tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55740606981720433432011-07-08T13:14:06.635+02:00Wife, mother of four small children, owner of two dogs and array of feathery friends lives on farm in rural Dorset. This blog publishes her weekly column and aims to make other fellow parents and grandparents smile and perhaps even laugh a little.The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comBlogger1261100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-5837537346410266912010-05-29T10:52:00.000+02:002010-05-29T10:54:25.097+02:00

The four-year-old leaps onto our bed at 6am fully dressed in shorts, T-shirt, flip-flops and sunglasses. “Can we get the paddling pool out today?” he shrieks. My husband and I let out a simultaneous groan.The kids won't let it go and finally my husband drags himself off to the shed accompanied by three excited squealing children. The Baby squeals too because everyone else is and commando crawls

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-13184223468899106972009-12-23T10:56:00.000+01:002009-12-28T10:57:29.613+01:00

My husband is away at his work Christmas party so I settle into a night at home with my baked potato and an episode of Grand Designs. I decide to retire to bed early with a pile of unread magazines. The house is blissfully quiet and as I update myself on the latest celebrity gossip, the stresses and strains of motherhood momentarily drift away. Just as I switch off the light, my daughter appears.

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-42227916100059800172009-12-11T10:54:00.000+01:002009-12-28T10:56:22.416+01:00

This morning Father Christmas sent the children an e-mail. It seems even Santa Claus is now surfing the world wide web and probably Twitters away whilst logging in to check his Facebook page. Via his Portable North Pole console, Father Christmas now has a video link. He sits in his chair in the North Pole and talks to each child. The children were mesmerized as they opened their e-mails to

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-22532527117935185572009-12-04T11:36:00.000+01:002009-12-10T11:37:18.738+01:00

It suddenly occurred to me the other day that I am not a big fan of vegetables. Despite my desperate attempts to maintain a flourishing vegetable patch and my joy at feeding the children our home-grown vegetables I am ashamed to admit that I am more of a frozen pea kind of girl. I religiously encourage my children to eat their five-a-day. I regularly tell them how much faster they will run and

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-21172327614880369292009-11-27T11:32:00.000+01:002009-12-10T11:36:42.731+01:00

It is the school cake sale again and with it comes the usual baking request. I shudder at the thought, given baking is low down on my skill base. I blame it on my school domestic science teacher who sent me packing from her class for a “shameful” white sauce.With the baking deadline looming, I turn my attention to the cake. I pass the three-year-old and the baby into the capable hands of Big

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-67366586518186707892009-11-24T22:10:00.001+01:002009-11-24T22:10:57.538+01:00

“I’ve decided to take a few days off,” says my husband casually. “Perhaps we should spend the day together without the children.” Great idea I think to myself seeing as most of our conversation these days is dominated by sleep deprivation and whose turn it is to take out the rubbish. Thankfully Granny also thinks it is a good idea and nervously agrees to have the children despite it being half

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-75676457185363147842009-11-24T22:08:00.000+01:002009-11-24T22:10:07.065+01:00

The three-year-old comes bounding excitedly out of pre-school. He is clutching Paddington Bear and a small brown suitcase. “We’ve got Paddington for the weekend,” he shrieks. His teacher hands me a book explaining that it is Paddington’s Diary and that each child takes it in turns to have him for a few days. “How lovely,” I remark, thinking to myself, “Help, not more responsibility.”In the

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-44757575469282697812009-10-30T09:39:00.000+01:002009-10-30T09:40:29.303+01:00

Our border terrorist is misbehaving again. She has taken advantage of the fact that her owners are nicely distracted by a baby and pigs and has decided to work her way up the pecking order. Since moving to the new house, she sits at the gate barking at any passersby delighting in her territorial status in the centre of a bustling village. The problem is that in true terrier style, her bark is

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-22121823108559423402009-10-22T11:51:00.000+02:002009-10-22T11:52:35.274+02:00

“Tonight we are having roast chicken with all the trimmings,” I announce to the children. Cheers ring out from the two eldest followed by a loud shriek and subsequent sobbing from the three-year-old. “I don’t like chicken,” he cries. “I only like sausages,” he says. The problem is that his diet is limited to just that – the great British sausage. He is happy to try a variety of different

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-8702430146895325222009-10-22T11:50:00.000+02:002009-10-22T11:51:04.906+02:00

“We can’t live on a farm without pigs,” my husband says in his usual enthusiastic way, having spent weeks reading books on pig rearing. I am a little less enthusiastic about the prospect of yet more mouths to feed and more pens to clear out particularly given he is away much of the time. However, with the sty currently lying dormant and the children pestering me daily I finally submit and agree

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-36054955098304276742009-10-02T13:28:00.001+02:002009-10-02T13:29:15.311+02:00

It is almost five months since The Baby arrived and time to reach into the back of the cupboard for my favourite pair of jeans. It soon becomes obvious that they are not going to slide on easily. I lie on the floor, hold my tummy in and edge the zip up. The three-year-old walks in and stares at me wrestling with the pair of denims on the floor. “What are you doing Mummy? Have you got a tummy

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-45085199859646977522009-09-24T22:42:00.001+02:002009-09-24T22:42:00.147+02:00

“Are we going to be late?” says my daughter as I run back into the house turning off the alarm for the third time to collect the water bottles from the fridge. I glance at my watch. 8.34am – four minutes behind my rigid schedule which could mean parking at least another four cars away from the school gates. Back in the car with four children belted into an assortment of car seats I run through

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-56353121482837713582009-09-14T11:25:00.002+02:002009-09-18T22:38:46.271+02:00

Now we are six. Two deranged parents, a seven – going on seventeen – year old daughter, two testosterone fuelled boys aged six and three and our new four-month old Baby Boy. I also have to mention the Border Terrorist and the ‘Oh so Biddable’ Black Labrador. And just to keep us busy, we have now inherited Bertie the Cockerel and his harem of hens, Hilda, Helen, Hilary and Harriet. There are

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-69115788687701626702009-07-21T20:43:00.002+02:002009-07-21T20:45:59.456+02:00

Thank you to all of you who have kindly asked when Family Ties is returning to the Blackmore Vale. I'm busy compiling material and will begin publishing the column again in September, once school holidays are over and our new baby boy is a little more routined. Until then, happy holidays and stay sane.

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-68832081672892571212009-04-24T13:55:00.000+02:002009-04-24T13:56:07.382+02:00

In two weeks time, our baby will hopefully be ripe and ready to meet us all. In a week’s time as is tradition for anyone expecting a baby we are squeezing in a house move. I am currently living surrounded by packing boxes and bubble wrap. Given the state of my hormones, I have also launched myself into a massive ‘clear-out’, sorting and ordering every drawer I come across. I am determined to

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-4815781070030608862009-04-24T13:53:00.001+02:002009-04-24T13:55:14.139+02:00

It began with spinach, rapidly moved on to sushi followed by fresh stir fries. Then it was lashings of milky puddings, preferably from a tin and finally it is large helpings of ice cream. According to the experts, I am just one of the 85% of pregnant women who experience at least one food craving during pregnancy, which is said to be caused by changes in hormonal levels.A couple of weeks ago,

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-20400809357814442722009-04-13T20:12:00.000+02:002009-04-13T20:13:38.230+02:00

The Toddler and I have been enjoying some quality time together recently. However, I have suddenly noticed that he has departed ‘toddler-hood’ for good. He no longer toddles, willingly accompanies me on my daily chores or sits quietly ‘brrrrming’ his cars around the playroom.He has now evolved into an independent, confident, testosterone-fuelled little boy. I can no longer rely on him for

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-43664509517191702612009-04-03T11:53:00.000+02:002009-04-03T11:54:21.444+02:00

My husband drags the pram out from the back of the garden shed. We both gaze at the seat padding that has been enjoyed by some resident rats. “Once I’ve given it a good wash, it’ll be as good as new,” my husband says optimistically. However, I think we both know that despite expecting our fourth baby, it really does deserve a little better transport than this.My mother and me arrange a day

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-37025736697716658322009-04-03T11:51:00.001+02:002009-04-03T11:53:01.104+02:00

I don’t take my dogs for a walk anymore. They take me for a walk. During recent months, the black Labrador puppy has developed into a large, gregarious teen displaying some obvious symptoms of canine ADHD. She has gradually picked up strength and has become utterly fed up with her now rather plumper owner who resembles a plodding packhorse across the fields. Canine obedience in our household

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-23197410670381547012009-03-19T18:10:00.001+01:002009-03-19T18:10:00.603+01:00

It is 8.30pm and I am already asking my husband if it is too early to go to bed. With seven weeks to go until D-day, the pregnancy exhaustion is really beginning to kick in. I haul myself into bed and begin reading my book. And then it starts. The tears begin rolling down my cheeks fast and furiously, until my husband rushes in at the sound of loud sobbing coming from the bedroom. “What on

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-28791886680007723452009-03-15T20:08:00.000+01:002009-03-15T20:10:02.903+01:00

“Are these Fairtrade?” asks my five-year-old son pointing at the plate of chocolate digestives I have just placed on the table for tea? “Well, not really,” I reply rather sheepishly catching sight of the McVities labelling. “I’m not sure we can eat them then. It’s just not ethical,” adds my seven going on seventeen-year-old. She gets down from the table, opens her school book bag and thrusts a

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-80502259232457406912009-03-05T12:12:00.002+01:002009-03-05T12:12:00.599+01:00

After a 16-hour flight, including a stop over and two taxi rides, we pulled into our village in Dorset a little shell shocked but thrilled to be home after our trip to Cambodia. The children scampered around the house in excitement and instantly threw themselves back into toys they had not set their eyes on for a few weeks. My husband and I began the mammoth task of unpacking wondering how we

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-25482099179913240232009-02-13T15:13:00.000+01:002009-02-13T15:13:00.595+01:00

“Why doesn’t it ever snow in Dorset?” said my daughter a few weeks ago. Little did she or I know that just round the corner was heavy snowfall preparing to cover the Dorset countryside. Despite being warned by the cheery BBC Weather lady that snow would hit the West, I had visions of a bit of sleet and a couple of days with the thermostat turned up. I was shocked when I drew back the curtains

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-61659168079111494422009-02-06T07:26:00.000+01:002009-02-06T07:26:00.449+01:00

The birthday bonanza is once again over for another year. Last week, we celebrated my daughter’s seventh and The Toddler’s third birthday. I wondered why on earth I didn’t do everything possible in the labour ward on January 21st 2006 to stop The Toddler from arriving to share his sister’s birthday. I should have pleaded with the midwives, got down on my knees and begged them to give me large

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-12889583113089237762009-01-30T07:28:00.000+01:002009-01-30T07:28:00.986+01:00

This weekend, we moved one step closer to clawing-back our adulthood. We took the three children to the cinema. There are moments in a child’s upbringing where you have cause to celebrate, such as when they grow out of nappies, when everyone can last at the table for Sunday lunch without getting down, or when every child can climb into the car on their own in under a minute. Such break-throughs

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-20074711981359016252009-01-23T18:38:00.000+01:002009-01-23T18:38:00.648+01:00

A rather official looking letter landed on the doormat. It was from Dorset Police telling me I had been captured on camera in Poole, marginally exceeding the speed limit. They must have got the wrong car or even worse perhaps someone had been joy riding my car, I thought. Then I remembered driving through Poole on my way to Bournemouth a few weeks ago. I had three children in the back, we

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-77631010940609836982009-01-17T18:37:00.000+01:002009-01-18T18:37:56.093+01:00

With the children safely back at school, the house seems eerily quiet. I feel a bit like a spare part, aimlessly wandering round surveying rooms and wondering where to begin with the post holiday clear up. First I must attend to the felt tip scribbles on the landing that mysteriously appeared one morning, much to the bewilderment of the children and one very red-faced toddler. I must also rub

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-12582319139376194822009-01-10T18:35:00.000+01:002009-01-18T18:36:51.762+01:00

We set off merrily from our cottage across the fields all suited and booted to avoid any small hands turning blue with cold. My husband cried out from the window, “Are you sure you’ll be able to cope on your own?” I glanced at the three children scampering after the two dogs and nodded confidently. “We’ll be absolutely fine. See you later,” I cried cheerily.At this point, I must tell you that

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-88162867166696931132009-01-02T07:00:00.000+01:002009-01-02T07:00:00.532+01:00

A couple of months ago, we broke some news to the children. We told them we were expecting a baby and it would be arriving in May. Our six-year-old daughter jumped up and down with excitement totally thrilled. “I thought you looked fatter,” she cried. The Toddler shared her glee, not quite sure why he was cheering but enjoying the moment anyway. Our five-year-old son reacted as if I had just

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-27036668399224140762008-12-19T11:12:00.000+01:002008-12-30T11:25:08.813+01:00

This year, the children have shown much interest in the Nativity story. This has largely been helped by school plays and our son’s role as one of the three kings. We have also had the Travelling Holy Family visit us, which has caused much discussion. This a group of nativity figures, knitted by our village Mother’s Union, who travel around different families in the village in the weeks leading

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-78325802914617426512008-12-12T11:19:00.000+01:002008-12-30T11:20:52.508+01:00

Since November, there has been a noticeable thud of post landing on the doormat. The Toddler makes a mad dash to collect it and struggles to carry it to me. Unfortunately this is not because we have been inundated with lovely brown parcels tied in string, or the rare site of a hand written envelope. Instead we have received piles of catalogues. No doubt we have the Internet to blame and the

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-22881230766663236112008-12-08T13:47:00.002+01:002008-12-08T13:55:59.781+01:00

It is that time of year again. The requests come thick and fast in the book bag ahead of the school event of the year – the Christmas Play. Brown tights, reindeer antlers (“no bells”) or Father Christmas hats must all be in school within the week. A trip to Woolworths beckons – what will we do without them. Parents up and down the country are making a mad dash around the shops competing over

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-27210688605372732252008-12-01T12:40:00.001+01:002008-12-01T12:41:44.482+01:00

The taxi pulled away and we all stood waving, huddled together in the pouring rain. My daughter sobbed, “We’re going to miss him so much.” My husband was off on business although admittedly only for one week. Nothing like my sister-in-law who recently waved off her husband ahead of a six-month posting to Afghanistan. We all went back inside and I cheerily called for a round of hot chocolate

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-80298147420825170592008-11-21T14:15:00.002+01:002008-11-21T14:17:01.999+01:00

“I challenge you to build that bed in two hours,” says my husband. The huge flat packed box is laid out before me, complete with numerous pieces of wood, small packets of screws and a very brief instruction leaflet. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult. After all, it was only a Toddler bed.My husband promptly declared himself out of the whole exercise and said he was of much better use

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-49327473870499209622008-11-14T13:50:00.003+01:002008-11-14T13:53:52.514+01:00

“I’ve got something important to tell you,” says my six-year-old daughter. She stands there, hands on hips in preparation for her important announcement. “I’ve decided I want to become a Muslim.” There is a silent moment as she fixes her eyes on me waiting for my reaction to her new idea and I rapidly plan my response. “How lovely, darling,” I reply. After a few more moments of silence, I

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-50433812785058916732008-11-07T20:14:00.001+01:002008-11-08T20:19:07.217+01:00

At the weekend, I spoke to a friend who a few months ago moved to a small local village. She seemed a bit down on the phone and not her usual jolly self. Eventually, I asked, “Are you all right?” She replied, “Not really.” She told me she was stressed. She had joined the village Mother and Toddler Group and tomorrow she had been asked to kick off the session by singing the Welcome Song. At

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-572216030128080062008-10-31T20:13:00.000+01:002008-11-08T20:14:52.145+01:00

My house is being gradually destroyed. Not just by three small children with their sticky hands and numerous indoor ball games. The number one culprit is the Labrador puppy, Clover, who at nine months is clearly suffering from a severe bout of teething.Each morning when I come downstairs to prepare breakfast, I examine the latest destruction. Her favourite past time it seems is to gnaw on any

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-39350096278967266092008-10-24T20:13:00.001+02:002008-11-08T20:19:52.526+01:00

We decide to travel in one car to the Christening in Oxford. That includes my husband and I, the three children and Granny and Grandpa. The night before, my husband efficiently prepares the car, re-arranging car seats and hovering up the odd raisin scattered around the car. The next morning, we pile into the car and sit snugly in our designated seats. Grandpa kindly offers to drive, much

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-35121133408618360442008-10-16T11:54:00.000+02:002008-10-16T11:54:01.147+02:00

My husband and I have always secretly longed for one of our children to show an interest in music. Not just listening to the latest Girls Aloud album but tinkering away on the piano to a bit of Mozart.My musical ability as a child was pretty limited. Much to the frustration and now amusement of my father, I showed much interest in musical instruments but had an inability to stick to one for

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-79753974071511443802008-10-10T12:14:00.002+02:002008-10-10T20:24:58.293+02:00

A few weeks ago, while the boys were machine-gunning during tea, the Labrador puppy was busy chewing my husband’s slipper and the border terrorist had once more taken herself for a walk across the fields, my six-year-old daughter asked me a question. “Can I have a sleepover this weekend?” “Absolutely not,” came my reply as I desperately rummaged in the freezer for something to give my husband

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-72825711902770986422008-10-03T01:27:00.001+02:002008-10-03T10:33:27.758+02:00

My husband has had a cough since we returned from our wet camping holiday. He spent two weeks off work ill in bed, coughing and spluttering like a heavy chain smoker. This led to chest pains that I put down to his stomach muscles taking a pounding from incessant coughing. Apart from the odd bout of Man Flu, he is rarely ill so we agreed that it was time to make the bi-annual trip to the Doctor

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-12358900786387054232008-09-25T20:00:00.001+02:002008-09-26T18:36:16.974+02:00

Last week, the tumble dryer broke down. You might think that is no big deal, but then suddenly this week, the washing machine decided to join it too. Given I spend much of my day bent double loading and unloading piles of laundry, these two events threw the household into an instant state of emergency.Discovering the washing machine had broken caused a great deal of excitement amongst the

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-29366400338342227832008-09-19T01:00:00.001+02:002008-09-22T12:50:12.210+02:00

The Toddler has left home. Well, that is what it feels like to me. He has started his first few mornings at our village pre-school and has officially entered into the world of planting, painting and play dough.I had spent the last few days of the holidays preparing him and myself for his departure. He was fairly oblivious about where he was going and simply assumed he was to put on a school

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-30812326334412668482008-09-12T07:00:00.002+02:002008-09-26T18:42:16.735+02:00

“What do you want for your birthday?” asked my husband. For a moment I thought about telling him what I really wanted. How I would long for a day off cooking, cleaning, washing, bathing children and being asked questions. I would love a day when I did not have to think about anything and could lie in a hot, oily bath reading a magazine in peace. However, I then reminded myself that this would

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-70925615007394734412008-09-05T20:49:00.001+02:002008-09-06T21:25:02.846+02:00

After several phone calls to our tour operator, we had been squeezed on board the hovercraft and were heading back to ‘Blighty’ having cut our camping holiday short. I felt like whipping out the Union Jack flags and waving them vigorously from the deck as we pulled out of Calais. After ten days away in a caravan, regular downpours and far too many sausages on the barbecue, I’m excited to be

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-90698865214350661982008-08-22T04:00:00.000+02:002008-08-22T10:50:49.114+02:00

The brochure read, “Set amid the forest that adorns the coast, is a delightful, well-run family campsite with excellent facilities. Relaxing is easy here; most of our ‘emplacements’ are surrounded by hedges, offering privacy and shade from the hot sun.” We arrive in the pouring rain to be greeted by a very large yellow sunshine sign saying, “Welcome”. As we check in, the French receptionist is

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-79934267211159323702008-08-20T20:39:00.000+02:002008-08-21T20:55:14.019+02:00

After a six-hour drive through France, which according to the instructions was supposed to take four, we arrived at our campsite.  Tempers were frayed to say the least.  My map and sign reading had taken us back and forth around "peripheriques", "toute droite", "la gauche" and everywhere else that avoided our final destination.  Now I was beginning to understand why we seemed to spend lesson

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-67786722162477856082008-08-08T21:48:00.000+02:002008-08-21T21:49:26.716+02:00

Much to her delight, my six-year-old daughter’s tooth has just come out. It is one of the large front teeth so she has been left with a broad ‘gappy’ smile and a distinctive lisp. Thankfully, we were spared too much wobbling and only endured a day where the tooth in question hung on a single thread being pushed backwards and forwards, much to the delight of her two younger brothers. After a

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-39425061350065303752008-08-01T21:46:00.000+02:002008-08-21T21:47:16.022+02:00

Five portions of fruit and vegetables a day, is what the Department of Health is constantly reminding us to eat. Like most mothers I want my three twittering starlings to stay fit, healthy and energised so I spend time loitering in local farm shops or in the grocery aisles of supermarkets feeling and sniffing my way amongst the mounds of broccoli. However, I sometime wonder if our shining

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-54572025312294110552008-07-25T21:47:00.000+02:002008-08-21T21:48:14.242+02:00

In a few days time we will be driving to France to go camping. The children are beside themselves with excitement and so too is my husband, who has spent the last few years trying to convince me to embark on this fun-loving holiday. My excitement levels are low in comparison, verging more on utter panic at the thought of living in a confined space with a whole host of other merry campers in the

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-84762969193912312762008-07-18T21:45:00.000+02:002008-08-21T21:46:13.146+02:00

One of the wonderful things about small children is their complete and utter honesty. A few days ago, I arrived down for breakfast and caught my daughter looking me up and down. “What’s the matter? Do I look all right?” I asked feeling a little self-conscious. She glanced down at my feet and pointed at my scruffy old pair of Converse and said, “Mummy, I think you should stop wearing those

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-49044439776226160802008-07-11T21:44:00.000+02:002008-08-21T21:45:22.484+02:00

In recent weeks, I expect many children and parents have celebrated or commiserated over their school sports day. In our house, there were two very different attitudes towards the upcoming day. Our six-year-old daughter barely mentioned it and seemed to gloss over any mention of the word ‘sport’. On the contrary, our five-year-old son could barely contain himself in the days leading up to the

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-29563610598082804392008-07-04T21:43:00.000+02:002008-08-21T21:44:27.855+02:00

Watching my four-year-old in the days leading up to his fifth birthday, I realised that nothing else compares to the excitement a small child feels. Every time it was mentioned or he caught a glimpse of wrapping paper his whole face would light up and he would bounce off in the best of moods. Meanwhile, I have been silently panicking. Being temporarily lame after my recent netball injury,

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-3799283928969829012008-06-27T21:42:00.000+02:002008-08-21T21:43:35.176+02:00

The mother is out of action, stuck on the sofa with her sprained foot wrapped in a bandage. It happened while playing a game of netball with some of the other more agile mothers in the village. I leapt into the air to catch the ball and having not played for 20 years suddenly remembered the dreaded static footwork rules and promptly landed awkwardly, collapsing onto the tarmac. From there it

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-3360023295241117572008-06-20T21:40:00.000+02:002008-08-21T21:42:08.478+02:00

My husband scrambles around the boot of the car, trying to put the back seats down in preparation for the bicycles. Meanwhile, I refer to the instruction manual and shout orders from the doorway about which lever to try next. Eventually, they fold down and we begin squeezing the bikes into the boot. Crouched in the back, my husband heaves them in, trying different angles to get the boot to

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-60982900792549871892008-06-13T21:39:00.000+02:002008-08-21T21:40:54.765+02:00

We are sitting having a picnic in Green Park, on a half-term trip to London. My four-year-old son suddenly asks, “Mummy, why are there so many baddies in London?” For a moment, I think he is referring to the national publicity about London’s knife crime and begin to tell him that whilst there are some baddies, there are many more goodies. He pauses for a moment before adding, “But why are the

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-20286185273818732082008-06-06T21:38:00.000+02:002008-08-21T21:39:40.556+02:00

The Toddler is a fairly amiable little chap. Most of the time he is placid, content and happily follows behind his siblings with his grubby rag in his hand.However, the one thing he just can’t abide is The Haircut. A year ago, he happily sat on my lap, having his baby curls snipped for the album. When his new Toddler hair began growing ready for the next cut, he dug his heels in and refused to

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-50846397785926700042008-05-30T21:37:00.000+02:002008-08-21T21:38:27.595+02:00

“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine,” says my mother cheerily on the doorstep. I have just dropped off The Toddler, the border terrorist, the puppy, several overnight bags and the football and tennis kit. I am off to London to spend two whole days and nights away without the children. Needless to say, I have spent the last few days planning my trip and drafting a detailed itinerary. There

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-90429396506449167902008-05-23T21:36:00.000+02:002008-08-21T21:37:19.405+02:00

It seems mothers across the country are making mad dashes to their nearest Waitrose desperate to get hold of a pot of ‘baby bottom butter’. However, it is not for treating their babies’ nappy rash – rather to slap on their own faces as a moisturiser. Someone somewhere, most probably after a sleepless night with a small baby, decided to apply the bottom butter to their face and no doubt after

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-57074295370149366492008-05-09T21:35:00.000+02:002008-08-21T21:36:15.337+02:00

There is nothing nicer than a family Sunday lunch. However, I have realised that Sunday lunch is not quite the same when you are at the helm as the Mother. Last weekend, I spent most of Sunday morning peeling, chopping and basting, regularly checking the clock to ensure I am on the track with the timings – something my mother says is critical for the perfect roast. Needless to say, by midday

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-77468449837967568882008-05-02T21:34:00.000+02:002008-08-21T21:35:13.770+02:00

It is about this time of the year, when I am frequently asked, “What are you doing in the Summer Holidays?” In the middle of April, this question immediately stresses me out. I have just about coped with 17 days of Easter holidays, but the thought of 42 days of Summer holidays fills me with total panic. In fact, put like that, Easter is just a warm up – a rehearsal for the long stretch that

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-24745711412284760042008-04-25T21:33:00.000+02:002008-08-21T21:34:11.327+02:00

Our four-year-old son has been told he must wear glasses. I was surprised and if I am being honest, tried everything I could to try and avoid this, including whispering a few letters at him during the eye test. I know what you are thinking – what kind of mother would cheat to avoid her son wearing glasses? For the simple reason that I have a small boy that can barely sit still for a minute,

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-48080312781430661172008-04-18T21:31:00.000+02:002008-08-21T21:33:09.800+02:00

Last night, I poured myself a glass of wine. You might think this is fairly normal practice, particularly after a long day with three twittering starlings in tow. However, I have been on a booze-free challenge for the past five months.It was not something I planned. It just happened quite by default and once I began my journey on the ‘dry road’, one thing led to another and before I knew it I

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-45690065041320232622008-04-11T21:30:00.000+02:002008-08-21T21:31:43.341+02:00

The Toddler is outraged, furious and in despair. The BBC has scrapped its evening transmission of the children’s programme, In The Night Garden, only showing an episode during the day. He is lost without it. And apparently he is not alone as more than 60 parents have recently signed a petition on the Facebook website calling for it to be reinstated.One of The Toddler’s first words was, “Piggle

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-72296873729746470982008-04-04T21:29:00.000+02:002008-08-21T21:30:15.815+02:00

Over the last six years of parenthood, there have been good days and bad days. The good days occur when generally the following principles apply – the children are cold-free, well-rested, well-fed and well-exercised. However, in reality the bad days rear their head from time to time.Yesterday was indeed one of those days. I should have guessed it was on its way, as there had been a few bad

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-72319683485162332302008-03-28T20:21:00.000+01:002008-08-21T21:29:04.663+02:00

It is 4.15pm on Friday afternoon. We arrive at the childrens’ weekly swimming lesson late as usual. The children are tired after the long school week and the Toddler is furious at the prospect of being a spectator once again. The problem is swimming lessons are like gold dust. Like many others, we have spent months on a waiting list and when the phone rang with an offer of a place, albeit at

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-2860241038805539232008-03-21T20:20:00.000+01:002008-08-21T21:21:35.460+02:00

We are now fully relaxed and recuperated after our two-week holiday. The children are settled back into school and I have finally reached the bottom of the holiday washing basket. One evening, as I was flicking through my favourite sections of the Blackmore Vale, namely Property and Pets, I came across an advertisement for Black Labrador Puppies. Of course, these adverts are not uncommon but

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-11896545481464896462008-03-14T20:19:00.000+01:002008-08-21T21:20:40.480+02:00

We have now enjoyed a week of our holiday in Cambodia on the beach and beside the pool. My brother arrives one morning and says, “I think it would be fun to go up to the jungle for the weekend.” My husband and I look at each other. Had he momentarily forgotten that we have a six, four and two-year-old. He assures me the children will love it and that we have to experience the ‘real’ Cambodia.

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-22278034784480805942008-03-07T21:17:00.000+01:002008-08-21T21:19:15.546+02:00

We are on our way to visit my brother and sister-in-law. The problem is it involves a two hour car journey to Heathrow, a 13 hour overnight flight to Singapore topped off with a 2 hour flight to Phonm Penh in Cambodia. I feel the glare of other passengers as the children run down the corridor to the cabin door of the plane with shrieks of excitement. We take our seats and are greeted by some

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-2425136572110395412008-02-29T21:16:00.000+01:002008-08-21T21:17:53.306+02:00

The brochure‘s description of a “family-friendly hotel on the beach with luxury interconnecting rooms,” sounded perfect. It was just what we needed. My husband had very thoughtfully decided give me a break from the daily ritual of mothehood and had booked two nights away. The children were delighted with Daddy’s thoughtful idea and set about packing their bags including passports, despite the

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-68697400162108007342008-02-22T21:11:00.000+01:002008-08-21T21:12:04.613+02:00

We have just given my daughter a Dolls House for her sixth birthday. Admittedly, it isn’t a beautiful Georgian regency town house but what makes it appealing is that this was the same dolls house given to me by my parents as a child. I distinctly remember when I opened it for the first time and spent hours and hours playing with it. It has sat in my father’s shed for the past 28 years and has

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-17693939452439365342008-02-15T21:14:00.000+01:002008-08-21T21:15:29.131+02:00

Granny has a soft spot for The Toddler. They have a special relationship, most likely due to the amount of time he spends there, whilst his frenetic mother madly dashes about after his older siblings. In the days leading up to my daughter’s birthday party, where eleven little girls would be sticking sequins and butterfly gems to their heart’s content, he was once again booked in for a morning at

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-56311930122716642142008-02-08T21:12:00.000+01:002008-08-21T21:13:30.828+02:00

It is day five of potty training and I am close to relapsing towards a packet of Pampers. Days one and two were novel, a challenge and a touch exciting as I introduced the Toddler to the potty. We began well and I was confident that third time round it would be a breeze and my potty training expertise would come into its own. As is always the way with the whole ghastly, laborious exercise,

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-90309432514573953022008-02-01T21:09:00.000+01:002008-08-21T21:10:56.753+02:00

In my recent article on Man Flu I said how lucky we were to have been spared the norovirus. I spoke too soon. Within hours of clicking ‘Send’ to file my story, my four-year-old son arrived back from school and promptly fell asleep on the sofa. From the moment he woke up, he was hit with the most horrible bug. The virus was unrelentless in its attack and I was confined to disinfecting buckets,

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-74441082848910388202008-01-25T21:07:00.000+01:002008-08-21T21:09:09.470+02:00

“What is a free range chicken?” my six-year-old daughter asked me over breakfast. I was not about to enter into a discussion on the intricacies of chicken rearing. I gave a brief explanation of the chicken’s ability to run merrily around on the grass rather than being shut inside. She quickly related it to dogs or more specifically, our border terrorist, Molly. She likened it to keeping her

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-83412700405458478002008-01-18T21:03:00.000+01:002008-08-21T21:07:38.645+02:00

Thankfully, we have been spared the deadly norovirus that is circulating the British Isles. However, we were inflicted by a rare strain of the most powerful and deadly flu – commonly known as “Man Flu”. My husband has spent ten days roaming around the house in his dressing gown, wearing a woolly hat which he says is essential to keep his head and ears warm. The heating has been pumping around

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-45575234969463755602008-01-11T18:08:00.000+01:002008-09-02T18:09:30.112+02:00

In a few week’s time it will be The Baby’s second birthday. I therefore feel it is now time to promote him to the role of The Toddler in forthcoming Family Ties articles. Like most youngest children in a busy family, the last two years have flown by and it is only now that it has become obvious to us all that he is in fact no longer a baby and scarily his first morning at pre-school is looming.

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-57104064312698677812007-12-20T18:06:00.000+01:002008-09-02T18:08:18.898+02:00

This year, the children have shown much interest in the Nativity story. This has largely been helped by school. Our daughter has played the proud part of an innkeeper in the school play and our son has been very busy ‘sounding out’ the word ‘Bethlehem’. We have also had the Travelling Holy Family visit us, which has caused much discussion. This a group of nativity figures, knitted by our

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-8654818957501345512007-12-14T18:05:00.000+01:002008-09-02T18:06:04.055+02:00

The countdown to Christmas has begun. We are now on day seven of the beloved Advent Calendars and only another 17 exciting mornings to go. This year, I gave in to the childrens’ continuous requests for a chocolate calendar. They could barely contain themselves in the days leading up to the 1st of December. They shrieked with excitement when they came down for breakfast to find their Advent

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-79345589128765115762007-12-07T18:02:00.000+01:002008-09-02T18:05:08.531+02:00

My husband is standing on the back of a chair with his head peering into the loft, whilst I am sitting on it to avoid it tipping. We certainly do not want any broken limbs for Christmas. Typically, the ladder is somewhere buried in the outside shed, so we are resorting to the kitchen chair for assistance. He hauls himself up into the loft opening and rummages around for the box of Christmas

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-8351365227822404322007-12-07T18:00:00.000+01:002008-09-02T18:01:21.953+02:00

This morning, I was awoken by a little voice singing. “Welcome, welcome. This is our Christmas story.” It was my daughter, gaily lying in bed rehearsing her school song for the forthcoming annual Christmas play. This is what my five-year-old looks forward to all year. If you ask her what she likes most about school, she will speedily reply, “the Christmas show,” and she can barely contain

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-10819494744072155662007-11-30T17:59:00.000+01:002008-09-02T18:00:36.932+02:00

It is that time of year again when we get the letter from school inviting us to the a parents’ evening. I spend the weeks leading up to it, reminding my husband of the date and time to make sure he can come along with me. With two days to go, I issue the final reminder. “You have remembered the parents’ evening on Thursday haven’t you?.” He replies, “It isn’t in my diary. You could have

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-26788338101206339622007-11-23T17:58:00.000+01:002008-09-02T17:59:39.806+02:00

A few weeks ago we went to our friend’s 40th birthday party. The theme was Punks and Princesses. I usually dread dressing up parties and make a feeble attempt at wearing the odd themed item. However, my husband loves fancy dress and on one of the first occasions we went out together, I remember him turning up in a gold, leather, Flash Gordon suit. On the odd occasion, he wore ‘Flash’, as it

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-91730554744125121322007-11-16T17:58:00.000+01:002008-09-02T17:58:41.764+02:00

My only experience of trick or treating to date was lying on the floor of our house in London with the lights off and the curtains drawn, whilst teenage boys shouted “Trick or treat. We know you’re in there,” through the letterbox. Last week, after much persuasion, I agreed to embark on a trick or treat crawl to neighbouring houses. I dashed to Woolworths and stocked up on three costumes and

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-40474054083746285462007-11-09T17:57:00.000+01:002008-09-02T17:57:42.916+02:00

In the days before children, I remember going to church one Sunday and sitting behind a young family, with three small children much the same ages as ours. I watched as they wriggled around whilst their parents desperately tried to keep them under control during the service. The poor mother was utterly horrified when she discovered their small son chewing a piece of gum that he had clearly

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-46000588610479424762007-11-02T17:56:00.000+01:002008-09-02T17:56:57.032+02:00

This week, after much pressure from my five-year-old daughter, I feel obliged to dedicate this column to Fluffy. Fluffy is my daughter’s class hamster. Our family has spent much time over the past five weeks talking of little else. We have discussed what she eats, what she likes to play with and how she is feeling each day. As a parent, I have a lot to thank Fluffy for. My daughter has never

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-52572842121819523962007-10-26T17:55:00.000+02:002008-09-02T17:56:07.699+02:00

Our son has recently taken up football. Every Saturday at 6am, he arrives in our bedroom fully dressed in his football kit asking if it is time to leave. We then have to fill the next four hours with football build-up, encouraging him to eat as much cereal as possible and if necessary run a few laps round the garden to limber up. He has joined Tiny Cherries, a locally-run football club in

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-85469314526922852432007-10-12T17:54:00.000+02:002008-09-02T17:55:16.780+02:00

When Waitrose announced their on-line shopping service would now reach our village, I was as elated as my mother was when disposable nappies replaced Terries. I would no longer have to endure the performance of getting The Baby’s rigid legs into the trolley, bribe him through my list, realise it is lunchtime so go to the cafe and sit there for half an hour draining a strong double expresso while

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-66297406088749706612007-10-05T17:53:00.000+02:002008-09-02T17:54:33.812+02:00

Like many people of my generation, I was distinctly rattled to hear that Paddington Bear is now being used to promote Marmite.The makers of Marmite have launched a new advertisement featuring Paddington sitting down to enjoy a Marmite sandwich. Paddington, being so polite, then shares a piece of his sandwich with a pigeon, who goes beserk at the taste causing a passing bus to crash. The

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-38756389870057996602007-09-28T17:52:00.000+02:002008-09-02T17:53:41.272+02:00

As a child, I regularly asked my mother if we could do arts and crafts together. She was never that keen on transforming old loo rolls into fairies with cotton wool heads, covered in gluey glitter and now I know why. My five-year-old daughter adores sitting at the kitchen table, losing herself in crepe paper, coloured sequins, glue and a mass of felt tips. She also regularly asks me to join

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-32780713146293144342007-09-21T17:51:00.000+02:002008-09-02T17:52:22.009+02:00

My five-year-old daughter and I decide to leave the boys to their raucous game of soldiers in the sitting room and head off for a spot of retail therapy. We arrive in a nearby town and walk hand in hand, with no buggy, and a handbag that is distinctly light and free of any ‘no spill’ cups, nappies or soggy wet wipes. Thankfully, she is as keen as I am to wander around the shops and browse

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-68927361446460251172007-09-14T17:50:00.000+02:002008-09-02T17:51:33.450+02:00

The car is bursting at the seams. We look as if we are off on an overland trek lasting several months, not a week’s holiday in Wales. The boot is full of suitcases crammed with clothes for three small children, allowing for numerous daily changes due to regular yoghurt spillages. There is an assortment of buckets and spades and a basket full of emergency rations such as coffee, olive oil and

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-234793900671712052007-09-07T17:49:00.000+02:002008-09-02T17:50:36.961+02:00

Why is it that so many men have this huge desire to go camping? They seem to love the idea of taking their families into the wild, protecting them under a damp sheet of canvas and providing for them with a tin of ravioli warmed up on a gas stove. Personally, I have resisted the whole camping experience for the last year or so on the grounds that camping and nappy changing do not go hand in

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-21965573475671699582007-08-31T17:49:00.000+02:002008-09-02T17:49:52.317+02:00

The sun is shining and there is not a cloud in sight. We decide it is the perfect day for a picnic. My husband says he knows just the spot by the river where the children can paddle and play with their fishing nets. It sounds perfect. We arrive and make our way through the first field, picnic basket in one hand, rug in the other while the children run ahead excitedly with the border terrorist

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-22322499233114167572007-08-24T17:48:00.000+02:002008-09-02T17:49:03.874+02:00

Day two of our summer holiday and we discover a child-friendly beach. It has a huge expanse of white sand, public loos nearby and a fish and chip van (farewell sandwiches!). There is also a nice tanned young man who sets up the deckchairs, parasol and windbreaker we have hired. My husband abandons his Blackberry and settles into his newspaper and I catch up on the latest celebrity news in my

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-8103141671635631782007-08-17T17:47:00.000+02:002008-09-02T17:48:14.229+02:00

It is the first day of our annual summer holiday in the Isle of Wight. The children have one thing on their tiny minds – the beach. The beach bags are packed, preparing for every eventuality. Coats, wellies and jumpers combined with sun tan lotion, swimming costumes and towels. One giant family beach rug and a bland picnic put together whilst shovelling spoonfuls of cereal into three small

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-69167529166089038912007-08-10T17:46:00.000+02:002008-09-02T17:47:30.404+02:00

Much to the delight of the children, we have had ‘Bob the Builder’ living with us, or should I say, alongside us for the past couple of months. The job was expected to last a month or so, but given our current very wet summer, we have had the pleasure of Bob for longer. I had not quite realised how much the combination of rain, builders and large quantities of mud would appeal to small children

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-51733160844556677852007-08-03T17:45:00.000+02:002008-09-02T17:46:41.536+02:00

Our five-year-old daughter has just finished her first year at school. At the end of term, we were presented with her school report. It lay in a brown envelope and as my husband and I opened it, with a large drink in our hands, it brought back memories of opening our exam results.I will spare you the contents. There is nothing worse than parents who bore you to tears with a blow by blow

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-8674943930868159282007-07-27T17:45:00.000+02:002008-09-02T17:45:53.186+02:00

A Virus has worked its way round our household this week. Not an electronic virus, but the raging sore throat, swollen glands and pounding headache. There is nothing worse than when illness takes control of a house full of small children and over-tired parents. In fact, it throws the whole weekly schedule into disarray. The washing baskets overflow, meals decline into basic menus and the

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5574060698172043343.post-37092916709746362212007-07-20T17:44:00.000+02:002008-09-02T17:45:04.814+02:00

It had taken weeks of planning, co-ordinating two busy diaries but finally we had set a date to spend the weekend with friends. We arrive at their house early and the children spend the day bouncing on trampolines, speeding around on bikes and generally creating havoc in their once immaculate playroom. We feel sure they are well exercised and will sleep beautifully. After sausages and baked

The Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05652619499165733855noreply@blogger.com