August 2025

There’s nothing like a festive quiz for passing the night in merriment / causing massive inter-spouse rows at Christmas. If you have a gathering of friends or family one evening, why not try this Christmas Quiz?

Round 1: Snog, Marry, Avoid

In case you don’t know the rules of this inestimable game, you are given three names and have to decide whether you would snog, marry or avoid them (this is the PG version after all):

1. Kwazii, Captain Barnacles and Peso
2. Andy, Mister Bloom and Alex
3. Cerrie, Cat and Nina
4. Kate’s dad in Kate and Mim-Mim, Old Jack and Grandpa (of In My Pocket fame)
5. Mr Tumble, Justin and Captain Adorable

Round 2: General Parental Knowledge

1. Is the step from one to two worse than two to three children?
2. Name the two last CBeebies Christmas pantos.
3. Who is more annoying, Tig in Woolly and Tig or Jason from Grandpa in My Pocket?
4. Give an example of a diagraph.
5. What does the mouse tell the snake is the Gruffalo’s favourite food?
6. What is the lady car in Cars called?
7. What does the hungry caterpillar eat on Thursday?
8. Has Granny Murray ever done anything but smile?
9. What is Peppa and George’s baby cousin called?
10. When do babies sleep through the night? a) at two weeks b) at three months c) still waiting.

You may have played the brilliant drinking game, Roxanne. So simple it’s genius. You listen to the Police song Roxanne, half of you drink when Sting sings “Roxanne”, the other half when he sings, “you don’t have to put on a red light”. Well, for the parents’ version, simply find an episode of Octonauts and as much booze as possible. Everyone choose a character: Kwazii, Barnacles, Peso and the star creature of that particular episode are the main ones. If you have more than four players, choose two each from Shellington, Dashi, Tweak, Professor Inkling, the Tunips and whatever secondary sea creature is going down in that show. Whenever your character speaks, take a draught. Also be attentive to the following rules: “Sound the Octoalert!” – everyone takes a shot. Whenever Barnacles patronises Dashi or Tweak – dads down their drinks. Theme music – everyone runs around pretending to be driving a Gup. And drinking.

Note: Anyone caught Googling has to neck their drink plus the person to their left’s.

Let me me know your answers in the comments – I’m especially intrigued about the split between Andy and Mister Bloom admirers. Merry Christmas 
and a Happy New Year! For more posts like this, like my Facebook page!

When you’re three, the world is your toilet.

It all started when we were potty training. I was so pleased that my son gave me any notice at all before weeing, I was happy for him go pretty much wherever we were. Needs must and all that. But now, despite his much improved bladder control, he still feels he has a licence to wee at all times and in all places.

Got a licence to wee.

1. In the middle of the park. Not discreetly behind a tree. Right there by the swings.
2. On the pavement. Not in the gutter behind an open car door as I’ve possibly encouraged him to in the past.
3. On his clothes. Bless his little cottons, sometimes he still has a misfire even when he’s standing by the loo.
4. By the schoolgate – I caught him in time but he was all ready to go.
5. With his brothers. I have three boys, and now the youngest has joined the standing-up wee gang, they do like to all go together.
6. On his brothers…I still can’t tell whether it was deliberate.
7. On the closed lid of the loo. So close yet so far.
8. In the middle of the beach. “No! I meant in the sea,” I cry as he stands right up on the sand and does his wee. Or he’ll be in the sea but remain standing: “Crouch down darling!” I’ll half-cry, half-laugh.
9. In the bath. Standard. I defy anyone with boys to claim their child never gets in the bath and goes “aaaah” – despite there being a perfectly good loo right there next to it.
10. And his favourite, pants down, on mummy’s foot, hand, scarf – whatever is in the line of fire.

But you know what, although I, of course, try to limit his overly public pees for hygiene’s sake, he’s only three. When a boy’s gotta go a boy’s gotta go.

Nothing beats an alfresco wee.

What’s the funniest / most embarrassing place your toddler has weed?

My mission to achieve my dream Scandi-French-rustic home – one table at a time.

“Are you going to paint everything in the house white?” my five-year old asked.

“It’s not white, darling, it’s Winter Grey. But yes, my love – yes I am!” came my merry reply.

No longer for me the dark wood of our past: I want to breathe life and light into our home by lifting all the colours to 50 shades of whitey-grey and grey-y white. I am not alone, judging by the hundreds of such hues offered by the major paint brands.

This season’s “Hunting Lodge” trend ties in with this look: clean lines, pale washed wood, offset with cosy faux fur cushions and plaid throws.

White reflects the season too – while the rich colours of autumn are still on the trees and whirling in the air now, the colder mornings hold the hint of winter just around the corner. As trees lose their foliage, I am looking forward to adorning my reclaimed console with bare twigs.

And of course, there’s Christmas! Snowflakes, mistletoe berries, Father Christmas’s beard. White is the perfect backdrop to the bright colours and twinkling fairy lights of my favourite time of year.

So, I’ve been eyeing this console table of mine for a long time. I’ve had it for over ten years but I have never liked it. I bought it as a desk when my rented room in London was the size of a table and I needed something super-slimline. It has moved house with me countless times and has always been useful in terms of being a display space, but it has never grown on me.

Now we are in our forever home, I wanted to paint the thing, and who better to help than my able assistant, my toddler? Purists may question why I’d let a child anywhere near a paint job, but to be honest, most of the stuff I buy is distressed, causing my husband to roll his eyes and comment, “You could have done that yourself.” Also, I was willing to take the risk as the table was cheap to start with and has been battered to bits over the years anyway.

I’d bought a couple of tester pots and tried out the Winter Grey and the Antique White. I thought I preferred the latter, but in the light of the hall, where the console would go, the Grey looked better.

I have to confess, we did no prep at all, apart from putting newspaper down. The surface of the table was smooth shiny pretend mahogany finish, so the paint went on easily. We just slapped it on, and only as the pot started to run out did the brushstrokes start to show. But I managed to eke it out so we covered all the visible parts.

I say we – after a couple of brush’s worth, my toddler got bored of the whole affair and trundled off to play with his brothers. This is the beauty of toddlers, I find – they lose interest pretty quickly, so I always find it’s worth letting him “help” with whatever I’m doing, if he’s going to have a tantrum otherwise.

So here it is! My old console made lovable by a £5 pot of paint. What do you think?

It’s great that my kids love me. But I want them to like me too! Is that too much to ask?

My six-year old sharpened his pencil onto the seat and floor of the car on the way to school today. Both ends. I couldn’t quite believe it. He didn’t mean any harm, but is that something you do to someone you like? It’s just one more indication that as my kids get older, they seem to like me less.

But that’s just the kind of thing kids do, you might say – it’s benign and unintentional thoughtlessness. It’s nothing to do with whether they like you or not.

Like is a loaded word, anyway. To an adult, it means things like respect (not littering your friend’s car), interest in and compassion for the other person, enjoyment of their company, willingness to go above and beyond to make their lives better.

To a child it means they think you’re cool.

I used to be cool. On good days I think I do still have a residue of cool. But my kids will never think I’m cool. Even if I let them use daddy’s sound system and have a cushion disco with their mates (where they dance wildly either jumping from cushion to cushion, barging each other with them or throwing them at the light fittings). When such occasions happen, when I’m dancing along to Uptown Funk and my eight-year-old is kind of mirroring my moves, I think, “Yeah! They like me!”

Then I see the clock and say, “Teatime!”

My coolness evaporates like the IPad dying.

It’s not just my older two that I suspect of not liking me. Although it’s true that with age, children get more critical of everything, with parents first in the firing line, I’m not sure they ever liked me even as toddlers. My three-year-old “likes” me best when he is sitting on the sofa watching back-to-back Paw Patrol and being brought a continuous stream of snacks, while I remain silently in the background ready to pander to his every wish.

But perhaps “like” is an irrelevant emotion between child and parent (but not vice versa; I really really like my children most of the time)? Or if not irrelevant, an inaccurate term for the complex feelings children have towards their up-bringers?

Because, in the most basic sense, that’s what we are – the people bringing them up. We’re not their mates. We care for them more than anyone in the world, we have their best interest at heart and we’d rip out our hearts for their sake. But is that something that makes you “like” someone?

That’s not to say that I don’t fully anticipate and dream of the day when we do become friends. From my late 20s I’ve viewed my mum as more of a friend than a parent, and this seems to be true of many people.

I won’t stop trying to make them like me, ever.  But until then, I’m playing the long game. I’ve got a new tactic, in fact – make their friends like me, and then they might see that I am worth liking. I’ve upped the playdates in an attempt to showcase my coolness to key influencers in their life, throwing out Tangfastics and fart jokes as if I’m like that all the time, in the hope that the next day at school, my target will say to my son, “Hey, your mum is so cool,” or “I wish my mum was like yours.”

It’s a risky game, as the mothers of said peers are unlikely to approve of my behaviour, but I’m willing to risk their censure if their kid can convince mine to like me.

Am I trying too hard?

I’ve no doubt that my boys love me – they often proclaim, “I love you bum bum”, “I love you poo monster”, “Cuddle!” and ” I love you to infinity infinity poofinity and back.”

They hug me when I’m having a little cry, they kiss me better if I hurt myself, they curl their little hands in mine, they won’t wee on anyone else – they definitely love me.

I’ll gladly wait 20 years or as long as it takes for them to like me. Because right now, their love is all I need.

1. Thou shalt not kill. Even at 3am when the baby’s crying and your partner says “your turn”. Even when your spouse suggests, “we should get him into a routine”. Even if s/he’s back 7 minutes late from work when you’re hanging by a thread.
2. Tit-for-tat shalt form the basis of your relationship. You changed the last smelly nappy – now it’s your beloved’s turn. You had your hair done? He gets an afternoon of golf. He had total lie-in time of 56 minutes last weekend? You get it now.
3. Thou shalt constantly debate: “who’s more tired?”. All conversations lead to this. At first you will argue about it. Then you will be too tired to argue about it. You will just make “I’m so tired” comments every few hours, lest it be forgot. Occasionally these will cumulate and flare up into an “I’m more tired” argument. Then the cycle will begin again.
4. Honour thy father and mother. You need them to babysit.
5. Thou shalt not sneak naps. Nothing is more riling than finding your spouse passed out on the sofa / your child’s bed / the loo. The day you find your husband’s sleeping form touching will be the day of his final repose.
6. Thou shalt not commit adultery. Because you are too tired.
7. Thou shalt not covet each other’s life. The grass is always greener on the other side of the marital bed. Whether you both work or one of you stays at home, your partner’s life will always seem more cushy. See Commandment 3.
8. Thou shalt question each other’s parenting styles. He had a bottle from birth and he’s fine; you want to persevere with the breast. You think raisins are too sugary; he introduces them to Tangfastics. He thinks computer games are fine for four-year-olds; you think they’re the devil’s work.
9. Thou shalt play hot potato with your child. “Go and ask daddy.” “Mummy will do it.” “Daddy’s going to get up now…”
10. Thou shalt value each other more each day. You’re all you’ve got.

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It’s best to let rip, because kids pick up on suppressed rage (unlike my husband).

I read this brilliant article today in the supermarket queue, that basically said it’s OK to row – even swear (lightly) – in front of your kids. I was happy to leave it at that and start making up for lost time right away, but since they’re at school, I read the whole piece. The key is that through witnessing “healthy conflict” between their parents, your children learn that a) it is OK to express annoyance or anger when something negative happens and b) that (and how) resolutions can be reached.

‘Hurrah’, thought I. All these years I’ve been holding back, suppressing and suppressing to the point of heartburn, and here I have permission from scientists to have a right old go, even when the kids are around – indeed, especially when the kids are around!

Point a) I am all over you! And with the weekend coming up, I am excited for all the learning opportunities for the children as I tackle Point b). I can think of three rows just off the top of my head that I know will have the little darlings’ emotional intelligence romping off the scale, and that’s not even counting any roving or spontaneous blow-ups that may arise.

So, for the suppressed like me, here are three easy rows to have this weekend – for the sake of the kids.

1. The ‘Driving Somewhere’ Row

Whatever you’re up to this weekend, chances are that at some point, all of you will be in the car at the same time. May the distance be short or long, there will be a niggle: driving ability / choice of route / “why can’t we stop for a Starbucks? / “I thought you were going to put it in!” / “why the hell are we going anyway?”. Don’t turn up the radio to drown out your hisses of dissent – turn it off and let the back seat hear the lot. Then calmly acknowledge that it is the situation, not your partner’s undying stupidity, that is at fault, and say sorry. Nicely. And buy mummy a Starbucks.

What the kids will learn: the olds always row in the car. But they will get a Happy Meal / giant golden coin out of it.

2. The ‘Saturday Afternoon’ Row

Saturday afternoon dawns after a morning of football, homework, gymnastics, parties etc, and we revert to our pre-kids type. I want to be mooching around the shops – I’m hardwired to spend Saturday looking for a new going out top; my husband wants to watch sport. We both desire to be drinking by 5pm. We just have three problems: our children. And the fact their homework is still not done, two of them have parties on opposite sides of the county and that IKEA wardrobe is not going to build itself. All you can do here is make peace over the mutual mourning of Saturdays past and celebrate all they are now.

What the kids will learn: They have at least an hour of unsupervised TV-watching, sofa cushion den-making and / or carpet-colouring while I glare at daddy’s back in front of Sky Sports, and he chunters as I get lost on ASOS. And that we make the reluctant adjustment to ‘Saturdays Present’ in the end.

3. The Sunday Lie-In Row

The king of all rows. Of course, the kids only hear one side of it – the loser’s. Who is downstairs slamming cereal bowls around while the victor snoozes on, hopefully choking on his own smugness.

What the kids will learn: Not to wake their parents up at 5.45am on a Sunday.

Of course, there’s one easy way to vent in front of your kids with them being none the wiser – by the medium of What’sApp. There’s nothing about healthy conflict and resolution that an emoji cannot cover. So, though I plan to have constructive rows in front of the children starting as soon as my husband’s home, I know I can always resort to ‘red angry face’ and – most cutting of all – not signing off a message with an “x”.

Lent is about giving up something important. If you cut me in half you’d see that I am 97% chocolate, so chocolate is what I normally give up. It is awful hard. But this year I have a new option. A new thing that would be very hard to relinquish. Blogging. Could you do it?

My Blog Is My Baby

I’ve noticed that many bloggers take breaks from their blog, particularly over the summer, and it makes sense to take a holiday from what is effectively a full-time job. Like parenting. And, well, full-time jobs. All somehow run concurrently. Surely sometimes, something has to give? On the other hand, my blog is six months old this week. We’ve come through the clueless early days, the long nights, the anxiety and the teething troubles, and we’ve just got to the stage where, like six-month old babies, it’s starting to get a bit more interesting, to give something back. A smile here, a gurgle there. Am I ready to give it up just as it learns to sit up by itself?

Pros to Giving Up Blogging For Lent

• I’d get my life back.
• My husband would get a word out of me in the evenings.
• I wouldn’t bore my friends and family with it.
• I’d get more sleep.
• I could live through a moment without thinking about how to blog it.

Cons

• I’d lose the connection with the special thing that I created.
• I’d lose my community. The parent blogging world is a bit like an NCT group, which really starts to come into its own after a few months of co-experiencing the joys and travails of a newborn, offering fun and support. But only if you stay in touch.
• I’d miss the warm feeling I get when someone responds to a post. When someone smiles at my baby.

Sorry, Cadbury’s, it’s Chocolate That’s Getting the Chop

Is this a case of “new mum syndrome”? Or would you find a 40-day blog-fast hard too? Maybe this time next year, I will feel like I can relinquish my toddler blog. But this Lent, it’s Freddo that has to go.

Note: I wrote this two years ago (in 2014) and have since managed to take the summers off the blog, which is very restful. But it’s still a wrench! I’m delighted to have been nominated for the MAD Blog Awards in Best New Blog, Most Entertaining, Best Writer and (by blood relatives) Blog of the Year – but every nomination counts, so please consider voting for me too!

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There’s nothing more unwelcome than an early guest. This is abundantly more true when you have kids. Being a parent sees you socialising much more in the home – and however much you may try to avoid it, you will inevitably have to host. But as any parent knows, there’s nothing you can do that can’t be undone by a small child (to paraphrase The Beatles) – you can tidy all you like, but they will mess it up again in seconds. You will have no choice but to guest-proof your house in the last five minutes. Here’s how: 1) Park the kids. TV, IPad, playpen, whatever it takes, people! 2) Create a smoke screen. If you do this part right, you can skip most of the following steps. The important thing is to create a first impression. An illusion. A front. Basically, you need to distract your guests with booze. Tea and biscuits if you must. Whichever – you need to do a cursory wipe of the table (sweeping all the clutter into your hell drawer to despair over later), slap a plate of biscuits or chips’n’dips on it, get that kettle steaming or that cork popping. Keep them talking in the kitchen and buy yourself time to perform any steps you missed when you “pop to the loo”. 3) Double up on your deodorant. These will be a very sweaty five minutes. Check your face. What is your level of undeadness? I’d rather be caught with a full nappy bag on the sitting room floor than without mascara. Check for dirty nappies – the above notwithstanding, this is pretty much a bare minimum, especially if your guests are non-parents, or have older children and may have forgotten how it is possible to change a nappy and be so distracted immediately afterwards by kiddy madness that you can forget to put the bag in the bin. Hide your Calpol caches – no visiting parent is going to want to see evidence of a recent (possibly current?) temperature. A non-parent will just think it’s odd to have baby medicine in every possible location in the house, like geocaches. Hide the nit shampoo – precautionary or not, the suspicion will be planted in their – now incredibly itchy – head. Hoover the main thoroughfare. Even if you hoovered only that morning, the kids will have helped themselves to biscuits and done a Hansel and Gretel on the entire living area. Scuff up the hoover marks with your feet so it isn’t so obvious that you only did the main walkways. Hide all washing up – if necessary mix clean and dirty in the dishwasher. Curse your family for their inconvenient need for breakfast. Sweep all toys with a brush into an impromptu den made of a towel flung over a laundry airer. “Oh, yes, they’re so sweet, they love to create their little worlds in their den.” Hold hands over children’s surprised mouths. Force all clothes into laundry baskets. If they are full, drawers will do. If they are full, dress your children in them. “What do you mean, you’re too hot, darling?” Seal up the Room of Doom. For the rest of your rooms to be tidy, one must pay the price. Whether a whole room or a cupboard is the receptacle for all your desperate junk from the rest of the house, paint its door shut, barricade it or create some kind of “lady in the attic” fear about it. No one must open that door. Ever. Check loo. Change towel, wipe kids’ toothpaste spit off sink, pick up randomly abandoned child’s pants. Squirt some cleaner down the loo and scrub if required, thinking dark thoughts about people that never clean the loo but are the main cause of the need arising. Issue a lockdown on everyone’s bladders and bowels. At the appointed time of arrival  Flick TV off (“My kids? TV?”), shove hoover behind door, pop cork and secretly hope they’ll be late. And you know what’s even better than a late guest? An absent guest.* Then you can enjoy the temporary calm of your superficially tidy house without the strain of maintaining the pretence. You get the credit without the clearing up afterwards. And next time, it’ll be their turn to host. *Not every time, obvs! Pop me in for a BIB award and you’re welcome at mine any time!

Updated for BritMums 2015 – another year, another wardrobe dilemma!

(See bottom of post.)

I’m going to BritMums Live – yay! I have nothing to wear – agh! Reader, please advise – what does one wear to BritMums Live?

A New Event = Attire Anxiety

A new event in my calendar is a source of supreme excitement – and a great excuse for a new outfit. And in the case of BritMums Live, two outfits! One for the BIBs and another for the Saturday blogfest. I know I have time, but I’m in a bit of a sartorial fuzz.  I’ve never been before, I’ve got no points of reference and I don’t want to look like a nob.

What Do Other Mummy Bloggers Wear? Children, it seems.

I’ve been peering at all of your profile pictures and I can conclude that what most parent bloggers wear is: children. At least one, artfully draped round the neck, possibly with one or two more in flattering shades. Easy – I have three of those. But, wait! They are not coming (*dances round the room*). Obviously, I exclude from the children-wearers the fab bloggers who post on fashion and style. But which of their dazzling and multitudinous outfits are most suitable for BritMums Live? Are we talking kid’s 4^th birthday party, best friend’s 40^th, or mother’s 60^th?

Caught Between a Tart and a Frump

Being in the hinterland between my 30s and 40s, I feel like I should dress responsibly even if I don’t drink responsibly (are you kidding? I’m away from home!). I’m assuming it is “jeans for the day, dress for the eve”? Sounds so simple – but what a huge, glorious spectrum that opens up. I don’t want to be the one who sets groups whispering, “Who’s the poledancer?”, or, indeed, “Is she thirtysomething or NINETYsomething?” I’m caught between a tart and a frump.

Wear What’s In Your Wardrobe? Erm…

These are the occasions I have outfits for:

• the school run
• weddings (as long as none of the same people are there)
• parents’ evenings / nativities / hypothetical interviews (all the same dress)

What about when you go out? I hear you cry. Well, the time I went out in 2013 I took my profile pic, in which you will see I am mostly wearing lightbulbs.

 Unfortunately, they are still affixed to the pub’s ceiling, so I won’t be able to sport those. Neither can I wear that top, as a) you’ve all seen it now and b) I lost the “bung a handwash only item in the machine” gamble.

While I’m still interested in fashion and looking nice, I don’t really buy much stuff. There seems little point as for 10 months of the year all anyone outside the home sees is my coat.  I do love my cosy, semi-trendy parka, but by June I will be ready to throw it in the bin. And inside the home all they see is my dressing gown.

As you can see, I’m in a bit of a plumage pickle. So, please be forthcoming with your suggestions and your own outfit plans. And if you have a mo, please take my quick quiz on practical matters.

Top Outfit Considerations: A Quiz  1. Is BritMums Live hot, cold or ambient? If I come accessorized with fashion scarf and some sort of (as yet un-bought) jacket, will I be carrying them round all day as I sweat in the balmy atmosphere of that much bloggy love? 2. What is the average mileage? Or, what is the ideal heel height (daddy bloggers, I’m particularly looking for your input here)? 3. Will I be given loads of stuff? I don’t mean freebies (much!), I mean info packs, business cards etc. That is to say: what size bag will I need? 4. Density of gin taps and snack stations – again, a bag/flask-size related question. 5. Is there any danger of loo roll running out? The bag thing again. 6. Will it be raining?  Just joking.

It Doesn’t Matter What You Wear, Just As Long As You Are There*

I have, of course, Googled this issue and was reassured to find that similar sartorial dilemmas befell leading mummy bloggers last year (for example, Marianne at Mari’s World and Annie at mammasaurus), and that it seems a nice dress is the order of the day, which is just fine with me.  Also a cracking pair of shoes, as advised by Kelly at Domestic Goddesque. There was also a key bit of intel from The Boy and Me, which I kind of suspected and hoped would be the case:

“No-one cares what anyone wears anyway.”

Great! Can’t wait to see you all there! I’ll be the one in my dressing gown.

*Name that tune and show your age!

2015 Update

Having attended BritMums Live now, I can honestly say that – it really doesn’t matter what you wear! There is a huge range, from flowery frocks to jeans and jumpers. No one cares – they will be scanning your face to try and recognise you from your blog photo or peering at your chest to read your name badge!

Personally, I found the temperature to be very pleasant, not too hot and not too cold, like baby bear’s porridge.

The loo roll didn’t run out but take tissues as some of the speeches are devastatingly moving – and some will make you cry with laughter.

You will be given loads of stuff, yep. It’s awesome!

I walked round a LOT! I’d pop a pair of comfy shoes in your bag if you are wearing heels.

What am I wearing?

Bright pink! Of course.

Looking forward to seeing you there!

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