull off all the “lift-the-flaps”, destroy any turny wheel things, rip out the last page, draw on the cover and stick pages together with puree.

22. Learn martial arts. When you’ve worked out that those wriggly things at the end of your arms are your hands, use them to your advantage. Grab mummy’s hair and close your tiny fist like a vice. Karate chop her on the boob. Roundhouse kick her on the chin while she changes your nappy. Do a running headbutt into her pubic bone. Know your own strength.

23. Decide which colour food you will eat. I have chosen yellow – it’s a goodie: butter (by the spoonful), cheese, Pom Bears, and chips (everyone knows these are not a carb). Laugh in the face of yellow peppers and pineapple.

24. Smile. And the whole world will be round your little finger.

Linking up with #TheList at You Baby Me Mummy and Mums Days.

Wry Mummy is two!

And still a complete mystery to most of my family and friends.

“A blog?”

“It’s my own website, grandma. You know, on the computer.”

“Your own website?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh,” baffled nodding and unsure smiling from the dear nonagenarian.

“Is that for your blog, mummy?”

“Yes, darling.”

“What IS a blog, mummy?”

Well, indeed. Explaining a blog to a small child or a 90-year old lady is understandably hard, but it’s almost as hard to most people I know and meet.

“What do you do?”

“Nothing at the moment. I mean, apart from being a mum.”

“Oh!”

“And I have a blog.”

“Uh-huh?”

“It’s like a funny mummy blog. Tries to be funny anyway.”

“Oh, ok. Is that like, your job?”

“Um, kinda.”

But does it matter that most people don’t get what I do? I don’t understand what my husband does, and we’ve been together 14 years. If you ask me, he works “in IT”. *eye roll from Mr Wry*

The best way of describing it is that basically, my blog is my baby. Er, except now it’s my toddler.

Eek!

My first ever post was Kids’ Bedtime – The Last Straw. Two years on, the 7pm-8pm vortex still kills me.

It had to happen. Six years, three kids, a gazillion Lego pieces. Sooner or later, one of those bits was going to go up someone’s nose. I’m only surprised it took so long. So, what do you do, if hooking it out with your little finger ain’t happening? How do you get a bit of Lego out of a kid’s nose? Disclaimer: If you’re reading this because your child actually has got a piece of Lego up their nose right now, and you’re concerned about their breathing or anything else, please call your doctor / go to A&E depending on your level of concern. I’m not a doctor, this is an anecdote (though it does feature the medical advice we were given – which obviously worked!). Oh, the irony: Lego figures don’t even have noses. As with most child injuries and incidents, I didn’t see what happened. One minute my middle child was happily playing, the next he’s poking at his nose as he sits on the loo. “Do you need a tissue?” I asked. “No.” A few minutes later I notice he is still prodding at the outside of his nose. ‘Unusual’, I thought. ‘What’s occurring?’ I wondered. At the time, middlie was 2 3/4, on the cusp of middle-toddlerdom: an age where they begin to have some self-awareness. I think he thought that I’d be cross if he blurted out what had happened, bless his little Lego-filled nostrils. Eventually he said, “There’s something up my nose.” “What?” I said. “A bit of Lego.” “What?!” I took a look – sure enough, there was a single-nub dark grey bit of Lego at the top of the poor lad’s left nostril. “How did it get there?” “I put it up.” Goggling at him and also, trying not to panic, I had a little assessment. He was breathing fine, I didn’t think it could go any further up and he was not distressed. One of the hundreds of very cute things about kids is the teeniness of their ‘trils. Picking a baby’s bogey is one of the most satisfying, if gross, parts of motherhood. But this bit was not for the picking. There was no way my finger would fit up there, and my son’s own had obviously been ineffective, so I moved to step 2. I called NHS Direct; they said call the doctor; my doctor said bring him in, then, when I said how old (young) he was, they said I had to go to the Urgent Care Clinic (like a mini A&E in our local mini-hospital). So I went, with both boys and my seven-month bump squirming as my nerves fed into the amniotic fluid. After a reassuringly long wait (so we weren’t urgent, then), we got called in. “Ah yes,” said the lovely triage nurse. “This is an easy one. Pop him up on the bed.” I did so, looking around for the magic suck-y machine to be wheeled in. “You’re going to do this one, dear,” she said. “Yes. We just need to close the nostril without the Lego in, cover his mouth completely with your mouth, then blow quite hard and it’ll just pop out. It’s much better if you do it rather than one of us, dear.” “Ah, great!” I said. “Got it!” Step 3: Resolution – and a Tip So, of course, I did what they said. The poor poppet looked slightly alarmed, but I reassured him and promised him lots more sweets. I’m surprised he didn’t get the giggles at my looming face – as I always do when I’m getting my eyes tested and the optician comes at me with his retina-seeking torchlight. I held the empty nostril shut, covered his mouth with mine and blew. Quite hard. Nothing. A bit more reassurance, then another swoop, this time with a sharper blow. It was out! I was jubilant! Next stop Grey’s Anatomy! Should you ever have to perform this act, I would strongly advise keeping the confectionary bribe till after the operation – if you want to avoid a mouthful of chocolatey washback. Everything Happens for A Reason, and Everything Is Awesome They say that everything happens for a reason. A pretty facile phrase, I thought. Until a couple of weeks later, literally, I got a call from the school. My friend’s son needed to be brought home and his mum was delayed, could I come? I went. “He’s a bit distressed,” said the school nurse. “He’s got a stone stuck up his nose.” You should have seen me! It was like on University Challenge, where there’s always one on the team that hasn’t said a word all programme, but then finally their subject comes up. “I know this! I know this one!” I almost shrieked. I carried the poor pup home, explaining all the way what I was going to do, and how it wouldn’t hurt, just a quick ‘puff!’ and it would be gone. All the while he was getting more and more distressed, as you can imagine, when a lady he barely knew was proposing to kiss him on the lips. In fact, his body must have revolted so much at the idea that his nasal membranes bridled, because the next thing I knew, he was saying happily, “Look! It fell out!” I don’t know which of us was more relieved. So there you have it. A double win. Everything was awesome.* *This is a quote from The Lego Movie. In case you didn’t know. Nominations for the BritMums Brilliance in Blogging awards open today! If you liked this, you could pop me in for the Laugh, Fresh Voice or Writer category – just click on one of the badges below.

Related Post: The Mummy Accident Form. Our kids come home with an accident form for the slightest scrape, but what about us? Where’s our George Clooney plaster and hug in a kindly nurse’s bosom? 

Picture credit: http://www.foxmovies.com/movies/the-martian

Welcome to motherhood! It’s a strange planet, isn’t it?

You did it! It’s over! You’re amazing. And look at your gorgeous baby. Almost unreal in his perfection.

But you know he’s real, because if he wasn’t, why would you be here holding him at 2.30am? It’s a strange world, the middle of the night, don’t you find? Just you and your child in the dark, alien sounds breaking the silence: the plaintive, piercing cry of a hungry baby, the blissed-out little mews in the back of his throat as he starts to feed, the tiny squeaks he gives when he sleeps in your arms.

And you look around. It’s your room – but not as you knew it. A lot messier, probably. Unfamiliar things lying on your bedside table: Lansinoh, Infacol, a cup of tea you didn’t have a spare hand to drink. Muslins and tiny clothes on the floor. A stack of baby books on the chair.

Your partner may be next to you but for now, you are alone on this strange planet. Alone but for the life you have created. You may feel light years away even from those who love you. Even from other mothers. They may have taken this journey but no one has given birth to your child. You are on your own Mars.

If it feels alien to you, imagine how it is for your baby. A foreign air rushing into his lungs, unfamiliar soft fabric brushing his tiny feet, his mother’s voice unmuffled by the womb, her skin warm on his.

You are travellers together in a strange land.

You watch the sun rise and light up the soft down on your baby’s little head. You feel the storms rage, as he won’t stop crying and you don’t know why, or your husband forgets to bring you a biscuit when you’re feeding.

You feel detached from the real world, even though it flashes before you on Facebook. Friends without babies on nights out – they cannot understand. They have not been on this journey that is more miraculous than space travel. But they can still help you, cheer you up and cheer you on. Give you a hug. When you are ready, they will be there.

You might have heard they just found water on Mars – I know, world news can pass you by when you are watching your baby breathe in, breathe out. You may find yourself crying and you’re not sure why. Especially when your milk comes in on the third day. You have done something so momentous, your daily – and nightly – work is so momentous, each tiny development in your baby’s life is so momentous. It is huge, becoming a mother.

You may feel overwhelmed. Crying, feeling low, worrying about your baby, know that these are normal. But if overwhelmed becomes over-riding, if you feel you just can’t cope, talk to someone.

You probably won’t see The Martian, Matt Damon’s brilliant new film, until it’s on Sky Movies. (Although, I smuggled my youngest into Skyfall at two weeks. I got some pretty strange looks when he started making noises but I managed to see all but the ending!) I’m not spoiling it when I say that Damo has to survive by growing potato plants. Almost his whole time on Mars is devoted to nurturing the precious life he created.

That is you, now. Don’t worry about the washing up or the laundry or tidying up for guests. You are nurturing life. It is incredible. It is also incredibly hard work. It is forever. You don’t want it to stop. But you really need a nap.

Maybe your experience on Mars is different. Maybe you think this is sentimental nonsense, over-dramatic, an analogy stretched. You would have preferred warm congratulations and practical advice: how to cope with breastfeeding problems, how to do up a onesie without missing a popper, how to change an up-the-backer nappy in the dark, silently, with nothing but your last two baby wipes.

I can do all that too. But for now, I just want to say – wherever you are in the universe – you are doing a fantastic job.

It had to happen. Six years, three kids, a gazillion Lego pieces. Sooner or later, one of those bits was going to go up someone’s nose. I’m only surprised it took so long. So, what do you do, if hooking it out with your little finger ain’t happening? How do you get a bit of Lego out of a kid’s nose? Disclaimer: If you’re reading this because your child actually has got a piece of Lego up their nose right now, and you’re concerned about their breathing or anything else, please call your doctor / go to A&E depending on your level of concern. I’m not a doctor, this is an anecdote (though it does feature the medical advice we were given – which obviously worked!). Oh, the irony: Lego figures don’t even have noses. As with most child injuries and incidents, I didn’t see what happened. One minute my middle child was happily playing, the next he’s poking at his nose as he sits on the loo. “Do you need a tissue?” I asked. “No.” A few minutes later I notice he is still prodding at the outside of his nose. ‘Unusual’, I thought. ‘What’s occurring?’ I wondered. At the time, middlie was 2 3/4, on the cusp of middle-toddlerdom: an age where they begin to have some self-awareness. I think he thought that I’d be cross if he blurted out what had happened, bless his little Lego-filled nostrils. Eventually he said, “There’s something up my nose.” “What?” I said. “A bit of Lego.” “What?!” I took a look – sure enough, there was a single-nub dark grey bit of Lego at the top of the poor lad’s left nostril. “How did it get there?” “I put it up.” Goggling at him and also, trying not to panic, I had a little assessment. He was breathing fine, I didn’t think it could go any further up and he was not distressed. One of the hundreds of very cute things about kids is the teeniness of their ‘trils. Picking a baby’s bogey is one of the most satisfying, if gross, parts of motherhood. But this bit was not for the picking. There was no way my finger would fit up there, and my son’s own had obviously been ineffective, so I moved to step 2. I called NHS Direct; they said call the doctor; my doctor said bring him in, then, when I said how old (young) he was, they said I had to go to the Urgent Care Clinic (like a mini A&E in our local mini-hospital). So I went, with both boys and my seven-month bump squirming as my nerves fed into the amniotic fluid. After a reassuringly long wait (so we weren’t urgent, then), we got called in. “Ah yes,” said the lovely triage nurse. “This is an easy one. Pop him up on the bed.” I did so, looking around for the magic suck-y machine to be wheeled in. “You’re going to do this one, dear,” she said. “Yes. We just need to close the nostril without the Lego in, cover his mouth completely with your mouth, then blow quite hard and it’ll just pop out. It’s much better if you do it rather than one of us, dear.” “Ah, great!” I said. “Got it!” Step 3: Resolution – and a Tip So, of course, I did what they said. The poor poppet looked slightly alarmed, but I reassured him and promised him lots more sweets. I’m surprised he didn’t get the giggles at my looming face – as I always do when I’m getting my eyes tested and the optician comes at me with his retina-seeking torchlight. I held the empty nostril shut, covered his mouth with mine and blew. Quite hard. Nothing. A bit more reassurance, then another swoop, this time with a sharper blow. It was out! I was jubilant! Next stop Grey’s Anatomy! Should you ever have to perform this act, I would strongly advise keeping the confectionary bribe till after the operation – if you want to avoid a mouthful of chocolatey washback. Everything Happens for A Reason, and Everything Is Awesome They say that everything happens for a reason. A pretty facile phrase, I thought. Until a couple of weeks later, literally, I got a call from the school. My friend’s son needed to be brought home and his mum was delayed, could I come? I went. “He’s a bit distressed,” said the school nurse. “He’s got a stone stuck up his nose.” You should have seen me! It was like on University Challenge, where there’s always one on the team that hasn’t said a word all programme, but then finally their subject comes up. “I know this! I know this one!” I almost shrieked. I carried the poor pup home, explaining all the way what I was going to do, and how it wouldn’t hurt, just a quick ‘puff!’ and it would be gone. All the while he was getting more and more distressed, as you can imagine, when a lady he barely knew was proposing to kiss him on the lips. In fact, his body must have revolted so much at the idea that his nasal membranes bridled, because the next thing I knew, he was saying happily, “Look! It fell out!” I don’t know which of us was more relieved. So there you have it. A double win. Everything was awesome.* *This is a quote from The Lego Movie. In case you didn’t know. Nominations for the BritMums Brilliance in Blogging awards open today! If you liked this, you could pop me in for the Laugh, Fresh Voice or Writer category – just click on one of the badges below.

Related Post: The Mummy Accident Form. Our kids come home with an accident form for the slightest scrape, but what about us? Where’s our George Clooney plaster and hug in a kindly nurse’s bosom? 

It had to happen. Six years, three kids, a gazillion Lego pieces. Sooner or later, one of those bits was going to go up someone’s nose. I’m only surprised it took so long. So, what do you do, if hooking it out with your little finger ain’t happening? How do you get a bit of Lego out of a kid’s nose? Disclaimer: If you’re reading this because your child actually has got a piece of Lego up their nose right now, and you’re concerned about their breathing or anything else, please call your doctor / go to A&E depending on your level of concern. I’m not a doctor, this is an anecdote (though it does feature the medical advice we were given – which obviously worked!). Oh, the irony: Lego figures don’t even have noses. As with most child injuries and incidents, I didn’t see what happened. One minute my middle child was happily playing, the next he’s poking at his nose as he sits on the loo. “Do you need a tissue?” I asked. “No.” A few minutes later I notice he is still prodding at the outside of his nose. ‘Unusual’, I thought. ‘What’s occurring?’ I wondered. At the time, middlie was 2 3/4, on the cusp of middle-toddlerdom: an age where they begin to have some self-awareness. I think he thought that I’d be cross if he blurted out what had happened, bless his little Lego-filled nostrils. Eventually he said, “There’s something up my nose.” “What?” I said. “A bit of Lego.” “What?!” I took a look – sure enough, there was a single-nub dark grey bit of Lego at the top of the poor lad’s left nostril. “How did it get there?” “I put it up.” Goggling at him and also, trying not to panic, I had a little assessment. He was breathing fine, I didn’t think it could go any further up and he was not distressed. One of the hundreds of very cute things about kids is the teeniness of their ‘trils. Picking a baby’s bogey is one of the most satisfying, if gross, parts of motherhood. But this bit was not for the picking. There was no way my finger would fit up there, and my son’s own had obviously been ineffective, so I moved to step 2. I called NHS Direct; they said call the doctor; my doctor said bring him in, then, when I said how old (young) he was, they said I had to go to the Urgent Care Clinic (like a mini A&E in our local mini-hospital). So I went, with both boys and my seven-month bump squirming as my nerves fed into the amniotic fluid. After a reassuringly long wait (so we weren’t urgent, then), we got called in. “Ah yes,” said the lovely triage nurse. “This is an easy one. Pop him up on the bed.” I did so, looking around for the magic suck-y machine to be wheeled in. “You’re going to do this one, dear,” she said. “Yes. We just need to close the nostril without the Lego in, cover his mouth completely with your mouth, then blow quite hard and it’ll just pop out. It’s much better if you do it rather than one of us, dear.” “Ah, great!” I said. “Got it!” Step 3: Resolution – and a Tip So, of course, I did what they said. The poor poppet looked slightly alarmed, but I reassured him and promised him lots more sweets. I’m surprised he didn’t get the giggles at my looming face – as I always do when I’m getting my eyes tested and the optician comes at me with his retina-seeking torchlight. I held the empty nostril shut, covered his mouth with mine and blew. Quite hard. Nothing. A bit more reassurance, then another swoop, this time with a sharper blow. It was out! I was jubilant! Next stop Grey’s Anatomy! Should you ever have to perform this act, I would strongly advise keeping the confectionary bribe till after the operation – if you want to avoid a mouthful of chocolatey washback. Everything Happens for A Reason, and Everything Is Awesome They say that everything happens for a reason. A pretty facile phrase, I thought. Until a couple of weeks later, literally, I got a call from the school. My friend’s son needed to be brought home and his mum was delayed, could I come? I went. “He’s a bit distressed,” said the school nurse. “He’s got a stone stuck up his nose.” You should have seen me! It was like on University Challenge, where there’s always one on the team that hasn’t said a word all programme, but then finally their subject comes up. “I know this! I know this one!” I almost shrieked. I carried the poor pup home, explaining all the way what I was going to do, and how it wouldn’t hurt, just a quick ‘puff!’ and it would be gone. All the while he was getting more and more distressed, as you can imagine, when a lady he barely knew was proposing to kiss him on the lips. In fact, his body must have revolted so much at the idea that his nasal membranes bridled, because the next thing I knew, he was saying happily, “Look! It fell out!” I don’t know which of us was more relieved. So there you have it. A double win. Everything was awesome.* *This is a quote from The Lego Movie. In case you didn’t know. Nominations for the BritMums Brilliance in Blogging awards open today! If you liked this, you could pop me in for the Laugh, Fresh Voice or Writer category – just click on one of the badges below.

Related Post: The Mummy Accident Form. Our kids come home with an accident form for the slightest scrape, but what about us? Where’s our George Clooney plaster and hug in a kindly nurse’s bosom? 

I was never a competitive mother – until I won. Ahem, I mean, my son won. The triumph came as a complete surprise – and so did my reaction.  There I was, tootling along, perfectly sincere in my contention that, “I don’t care how he does at school, as long as he’s happy”. But then, my son’s name was called out, and everything changed. He had won first prize in the Easter Bonnet Parade. And I had morphed into a Tiger Mom.

Anatomy of a Tiger Mother I’ll never forget that moment. All those days we had spent creating the prize-winning (see, I can’t stop going on about it) bonnet, all those trial-and-errors we had undertaken in my first craft project since my own primary school days, had come together in this one glorious finale. The teacher announced my son’s victory, and I – to my eternal shame – jumped up, punched both fists in the air and hissed “Yessss!”. If you’re going to be a tiger mom, at least keep a muzzle on it in public. As I clapped my hands off, I went into a reverie. From here, anything was possible! I could propel him into a jazz saxophone world tour at nine! University at eleven! Olympic champion decathlete in 2024! For the last week, I’ve been fizzing with ambition for my son’s future. Perhaps you find it strange that I wouldn’t have harboured such feelings before, but the truth is, he’s SIX! I’m absolutely sure he’s capable of great things, but he’s just mastering his handwriting right now. Occasionally I have a Tiger Woods moment, and kick myself for not having already thrown him into a sporting discipline that would pay for my retirement, but in general, I’m just happy he’s gone to school in clean pants. Which is more a victory for me than for him, to be fair. It’s no surprise that the competitive mum in me has been unleashed, though. For, as all my family and friends will shudderingly confirm, I used to be a very competitive person. In everything. But I stick by my version that the only person I was really competitive with was myself – which explains why I am not in the least competitive about my children. I was so lost in wonder and happiness when expecting my first (he of Easter bonnet fame), that I didn’t even countenance getting involved in all the competitive pregnancy nonsense that I’ve observed. And when my baby came, I felt like I’d already won every competition. I had given birth to the most perfect baby in the universe. When Tiger Mothers Go Cuddly

Once Easter is over, the bonnet lies crumpled in a corner denuded of its mini chocolate eggs,and the after-glow of triumph has faded, I’m sure my inner competitive mother will go back to its deep tiger-nap. But I don’t think it’s all bad that she was awoken. Delusions of Harvard are clearly bonkers, but I’ve realised that I could, and should, aspire to help my children reach that little bit further. I will generally be cuddly and playful, but show a ruthless streak when necessary. Not so much a Tiger Mother as a…Meerkat Mum? So, how did you make this masterpiece? I hear you cry. Well, I’ll tell you, but first let me say that the school sent home a very strong message of it being about the children’s creativity (basically telling all the tiger mums to get back in their cages). So… Step 1: Decide on your concept Over to my son. As mentioned, he is six. I said, “What shall we put on your bonnet?” He said, “Lego.” OK, then. As an afterthought he added, “And a prayer.” So we had our concept sorted. Step 2: Buy everything in sight I quite literally went to town. No shop was left unturned. Obviously, we have loads of Lego, but no other kind of kit at all. Not even a bonnet. I found one of those immediately in my opportune supermarket, for £1, which I was pretty chuffed with considering what happened next. I went craft crazy! I bought ribbons, tapestry thread, needles, mini chocolate eggs, fluffy chicks in all shapes and colours, and – for the first time ever, and I was thinking of Blue Peter all the way – some double-sided sticky tape! It’s a real thing! As a child, I thought it was only something they had on TV. I still kinda believed that, till I found it in WHSmith. There all along! Step 3: Realise that nothing is sticky enough I bought these ridiculous things called glue dots. Ideal, I thought, for affixing chocolate eggs and fluffy chicks to a hat – and mess-free to boot! I should have known it was too good to be true. Useless. And have you tried double-sided sticky tape? Trying to peel it off the backing is like trying to open a tampon in a hurry – maddeningly impossible. And it was nowhere near sticky enough anyway. So for the chicks and eggs, I went for PVA glue. Great globules of it, that dripped through the holes in the bonnet onto the (uncovered – I am a craft virgin after all) table. Worked fine for the eggs, but we went back a few minutes later to find the chicks in varying stages of keel, as though they’d been at a barrel of port in our absence. But by holding them patiently on, the little ones did eventually stay stuck. The big ones, no chance.   Step 4: Sew Lego base on to bonnet Yep, the Lego base was no way going to stick with my paltry means, and although I had bought some superglue in my sticky-stuff spree, I didn’t want to wreck the base for future use. So, I sewed it on. Worked a treat. This is where my son’s brilliance really came into play. He decided to put Cranky the crane on top, so he could hold a basket with an egg in it, for Easter. Driven by a curiously immobile bunny. And he wrote his prayer all by himself (with a bit of spelling help) in beautiful handwriting. We had to Sellotape the Lego bricks together, stick the egg in the basket with glue and disassemble the top for transit to school, but we’d done it! I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this, but – we won! The teacher-judge said she had picked it because it was “so original”. It certainly is that. Now, I’m already thinking of how to top it next year. Not that I’m competitive or anything…

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Linking up with Mini Creations at kidGLloves

40 before 40? So over! It’s all about 24 before 2 and a half! Here’s my list of things you MUST do before you turn two and a half:

MY MUCK-IT LIST

1. Bungee-jump off a changing table. Nothing beats the thrill of diving for the floor, dangling only by one foot caught in the safety strap and the other in your mum’s hand.

2. Swim with poo-phins. Never mind the most intelligent creature of the ocean, nothing beats swimming with your own floater.

3. Learn a new language. It’s fine to make up your own. Yes = no; no= yes. Mummy = daddy; daddy = mummy. More = if you force one more spoon of that mush into my mouth, I’m going to regurgitate it all over you.

4. Start a retirement fund. Swallow a penny.

5. Tantrum like it’s 1999. Let no floor be un-pummelled, no car seat be willingly sat in, no drink go un-spilt, no mouthful be un-spat, no thing be right. Make mummy cry in public.

6. Do an up-the-backer. If you try really hard, you can push the contents of your nappy right up into your hairline. For extra points, dip your ankles in it while you’re being changed and pound them on mummy’s clean shirt.

7. Seize the day. And the night. Life is for living, people! Sleep is for losers. Never rise later than 5.30am.

8. Get your hand stuck in a vending machine. Preferably while your brother’s running off in the other direction. You’re doing your mum a favour, at least she – and everyone else – knows where you are: you’re the one screaming and refusing to let go of the Fruit Pastilles even though the vending machine flap is closing its grip like a vice.

9. Get your head stuck in the banisters. Railings are also good.

10. Fall face down in a puddle. Best done when you are late for school / the doctor / a bus. More haste, less speed, mother.

11. Decide who your favourite parent is. Clue: Which one does the most for you? It’s the other one.

12. Get your siblings on side. Take the heat for your older brothers and sisters a few times and they’ll have your back forever.

13. Lead by example. If you acquire a younger sibling before you are two, show them how much you love them by bouncing on their head whenever mummy turns her back. Establish that everything is in working order by hitting them all over with your toy hammer. Teach them what pushes mummy’s buttons.

14. Learn how to take your own socks off. This is an invaluable skill. It can keep you occupied for hours in the car / buggy. The key is to lose one or both of the socks just as you get to where you’re going. For example. your own christening.

15. Find a comfort item. Muslins, dummies, blankets, cute floppy bunnies – all these are good. But mummy’s better. Don’t let her out of your sight.

16. Establish a good sleep routine. I suggest feeds and cuddles till approx. midnight, then a couple of wake-ups between 12 and 5.30am.

17. Cut out an entire food group. You should never eat a balanced diet. One food group must be shunned at all costs. Popular ones are Fruit and Veg – but I find these a bit of a cliché. I have chosen Carbs. Yep, watch mother fret about you getting enough calories / eating out and about when you refuse sandwiches now.

18. Get tech savvy. Work out the code to mummy’s phone and delete all her apps. Get to grips with the TV remote and always remember to hide it before you go to bed.

19. Establish good personal hygiene. If this means squeezing the entire bottle of baby wash into the bath, so be it. Wipe your nose on mummy’s shoulder – better out than in. Wash your hands ten times a day, not forgetting to ‘wash’ your whole top and trousers at the same time.

20. Have a 6-month cold. May as well get it over with.

21. Read 100 books. By read, I mean pull off all the “lift-the-flaps”, destroy any turny wheel things, rip out the last page, draw on the cover and stick pages together with puree.

22. Learn martial arts. When you’ve worked out that those wriggly things at the end of your arms are your hands, use them to your advantage. Grab mummy’s hair and close your tiny fist like a vice. Karate chop her on the boob. Roundhouse kick her on the chin while she changes your nappy. Do a running headbutt into her pubic bone. Know your own strength.

23. Decide which colour food you will eat. I have chosen yellow – it’s a goodie: butter (by the spoonful), cheese, Pom Bears, and chips (everyone knows these are not a carb). Laugh in the face of yellow peppers and pineapple.

24. Smile. And the whole world will be round your little finger.

Linking up with #TheList at You Baby Me Mummy and Mums Days.

40 before 40? So over! It’s all about 24 before 2 and a half! Here’s my list of things you MUST do before you turn two and a half:

MY MUCK-IT LIST

1. Bungee-jump off a changing table. Nothing beats the thrill of diving for the floor, dangling only by one foot caught in the safety strap and the other in your mum’s hand.

2. Swim with poo-phins. Never mind the most intelligent creature of the ocean, nothing beats swimming with your own floater.

3. Learn a new language. It’s fine to make up your own. Yes = no; no= yes. Mummy = daddy; daddy = mummy. More = if you force one more spoon of that mush into my mouth, I’m going to regurgitate it all over you.

4. Start a retirement fund. Swallow a penny.

5. Tantrum like it’s 1999. Let no floor be un-pummelled, no car seat be willingly sat in, no drink go un-spilt, no mouthful be un-spat, no thing be right. Make mummy cry in public.

6. Do an up-the-backer. If you try really hard, you can push the contents of your nappy right up into your hairline. For extra points, dip your ankles in it while you’re being changed and pound them on mummy’s clean shirt.

7. Seize the day. And the night. Life is for living, people! Sleep is for losers. Never rise later than 5.30am.

8. Get your hand stuck in a vending machine. Preferably while your brother’s running off in the other direction. You’re doing your mum a favour, at least she – and everyone else – knows where you are: you’re the one screaming and refusing to let go of the Fruit Pastilles even though the vending machine flap is closing its grip like a vice.

9. Get your head stuck in the banisters. Railings are also good.

10. Fall face down in a puddle. Best done when you are late for school / the doctor / a bus. More haste, less speed, mother.

11. Decide who your favourite parent is. Clue: Which one does the most for you? It’s the other one.

12. Get your siblings on side. Take the heat for your older brothers and sisters a few times and they’ll have your back forever.

13. Lead by example. If you acquire a younger sibling before you are two, show them how much you love them by bouncing on their head whenever mummy turns her back. Establish that everything is in working order by hitting them all over with your toy hammer. Teach them what pushes mummy’s buttons.

14. Learn how to take your own socks off. This is an invaluable skill. It can keep you occupied for hours in the car / buggy. The key is to lose one or both of the socks just as you get to where you’re going. For example. your own christening.

15. Find a comfort item. Muslins, dummies, blankets, cute floppy bunnies – all these are good. But mummy’s better. Don’t let her out of your sight.

16. Establish a good sleep routine. I suggest feeds and cuddles till approx. midnight, then a couple of wake-ups between 12 and 5.30am.

17. Cut out an entire food group. You should never eat a balanced diet. One food group must be shunned at all costs. Popular ones are Fruit and Veg – but I find these a bit of a cliché. I have chosen Carbs. Yep, watch mother fret about you getting enough calories / eating out and about when you refuse sandwiches now.

18. Get tech savvy. Work out the code to mummy’s phone and delete all her apps. Get to grips with the TV remote and always remember to hide it before you go to bed.

19. Establish good personal hygiene. If this means squeezing the entire bottle of baby wash into the bath, so be it. Wipe your nose on mummy’s shoulder – better out than in. Wash your hands ten times a day, not forgetting to ‘wash’ your whole top and trousers at the same time.

20. Have a 6-month cold. May as well get it over with.

21. Read 100 books. By read, I mean pull off all the “lift-the-flaps”, destroy any turny wheel things, rip out the last page, draw on the cover and stick pages together with puree.

22. Learn martial arts. When you’ve worked out that those wriggly things at the end of your arms are your hands, use them to your advantage. Grab mummy’s hair and close your tiny fist like a vice. Karate chop her on the boob. Roundhouse kick her on the chin while she changes your nappy. Do a running headbutt into her pubic bone. Know your own strength.

23. Decide which colour food you will eat. I have chosen yellow – it’s a goodie: butter (by the spoonful), cheese, Pom Bears, and chips (everyone knows these are not a carb). Laugh in the face of yellow peppers and pineapple.

24. Smile. And the whole world will be round your little finger.

Linking up with #TheList at You Baby Me Mummy and Mums Days.