tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3734944502831649422024-02-20T02:04:31.960+00:00MummySquared...or...the baby blog...or...the whimsical musings of two generations of mummies as they contemplate what it is to be a mum and grandmum in our modern world...or...staying sane against all the odds...or... the blogging alternative to housework.Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-5802851169256505502011-08-30T15:37:00.002+01:002011-08-30T15:47:38.075+01:00The Learning Journey<span class="Apple-style-span" >Just for Foordie, this week we are back to the usual layout - me first, Granny second. Phew! Sorry for any confusion caused...</span><div><u><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></u></div><div><u><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Tuppeny Nudgers and Other Grand Plans...</b></span></u><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >And so it is that I must stop swearing. Yes indeed, Cassie's learning journey (one of my favourite current classroom buzzwords) has come to a place where I can say to her "Go to your room, grab your socks out of the drawer, bring them here and then sit on the chair and I will put them on for you". So it would seem she is taking in what I am saying.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Bugger.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >So with all the sponge like soaking up of motherly wisdom I realise that now is the moment to stop effing and blinding. It turns out that the rather over used word that means 'making the beast with two backs' is neither funny or cute when it is your child's first word. It has taken me until now to appreciate this.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Last week we trialled the substitute 'Tuppeny Nudger' (they're a band apparently?!) but that is a bit of a mouthful. And not a very tasty one at that. And it is quite hard to verbify.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >So I thought I might revert to my 7 year old self, a sweet naive and innocent thing (no really, I was) who invented the word Ponks. It works well in many forms - ponking, ponker, ponkworthy, ponkatrons, and just good old fashioned ponkheads. It works when you are driving, or talking to your boss (mine, luckily is not a ponkhead, just for the record)d, it works in front of Granny (although Cassies' luckily could teach a trooper a thing or two about swearing) and it even works at school.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >So hurrah for ponks and ponkers everywhere. If this week you are hammering and happen to catch your thumb, think of me and mutter quietly "ponks, ponks, ponking ponks".</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div><b><u><span class="Apple-style-span" >Inside the Mind</span></u></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">Years ago I was invited to coffee with a new lady to our village.<span> </span>She showed me round her new house and in each room told me what improvements they planned to make.<span> </span>We ended up in the kitchen, she threw open the door and said, ”this is my favourite room, isn’t it great!”.<span> </span>It was a big room and one whole wall was covered by a wallpaper picture of a Swiss lake complete with snow capped mountains.<span> </span>I agreed with her that it was a lovely room and then, dear reader, I said, “it will be even better when you get that ghastly picture off the wall.<span> </span>Yes, you know what I am going to say, she looked very hurt and explained that she had spent all of the last weekend putting it up!<span> </span>Argh!</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">My point is that no two people every think exactly alike.<span> </span>We can never know exactly what is going on in another persons’ head and this is what makes watching a new human being grow and change so incredibly fascinating.<span> </span>Little Cassie has begun imaginative play.<span> </span>Last week she was playing on her little car, tooting the horn and grinning at her gramps when all of a sudden she blew the horn, cupped both her hands (around the sound?) and brought them over to give to Gramps.<span> </span>She did this several times and to her it was perfectly clear what she was doing whilst we sat and watched in open-mouthed amazement.<span> </span>What was going on in that dear little head?</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">Years ago whilst walking in the country with our four year old son I saw a pretty cottage which was for sale.<span> </span>“Wouldn’t it be lovely to live in that little house,”<span> </span>I said.<span> </span>“yes,” her replied tentatively, “but how would we get it home?”</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">It seems that not only do small children have entirely their own way of looking at things but their confidence in their imagined objects, play, and games, is as concrete to them as all the other things they have learned recently, walking, <span> </span>waving goodbye, drinking from a cup etc.<span> </span>And it is a wonder to behold.<span> </span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">They seem to have an innate understanding of basic physics, Cassie lifts her feet high and sticks her little pudgy legs out straight when mad granny pushes her round the room on her little car at great speed, and closes her eyes tight when something flicks towards her face, and yet they seem to be able to see things which are not there as well, the imaginary cup of tea or the sound from the little car horn…</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">I am glad we cannot see what is inside their little heads because watching them in their own little world is a wonder and a delight, a world we, as adults, have lost and are barred from.</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">Granny Bloggings</p></span></span></div></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-74855097489660282202011-08-17T07:48:00.004+01:002011-08-17T08:04:48.187+01:00Festival Madness<span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><b><u>Groovy Baby</u></b></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">The skies are grey, rain is in the offing, so yes, it is that Music Festival time of year. Last year we took little Cassie to her first music festival and she slept blissfully through most of it looking very cute indeed in her pink ear defenders. This year I am guessing she will be a little more active which means that Gramps and I will be struggling to our feet from the picnic rug more than we are used to. Let’s hope the old knees, ankles and backs will stand it!</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">Forty years ago Gramps and I went to the very first music festival ever to be held in the UK.<span> </span>The Isle of Wight decided it could be the Woodstock of England.<span> </span>So off we went wearing our loons, tie –dye-three-button-t-shirts and leather <span> </span>sandals which smelled so strongly of the camel urine they had been cured in.<span> </span>It didn’t matter though as the smell of patchouli incense and weed was so strong that nothing could penetrate it.<span> </span>Fifty thousand people descended on the Isle of Wight and we all looked exactly the same!<span> </span>(Although it became apparent as the weekend progressed that some of the crowd, the ones with suspiciously short hair, big boots and Alsatian (sniffer) dogs were not, perhaps, as ‘laid back’ (daddy-oh) as the rest of us.) <span> </span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">The sun shone, the music was great, the weed was weak, and people made love not war, and when a press helicopter started circling overhead whilst the acoustic folk group, Pentangle, were playing, fifty thousand people rose to their feet and gave it a two fingered salute.<span> </span>God did we feel powerful – flower powerful?<span> </span>This was the sixties baby and us middle class rural baby boomers were taking a tiny sip of the elixir of the Age Of Aquarius!<span> </span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">No worries that weekend about the damp grass affecting the rheumatic knees!<span> </span>The funny thing is that it only seems a few minutes ago that those happy hippy young things were gramps and I.<span> </span>Make hay while the sun shines kids, life is short but it can be great! <span> </span></p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">Granny Bloggins</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><u>Festive Functions</u></b></span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >This time last year I wrote a post about how I had lost my Joi De Vivre - we took Cass to her first ever music festival and while I was supposed to be being a cool and laid back Mummy all I did was worry about her eating and sleeping, and yes of course, pooing. I felt that perhaps I was never going to get my groove back and that maybe this was what motherhood was; a constant feeling of anxiety about the little midgetty person, just enough so that you never really relaxed and enjoyed yourself. Well, the good news is that that passed quickly and this year, I knew that when she needed to sleep, she would sleep, if she was hungry she would eat and all her other bodily functions would be just fine.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >And indeed they were. While the music was great, the food overpriced (and as is so often the case at festivals, disappointing) and the festival atmosphere jovial, my favourite moment this year did indeed feature a bodily function. Sorry, I don't often do a post about poo, but here it is.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Apparently one of the top reasons that people list for avoiding festivals is the loos. I get that. Portaloos are not glamorous and don't exactly provide the leisurely experience of the home porcelain. Lucky for Cassie, she isn't potty trained (God forbid, she is only 17 months) and so had no issues with that. </span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >So my resounding memories of this years festival will be my child backing up into a big hedge that she had located in order to do her job of work. Imagine the scene; a grubby little cherub, her tog suit pretty much muddy from head to foot, with bright pink ear defenders on, nuzzling (if you can nuzzle with your backside? does that make it buzzling?) backwards into a huge bank of shurbs, squatting and then doing the face. You know, <i>the face</i>. And pretending she is on her own by not making eye contact with any of the people passing by who were chuckling because they knew <i>the face</i> too.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Brilliant. What I like about motherhood is that every new phase gives you something new to enjoy, some new moment to cherish and some new challenge to work with, and so I think we might have to make this festival post a yearly event - what will be next year's festival 'Kodak Moment'? </span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >The Mummatron</span></p><p style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; ">
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<br /></span></p></span></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-48594753857369356622011-07-19T09:42:00.002+01:002011-07-19T09:46:32.404+01:00Separation anxiety<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: small; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">As a slap-bang-in-the-middle-of-<wbr></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">middle-class mother I spend most of my time worrying about how wrong I am doing everything and the other half of my time pretending that I am not worrying. So the most recent worry was that I am depriving Cass by not sending her to nursery. As you will know from previous rants, I decided to stay at home with her, so nursery was not on the cards, but clearly this was another something to worry about. </span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> Perhaps we were creating a princess of gargantuan proportions by not socialising her in a nursery environment - would she be a teenager who could not tie her own laces, a university student who had no mates, or worse, a grown up who wouldn’t share her sweeties?! </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">It just so happened that a friend was in a bind around the time that we were having this discussion (when I say we, I clearly mean </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; vertical-align: baseline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; white-space: pre-wrap;">was having an internal monologue as B has learnt not to listen ages ago) and he needed a new member of staff for his business. So I got myself a job - how exciting, I get to wear my work wear again... No seriously, that was my main motive. So that meant that Cass needed somewhere to be for my two days a week.</span></span><br /><span style="border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Luckily the nursery down the road had spaces so off we went for a look. I’m not sure what happened between my house (empowered working mum) and the nursery (blob of weeping jelly), but somehow I lost my cool. And we were only there to have a butchers. I couldn’t control myself, pretty much everything set me off; the row of little tiny shoes by the door, the cute handprint pictures adorning the walls, Cass toddling off with nary a backward glance. I was a mess.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><br /></span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Still, we went ahead and I have marshalled myself. It has been a hard road getting her settled (for all of us!) and I still partially wonder what I am doing it for. My logical thinking brain says it is doing her good, but my mummies heart misses her and can’t imagine that anyone else will look after her as well as I will.</span><br /></span></span><div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Yesterday she came home having painted, played in the woods, eaten loads of fruit, napped, played with her little friend Esther and generally had an all round good time. It just sounds like so much fun - I wanna play too!!</span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>The Mummatron</i><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><div><div><br /></div><div>I hate to say it, but you ain's seen nothing yet! Wait until she goes off to uni. on another continent! </div><div><br /></div><div>At the age of 17 my baby opted to go to a university in Scotland at the same time as her parents had to move to the USA for Gramps' job. I don't think I can find the words to describe the feelings I had at that time. Of course my baby would ring up with tales of woe and I would spend the next few hours/days fraught with worry about how she was feeling and finally I would be unable to contain my worry any more and I would ring her to hear her cheery voice inform me that she couldn't stop to chat right now as she was too busy having fun! Argh! </div><div><br /></div><div> I really didn't think it could get worse than that then last Sunday when it came time for Gramps and I to leave little Cassie after a day of fun and games, she put out her arms to us, pulled both our faces up to hers, pressed her face into ours and delivered kiss after kiss and face-hug after face-hug for about five minutes ......... and then we had to walk out the door and leave her!!!!! It may not be separation anxiety but it sure didn't feel like fun driving off down the road!</div></div><div><br /></div><div><i>Granny bloggins</i></div></span></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-41229934247618703942011-06-18T15:58:00.002+01:002011-06-18T16:01:03.272+01:00I came, I saw, I did a little shopping...<span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><div><b><u>Trainers and Trotters</u></b></div></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Shopping has always been my ‘thing’. You know, for some girls, their ‘thing’ is horses, for some it is ballet, or art, or singing. Well, mine has always been shopping. Since the ballooning baby body has stolen my love of clothes shopping, I have turned to the next best thing - baby clothes shopping. Love it love it love it All the little tiny weeny cutie things you can buy for them, from hats with tassles (poor child), down to socks with frills (again, poor child), I love them. And I was so looking forward to the first purchase of baby shoes. How wrong could one seasoned shopaholic be?</span><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">So I knew I had to go to a reputable high street shoe retailer - you know the one, we all had our first shoes from there, right? Off we went, ready for the wonder of little tiny shoes with velcro and light up thingys and shiny bits. But it was not to be. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Cass sat splendidly while her feet were measured, intrigued by the process and watching carefully. She tottered happily around while I perused the shelves. We looked at all the styles and selected the ones we liked; not too sparkly, or impractical or, dare I say it, too pink. But there was one major drawback. The major drawback was that my child has freakishly small feet for her ‘stage of development’. Basically she is gadding about on trotters. Tiny little things that only fit pram shoes, not real shoes. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Did the the assistant who measured her feet explain this to me? Not until we presented her with the choice of shoes which they didn’t do in Cassie’s size. Brilliant. And could she tell me which they did do in Cassie’s size? Yes. Brilliant. That one pair over there? In pink? Brilliant.</span><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I have made it my mission ever since to redeem myself as a shopper, to do better for my child, to search out and purchase new trotter-wear for her. I came to shop, and I will not be defeated.</span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Mummatron<br /></span></span><div><div><div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><b><u>This Little Piggy</u></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Oh dear, I really can't find anything amusing to say about shopping, it really is not something I like to do. Twenty minutes in a shop which sells weird and wonderful clothing is about all I can take, although I must admit I can never pass a shoe shop and do have way too many pairs of foot apparel. I am devastated to think that my adorable little granddaughter allegedly has trotters but I looked at them carefully this weekend and I think her mother exaggerates, she has dear little pinkies, or could I be biased? And for a granny who has twelve pairs of boots I think I know what I am talking about!</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Granny Bloggins</span><br /></div><div style="font-size: 13px; font-family: arial, sans-serif; "><br /></div></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-66612967154880670452011-06-14T20:33:00.002+01:002011-06-14T20:36:28.653+01:00Growing Pains<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">When your baby is not your baby anymore...</span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; vertical-align: baseline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; vertical-align: baseline; background-color: transparent; "></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><u><br /></u></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I know it has been a while since we have last posted, we have had a hiatus... We’ve been to Africa, I’ve gone back to work (yes indeed, more on that in another post), and CK has started nursery (more on that too). More importantly though, my baby done growed up. Toto, we definitely ain’t in Kansas anymore.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">How do you know when you baby turns into a toddler? There should be a few clues:</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Does your child insist? Insist on what, I hear you ask? Anything, everything, most of it illogical. She wants to wear her reins in the bath, she wants to hold the carving knife while riding her rocking horse, she wants to drink your scalding hot tea/beer/ wine/neat vodka (delete as appropriate). And she will squawk until she gets what she wants.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Has her velocity increased exponentially over recent weeks? First sitting was not enough, then crawling was old hat, now even walking is sooooo last season darling. No, now we must run everywhere. Until, inevitably, she falls over.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">And then she looks at me as if it is my fault.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Has she suddenly become a bit more interactive? This comes in many forms - the nice ones like cuddles and kisses (a bit like sticking a dyson to your top lip, but at least the intentions are good), and the not so nice ones like shoving smaller and more timid children off the aforementioned rocking horse.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">If you have answered yes to any of the above then it would seem that your baby is not your baby anymore, but suddenly a full on, high octane toddler. And would I go back to the baby days? No way.</span><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Mummatron</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><u><span class="Apple-style-span" >Big Babies</span></u></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >When your baby is not your baby anymore - it never happens. It might feel like it now but believe me your baby is always your baby and every stage is a delight and a nightmare, just wait until you are lying awake listening for your baby to drive into the garage late at night!</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Granny Bloggings</span></span></span></span></div></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-62898088782649847672011-04-03T19:47:00.001+01:002011-04-03T19:49:31.389+01:00Welcome to the Terrible Twos?<div style="background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span id="internal-source-marker_0.9946140432730317" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><b>Welcome to Tantrumland</b></span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span id="internal-source-marker_0.9946140432730317" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span id="internal-source-marker_0.9946140432730317" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">When you have a little one, no hang on, when you conceive a little one, people start to warn you about how horrendous they will be when they are a teenager. I laughed in their faces, full of Secondary School Teacher Bravado, saying that those are the years I like, and those are the battles I am looking forward to. I smirked defiantly and explained that I would much rather deal with a teenage sulk than with a toddler tantrum . And I still hold to that. I just didn’t expect the tantrums to come around quite so soon.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; background-color: transparent; "></span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">She turned one, and we turned a corner. Into a nasty, dark alleyway in Tantrumland. Not a good place to be. I don’t mind assertive (an eager jab of the finger accompanied by the hearty cry of “dat! dat! dat! dat! dat!” when she sees something she wants), I don’t really mind persistent (continuing the “dat! dat! dat! dat! dat!” even when said item has been removed from view), but I am not sure I can handle downright belligerent.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; background-color: transparent; "></span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Case in point: Taking tea last week in a familiar high street coffee shop - the kind with lovely sink-in-comfy couches - was happy experience. CK chuntered happily away sitting beside me on aforementioned couch whilst I quaffed. It was when I removed her from the couch that she got a tad shirty. 4 minutes of lying face down on the floor screaming kind of shirty. That ain’t fun. Keeping up the pretense that she isn’t yours, you don’t know where she came from, perhaps she dropped from the sky isn’t easy when under pressure - especially when she is your little mini-me. I removed her by dangling her face down over my arm and pushing the buggy with the other hand while apologising to all the unhappy punters who were just 118-ing the number for social services.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; background-color: transparent; "></span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">And the worst thing? She is only one. This is the proverbial tip of the proverbial iceberg... Roll on 2, 3, 13, 21 etc etc etc!</span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Mummatron</span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><b><u>Temper Temper</u></b></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">Our little CK is only one so temper tantrums are usually easily diverted and since the dreaded PMT is a thing of the past they are for me as well.<span> </span><span> </span>Gramps has never been prone to them and I’m pleased to say that CKs’ mother is much more likely to dissolve into tears than to loose the plot, (usually).<span> </span>However, I do remember a time when she was a tiny little person of two.<span> </span>We were toddling round the supermarket with my happy little babe on reins – no doubt these are a total no no these days when small children are encouraged to be free range and organic in every way, so I apologise, but they were de rigour in those days, an absolute <i>must</i> in baby fashion accessories.</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">On this particular day the terrible twos hormones must have kicked in because she spotted a roll of polo mints next to the till and her chubby little hand shot out and in a nano second they were tightly held in her grubby fist.<span> </span>Now if there is one thing which I think is disgraceful, it is the way the supermarkets put sweets next to the till in an effort to ensnare bored queuing children, <span> </span>so my poor little person did not realise that she had just bumped up against one of Mothers’ Moral Hates and that she was never, ever, going to win that battle.<span> </span>Though I must say she gave it her best, and I admit that we left the shop with her lying on the floor and me dragging her along by her reins.<span> </span>This worked relatively well on the shiny floor but once we hit the tarmac of the car park the going got pretty tough.<span> </span>I trudged, she screamed, I stopped, she looked up, I asked if she had had enough, she nodded and stood up.<span> </span>I think it was the look in my eye!</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">I had tried explaining to her, honestly; I had tried bribery – ‘let’s leave the sweets and go home for jelly’, – I had lied and told her the sweets were ‘nasty’, I had tried to distract her ‘was that an elephant I just saw in the car park?’, I had tried to shame her, ‘everyone is looking at you and thinking what a naughty little girl you are,’ (oh shame on me), but when none of it worked and it was obvious that this was a pivotal point in our relationship, she was, after all, another woman in the making and, for our future together,r it was important that I won.<span> </span>I was lucky that I had the energy for the battle that day, I know how difficult it can be when you are exhausted and embarrassed by your toddler, and your other child is trying to tell you something and you have your mother-in-law coming for tea but if there was just one golden rule of child rearing I would think it should be, if you say NO, never ever <span> </span>EVER give in – so choose your battles carefully, save it for the drugs, sex and rock and roll and don’t worry too much about the sex and rock and roll.</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">Granny Bloggins</p></span></span></span></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-75940617878317917612011-03-30T21:17:00.004+01:002011-03-30T21:29:14.396+01:00Party Girls<meta equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><b><u>Birthday parties</u></b>.</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">I love ‘em!<span> </span>Despite not being able to believe that little CK is one already I was proud to see my daughter throwing herself into our birthday party tradition.<span> </span>I always threw great childrens’ parties and the only bit of them which I disliked was going to the supermarket where I would slink guiltily out with a trolley full of synthetic potato based, e-number filled, products nestling next to a sugar overload of chocolate flavoured naughties with which, once a year, my children were allowed to fill their glowing little faces. <span> </span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">For CK it was going to be a fancy dress party and as the little guests only had about ten teeth between them, my daughter sensibly decided to give the adults cake and champagne and leave CKs’ peers to crawl about picking up what crumbs they could find.<span> </span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">The cake was going to be a fairy tale castle – ummm, a bit ambitious for a first attempt?<span> </span>Not at all, it was a triumph of leaning towers and wobbling marshmallows secretly held together with a skeleton of long wooden kebab sticks.<span> </span>Maybe it did look a bit more Gormenghast than Cinderella but after a few glasses of bubbly, who cared?</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">Gramps and I stuck lots of pictures of little CK on to four pieces of thin card, pleated them up and pinned them on – CKs’ biggest fans!<span> </span>CK and her parents went as aliens.<span> </span>Mr. CK had spent many hours fitting his cycle helmets with articulated protuberances with large eyes on their ends and little CK was mystified by being bundled into a green dressing gown with eyes on stalks waving over her head; but she didn’t care, there were cake crumbs to hunt down!</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">I can’t wait for next year ………..</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">Granny Bloggings</p></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><u><span class="Apple-style-span" >Things what I 'ave learned about throwing a 1 year olds birthday party:</span></u><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >1. Don't bother - she will probably not be enjoying it as much as you are and will just be wondering who all these people are and why they are all singing at her.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >2. If you ignore 1 and do go ahead regardless, make it fancy dress. Every party is more fun when you can make a fool of yourself - trust me, I elected to wear a prosthetic, prehensile extra limb attached to my head for CK's party and made my darling hubby do the same. No they weren't penises, yes we were supposed to be aliens.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >3. Get LOTS of toys in - means you don't have to bother with organising any entertainment which, lets face it, the 1 year olds can't understand, and the parents would rather not have to partake in.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >4. If you do a pass the parcel don't tell your lovely father to "Keep adding layers! No, 20 isn't enough!". Honestly, about 3/4 layers of wrapping will do for a party of 20 kids - they are way slow at unwrapping and no-one wants to spend half the party sitting in a circle listening to 'The Wheels on the Bus' - do they?!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >5. Get plenty of booze in - see Granny Bloggings post.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >6. Be ambitious with your cake - it will give you something to bond with your mother about and will really frighten, erm I mean fire the imaginations, of any guests with upcoming birthday shindigs of their own. Or at least, if it doesn't quite come out how you intended, it will be a talking point :)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >7. Draft in some eager staff - husbands, mothers, wives, father in laws, basically anyone who will work for cake.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >8. Remember that there are going to be lots more of these to come so you don't have to pull out all the stops every year (unless you live in Essex, where it seems to me, children's parties are becoming a new sport)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >9. Try not to take the wrong child home with you - even though they are all in costume, you don't get to take the cutest, just the one who belongs to you.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >10. Clear your diary for the next week/month/year to recover!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Mummatron</span></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-53020571528247412042011-03-10T08:05:00.004+00:002011-03-10T09:45:00.302+00:00Day 368<span class="Apple-style-span" >You are 1, little girl, you are 1. My little mini-me, my matrioshka, my lovely chubby legger, you are 1. This time 1 year ago I was panicking, overwhelmed by love, and anxiety and the littleness of you, I was terrified. I didn't understand what you needed and I didn't know what I was supposed to do. But as the last year unfolded, we have found our way.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >I have slept with your weight on my chest, feeling your snuffly breaths echoing through me. I have nurtured you with my own body and you have grown from that tiny, curled up catlike creature snoozing the day through to this boisterous inquisitive person. I have held your hands as you learned to sit up, to roll over and now to take those little cautious steps.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >And you have held my hand as I have become your mother. </span></div></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-31264631875064681472011-03-08T07:42:00.003+00:002011-03-08T07:54:26.234+00:00Books for Sharing<span class="Apple-style-span" >Over the last few years I have noticed that most music in the pop charts (could I sound any older? Maybe if I said Hit Parade?) is collaborative - such and such featuring so and so. Well, it is true also of the blogosphere and this week I am very proud to say that Mummysquared is being featured on one of our favourite blogs. Yes indeed, this week,<a href="http://katetakes5.blogspot.com/2011/03/listography-books-and-babies.html"> Listography over at Kate Takes 5</a> is indeed inspired by our very own Granny Bloggings and her ranting about books... <a href="http://katetakes5.blogspot.com/2011/03/listography-books-and-babies.html">pop over and take a look</a>... Kate and I liked her ramblings so very much that we thought it deserved a spin off.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >So the idea is this - 5 books you have enjoyed with your little one, or are indeed looking forward to sharing in the future. Simple right? Hmmm. You try picking just 5! Here are the Mummysquared choices - seeing as this is Granny Bloggings' big moment I thought I'd let her go first for a change:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >Just 5?</span></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div><meta equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >I can't possibly write the list of books I want to share with little CK as she grows older as there is not enough space or time to name them all so I have decided to choose the five books I adored and read over and over again whilst I was a kid...<div>1. Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain. I was given this book as a school prize in 1960 when I was nine. On the book plate inside the front cover it says "given as a prize for always being cheerful and helpful in class." Well, we can't all be academically brilliant! But I used to read that book to the end and then turn to the front page and start again and I think it may have been the catalyst for my love of reading throughout the rest of my life. </div><div>2. Heidi by Johanna Spyre. When you live in a small village in England being able to escape to a Swiss Alp and live with a loving grandpa and whole load of goats seemed like heaven to me when I was about eight. I still crave bead cheese and milk whenever I think of Heidi!</div><div>3.Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Graham. Perfect escapism for a seven year old and I still think of those characters as good friends.</div><div>4.Black Beauty by Anna Sewell which sustained me until I could have my own pony when I was nine.</div><div>5. Moonfleet by J. Meade Faulkner which is the most wonderful story of pirates, treasure, shipwreck, and true love set a few miles from where I grew up.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Of course there were all the others; Shadow the sheep do,g by Enid Blyton, and all the secret seven and famous five books by her too but when you read them these days they are so horribly dated that it is hard to believe how much pleasure they brought me. With the possible exception of Black Beauty all the others have stood the test of time and I hope one day to share them with little CK, preferably by reading them aloud to her.</div><div>Can we do a list of our top hundred books since we are grown ups please?</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Granny Bloggins</div><div>
<br /></div><div><meta equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><div style="background-color: transparent; border-collapse: separate; ">
<br /><span id="internal-source-marker_0.494443628937006" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><b>That’s not my book... It’s narrative is too predictable!</b></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; border-collapse: separate; "><span id="internal-source-marker_0.494443628937006" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; background-color: transparent; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; ">
<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">My daughter’s best new habit? Getting a book in one hand, labouring towards you trying to crawl and drag it at the same time, clambering up into your lap, opening the book, pointing out some stuff, concentrating on it with you and clapping while you read to her. OK, so it only lasts for about a page, but it is pretty cool while it lasts.</span>
<br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> As I am a secondary school teacher and know nothing about children’s books, I thought I would go for grown up ones instead - books I am looking forward to her reading and loving. Or if she hates reading, listening to on tape and loving. A tape worm, rather than a book worm perhaps? Stop rambling and get on with it!</span>
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<br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">1. Catch-22 - I studied this book for my highers and felt like it was the first proper grown up book that I had found and loved. It is so funny and so heartwarming.</span>
<br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">2. The Lord of The Flies - Yes, I know it is old, yes I know we all studied it at school, but no, that doesn’t mean it has to be boring. It’s brilliant - I love teaching it, I love reading it, I love talking about it. Can’t wait to see the horror on her little face - yeah.</span>
<br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">3. Everything Is Illuminated - Funny funny funny book about the holocaust. So wrong it is right. Read it and weep, literally. And every book should feature a seeing eye bitch. I love this one for the teenage audience as I think it lends a new perspective to the whole WWII thing which they think they know inside out.</span>
<br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">4. The Poisonwood Bible - As my little darling is half African, I thought this should be on the list. Barbara Kinsolver conjures Africa so truly in this novel and she depicts the love and struggle for that continent. Heartbreaking and enthralling all at the same time.</span>
<br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">5. The Gormeghast Trilogy - OK I couldn’t restrict myself to 5... so I cheated and threw in a trilogy... ha! Reading this lot is like eating a bar of chocolate; it is rich, deeply dark, satisfying and moreish. What more could a gal want to be tucked up in bed with?!</span>
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<br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">So go on... <a href="http://katetakes5.blogspot.com/2011/03/listography-books-and-babies.html">let the sharing commence</a>!</span></div></div></span></span></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-80535772550360477862011-03-01T09:41:00.002+00:002011-03-01T09:46:20.507+00:00Voulez-vous couchez avec moi, ce soir?<meta equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span id="internal-source-marker_0.48439739271998405" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Bed Hopping</b></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span id="internal-source-marker_0.48439739271998405" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>
<br /></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span id="internal-source-marker_0.48439739271998405" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >I have a guilty little secret that I need to share with you. I sleep with my child. Shock horror. Before CK was born I read all the books and all the statistics that said that SIDS was more prevalent when a child sleeps in bed with its parents. I had nightmares about smothering my baby as I slept, exhausted and oblivious. And then I had her, and my nights became a string of feeds and wake up calls and I became exhausted and oblivious and one day, I fell asleep with the baby in the bed with me.</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span id="internal-source-marker_0.48439739271998405" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; background-color: transparent; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;">
<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">And it was great.</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; background-color: transparent; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;">
<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">She slept, I slept, she fed, I slept, she wriggled, I slept. Brilliant. </span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; background-color: transparent; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; ">
<br /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; vertical-align: baseline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I mentioned it one day to my health visitor (lovely, but perhaps not the only source of useful advice one should rely totally upon) and saw the flicker of horror cross her face. I reassured her that I don’t take drugs or smoke or drink and she warned me of the dangers of exhaustion and obliviousness. I nodded sagely and assured her I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;">wouldn't</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> anymore.</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; ">
<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">But I did. And I do. And it is lovely. Except for waking up contorted into strange positions and aching all over from trying not to roll onto her in my oblivious exhaustion. Clearly, some part of my brain is not that oblivious.</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;">
<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I am not alone in my guilty pleasure. My lovely husband has now discovered the joys of sleeping with the baby too as, up until now, he has always been banished from the bed if she is in it - my theory being that some kind of maternal instinct will stop me from rolling onto her while he, sleeping the sleep of the dead (kind of loud snorey dead) might be truly oblivious. In the last couple of weeks though , now she is very nearly 1 (and obviously nearly a grown up), I have allowed it. I think he secretly quite likes an excuse to do it too.</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;">
<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I was talking to someone the other day who warned against co-sleeping as once you start, you just can’t stop (like Pringles). I am not convinced that CK will still be in my bed when she starts uni, or indeed when she goes to school, but even if she is, I’m not sure me or her dad will mind.</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Mummatron</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><meta equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; white-space: normal; "><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>
<br /></b></span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Sleeping with your baby<u style="text-decoration: none; "> </u></b>or to use the modern vernacular – co-sleeping.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-decoration: none; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >OK, settle down, get a cuppa, this is going to be a long one:</span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-decoration: none; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >You are a few fragile cells growing in a warm, dark, quiet, secure environment. As soon as you have ears you spend all day listening to your mother talk and all night listening to the beat of her heart and the blood pulsing through her body.<span> </span>When life gets a little cramped in there it seems like a good idea to move <i>outside.<span> </span></i></span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-decoration: none; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >This experience will depend on where in the world you are born, but let us assume for now that it is in the “Western Civilised First World” with its’ medical culture.<span> </span>Chances are that you will arrive in a blindingly bright, cold, dry and <i>screamingly</i> LOUD place where you will be handled by strangers roughly enough to set you wailing.<span> </span>From this moment on your life will be governed by a new set of rules, many of them handed down through generations of nursing staff who learned their art at the hands of spinsters, as married women were not allowed to work, and by someone who is called Dr. Spock or Gina Ford.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-decoration: none; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >So, you are swaddled and taken away from your mother to lie in a far off lonely place where you can hear all sorts of strange noises and sometimes even your mothers’ voice.<span> </span>Then comes the night.<span> </span>We are not nocturnal, so all humans are out of their comfort zone in the dark.<span> </span>Where is the comfort of that heart beat, the warmth of the body, the smell of the breast?<span> </span>Somewhere across the room but it’s too dark to see and anyway your eyes aren’t clever enough for that yet.<span> </span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-decoration: none; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Now I shall digress:<span> </span>when visiting Australia many years ago my daughter and I visited a little village in Brisbane called Early Street, a collection of settlers shacks and houses.<span> </span>In one of the meaner dwellings was a bed covered in a beautiful patchwork quilt and attached to the side of the bed was a tiny cot with two legs supporting it on the side away from the bed.<span> </span>All the mother had to do to comfort her baby was reach out a few inches.<span> </span>I don’t know the statistics for how many babies are smothered in their parents beds but don’t you think that if we stopped frowning and muttering and started thinking we might be able to come up with a cunning and safe plan, after all, we can put a man on the moon…</span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-decoration: none; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >If you are female it will be twelve long years before you are even nearing independence and if you are male it may be twice that long (sorry guys, blame your mothers!)<span> </span>Yet in a matter of a few short months you pass some mysterious milestone and the powers-that-be state that now you can go and sleep, in the dark and all alone, in your own room in a socking great cot.<span> </span>Is it any surprise that as soon as you are able to climb out of your first bed and toddle – fast, really fast, through the dark- you head straight for your parents’ bed?</span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-decoration: none; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Once there, with mothers’ nose firmly grasped in one chubby little hand and a fist full of daddys’ back hair clutched in the other you can finally relax and go into the deep sleep you have been yearning for.<span> </span>The warm urine pong of a fetid nappy can rise freely between the bed sheets and if there is not enough room you can use your elbows, knees, feet, and fists to fight for your own space – bliss.<span> </span>At some point in the night you mother or father may leave the bed and go into your room, but do you care?<span> </span>Not a jot.<span> </span>You have been made to sleep there for two years, now it is their turn to be alone – hah!</span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-decoration: none; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Maybe if we were all a bit more relaxed about allowing our babies to sleep with us when they really needed to they would feel more confident of their ‘grown-up’ status when offered a room of their own?<span> </span>Of course it has to suit the whole family and it has to be safe.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-decoration: none; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Now that our daughter is 31, and hasn’t slept in between us for some time (well, OK, at least 27 years) Gramps and I have so many happy memories of those broken nights!<span> </span>Yes, it seemed never-ending at the time and yes it was like musical beds some nights but hey, it was worth it for all the giggles.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-decoration: none; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >PS when said daughter was nearly five we made her a bunk bed with a <i>real</i> <i>ladder and everything</i> and bought her a digital clock, taught her what 7.00 looked like and told her to stay in her room until that time – worked like a dream…</span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-decoration: none; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Granny Bloggings</span></p><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-decoration: none; "><span style="font-family: 'Comic Sans MS'; ">
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<br /></span></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-12513415737764899252011-02-23T14:34:00.004+00:002011-02-23T14:50:08.357+00:00Ponderous posting<span class="Apple-style-span" >I have been suffering this week. Not from the dreaded lurgy this week (although lurgy, as Elvis said, you are always on my mind, hence the over washed hands), nor from some kind of pox. No, this week I have been suffering because my muse seems to have deserted me. Which is funny, because I never knew I had one.<br /><br />I started blogging because secretly, a little part of me has always felt I deserved a book deal, but apparently you have to actually <span style="font-style:italic;">do some work</span> to be offered one. Funny that. I'm not that disappointed though because that was only one little reason, mainly it was just because I needed something to do to occupy my idle mind now that I am one of the great unwashed, unemployed.<br /><br />But then I became obsessed, as my poor neglected husband or child (no, not social services kind of neglect) will tell you. I had to log in every day to check whether we had any new followers, whether anyone from Outer Mongolia was reading our blog (honestly, you can check that kind of stuff - who knew?!), and whether we were ever going to get any recognition.<br /><br />I was perplexed as other bloggers seemed to get mentions all the time on forum sites of note (BMB, you know who you are!), prizes and accolades for having something funny or interesting to say, and readers in the 100's or 1000's.<br /><br />And I racked my brains for how to up my stats, increase my following (whoah, that sounds a little scary) and double my traffic.<br /><br />So I took a week, maybe two, off and now I have perspective. So thank you to friends old and new for whom we write this blog; To Debby, the cousin who I have never met who keeps an eye on me and CK from Germany; to my good friend Elana who we will see very soon; to Rach who I know is reading; to <a href="http://newmumonline.blogspot.com">Liska</a>, my new bloggy mate who is on my wavelength, even if that is an old fashioned radio term from the days before internet; and to Brian who reads every post in the split second that it is published, when really he should be working. Thank you to all of you who read and who give me a reason to ramble, a motive for musing. <br /><br />I promise to stop naval gazing and be more interesting. Any minute now...<br /><br />The Mummatron<br />(ps sorry no Granny Bloggings today - the lurgy got her - poor thing!)</span>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-37459186980437243622011-02-08T15:54:00.003+00:002011-02-08T16:06:23.797+00:00Listen Up Menfolk - Our Valentines Wishes<span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So it's Listography time again over at Kate Takes 5 and this week we are thinking about what we would like for Valentine's day so lets hope our men are checking this out (Sorry hubby - I've set you quite a task!).</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><meta equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Here are mine - clearly I believe that miracles can happen on St Valentines... We'll see!</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">1. Welcome to Jetsons world: I would like to be a Jetson. Remember the Jetson's? Like the Flintstones but set in outer space rather than prehistory. The cool thing about being a Jetson is that not only do you get a robot to do all the boring household chores, everything else gets easier too - there is no strapping Little into a car seat, oh no, not when you travel by suction tube. And meals are a doddle - just order a pill that tastes like dinner. Sounds bloody good to a lazy housewife such as myself.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">2. Can I rub that for you madam? Oooh yes please: No, you haven't just stumbled into some Mills and Boon moment, my next wish is for a live in masseur. It's a little bit indulgent I guess, but 9 months of whaledom, followed by hefting around a little chubby luvva for 11 months has left me feeling as though my chakras are all out of whack. Or something.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">3. Join me on the terrace for a bit of bubbly?: My own hot tub. No really, I know it is a little trailer trash of me, and no, I don't live in Essex, but I have always wanted my own hot tub. So sue me.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">4. Where am I? Who am I? : I would like a Big Night Out, like I used to have, back in the days before I had responsibilities (for that read 'before baby'). But I would like to be able to have my Big Night Out without any repercussions... no headache, no 'a monkey died in my mouth' kinda feeling, no 'sh*t who did I text?!' panic, and no need to eat total rubbish for 24 hours to stop myself from hurling. Just the fun bits please.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">5. Not the Jacqui Stallone thing, but close: All over plastic surgery, nip it, tuck it, lift it, suck it, tweak it, spread it, smooth it, sort it. And then a pair of those lacquered look leggings. Ooo baby.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Mummatron</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><meta equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And here are hers...Five things I would like for Valentines day? I guess we are thinking romance here? ummmm....</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">1. I would like to wake up and find my white hair was blonde again and was going to stay that way. Oh, yes and that someone had just invented the wrinkle-iron.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">2. I would like lunch out with my husband at a venue where we can sit in a sunny window and the food I eat will not go straight to my hips.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">3.I would like to stay overnight in a really stunning hotel with a pool and sauna and have a facial after my swim. Then...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">4. I would like to come home and sit in front of the log fire, read a good book and eat a whole box of chocolates which would not send me straight into a diabetic coma - or go straight to my hips.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> 5. I would like to be able to think of something on my wish list which was not so completely selfish, but hey this is fantasy right? And I think I am actually going to spend Valentines day having lunch with my daughter, her husband and the adorable little CK which, mushy as it sounds is actually the very best thing I could wish for.</span></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Granny Bloggings</span></span></div></span>
<br /></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-87337041481621520172011-02-07T13:03:00.003+00:002011-02-07T13:07:04.529+00:00Writing Lists...<div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span id="internal-source-marker_0.23402985744178295" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >The Babyproof Bucket List</span></b></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span id="internal-source-marker_0.23402985744178295" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; background-color: transparent; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">A few months ago my father in law was diagnosed with cancer. As you can imagine, my lovely hubby was having a pretty hard time of it so I suggested a treat; a yummy meal and a movie on the telly. Now to those of you who still have a life, I know that doesn’t sound like a big deal, but for those of us who usually have just about enough energy for half (yes indeed half) an episode of ‘The Wire’ before we nod off, a whole movie is HUGE.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">So I decided on something called </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">The Bucket List</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> which looked like an amusing diversion - Nicholson and Freeman - what could go wrong? Nicholson and Freeman with terminal cancer - what could be a worse choice (you stupid stupid cow, read the synopsis next time you idiot)?</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Anyway, after recovering from that faux pas, I got to thinking about Lists (of the Bucket variety, hence the capital L) and whether you could still have one if your main priority was your newly burgeon-ed family unit... And I figured yes, you can but it need to be babyproofed. And so here goes, my </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Things To Do Before Ya Cark It List:</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; background-color: transparent; "></span><br /></span><ol><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >The American Road Trip: Starting in Alaska and ending up in Patagonia, in a bloody great gas-guzzling palace on wheels (I’ll plant some trees as I go). Not til CK is old enough to handle being strapped in for more than 12 minutes without screaming - so probably 2020...</span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Learn a new language: So I always make an effort to be able to ask for my egg and chips in the vernacular, but I have never been able to hold a conversation, or go beyond the basics. I suppose Spanish is the best choice to aid with List Item 1 (am already fully fluent in Yankee Twang).</span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Become a pianist: I play the saxophone (or used to at least) and while that is lovely, no-one has ever wanted to gather around it and have a singalong. In fact most people want to get about 3 rooms away to spare their hearing - I played it for little CK the other day and she cried. So am thinking maybe piano is more versatile, more sociable? All I need now is a piano, and a teacher, and some time (and will) to practice.</span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Bite the Bullet and eat Michelin: Anyone who knows me, knows I like my food. And I love to eat out. And I LOVE Masterchef and their obsession with stars. But I have never been able to bring myself to go to a starred restaurant - all that money for something you are, eventually, going to flush - surely that’s not moral? But I want to! I want to!</span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Own a dog: Man's best friend, every family needs one, easier (marginally) than having another child.</span></span></li></ol><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; background-color: transparent; "></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">That’s the start - what have I forgotten? What would you put on your Bucket List? I’ll let you know as soon as I tick anything off the list - but don’t hold your breath for too long!</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >The Mummatron</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>A Bit of A To-Do</b></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">In the days of BC (before Children) I seem to remember that I was an efficient and organised kinda gal. <span> </span>I found time for all sorts of jollys, I planned and threw parties; dinner parties, fancy dress parties, loud music parties, parties with games, grown-up parties with complicated guest lists and parties which featured a lot of alcohol and some less legal substances – don’t look so shocked it <i>was </i>the early 70’s.<span> </span><span> </span>I baked my own bread, sifted my own lentils, made my own marmalade, and, but not at the same time - cut my own hair (yes, well that may have been a mistake but hey, money was scarce).<span> </span>All this, while working <i>and</i> being newly married.<span> </span>Then along came children.</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">From then on it seems that I needed to write lists for everything; shopping, jobs to be done, where I needed to be and when.<span> </span>I can remember going to the supermarket, glancing down to see why the floor seemed so slippery, and realising I was still wearing my slippers. <span> </span>Did I have my purse or shopping list?<span> </span>What do you think?<span> </span>Of course not.<span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Parties? Give me a break I couldn’t have organised a pig-out in a doughnut factory!<span> </span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">Then, of course, when my little darlings started school they clamoured for birthday parties so I had to gird my proverbials and start making lists…<span> </span>And I must say that those parties were always very successful and here’s my secret: I would get a pal to help and ask her to arrive an hour before the start time, at which point we would open a bottle of white wine and drink the lot!<span> </span>Yeah!<span> </span>Boy those parties went with a swing!<span> </span>(Though I have to admit that there were always other mothers there to drive to the hospital if any of the little party-goers came to grief).</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">However, I digress… <span> </span>once my daughter was at school my brain seemed to become my own again, I felt lucid and efficient once more.<span> </span>I read the newspapers, organised trips with friends, trained the puppy, managed reasonably well-informed conversations and was able to get through a whole day without a single list to tell me who I was and what I should be wearing.<span> </span>Unfortunately what I didn’t know at the time was that it was merely the ‘eye of the storm’ and now at nearly 60 Lists are once again the order of the day.<span> </span>So if you are at home with your little ones wondering if your brain will ever work properly again, the answer is probably not, but try to think of it as the perfect training for how to make great lists to sustain you in your old age.<span> </span>Who am I again?<span> </span>Oh yes,</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">Granny Bloggings</p></span></span></span></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-57749564426143393212011-02-06T17:19:00.002+00:002011-02-06T17:21:11.959+00:00Silent Sunday<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_6j2VVVryxW4QufqkkzY4XSktl4ShLp9F4MgqmQ3wNBHJEt9b7Wg4VD-_xlYA5SSQgYxqIR0M9eUNdA-Yq4B0MKcdhArTEfG4riPM0U0HkCbZDQeEHdhm8u-wwkWWsPuZerybalB_Ts0/s1600/DSC_0005.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_6j2VVVryxW4QufqkkzY4XSktl4ShLp9F4MgqmQ3wNBHJEt9b7Wg4VD-_xlYA5SSQgYxqIR0M9eUNdA-Yq4B0MKcdhArTEfG4riPM0U0HkCbZDQeEHdhm8u-wwkWWsPuZerybalB_Ts0/s200/DSC_0005.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570627773219310418" /></a>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-91105987738984463602011-02-03T18:22:00.004+00:002011-02-03T18:29:31.594+00:00Secret Goodness...<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Today on Twitter there was a crazy tweeting session/twitter party (it's a modern phenomenon apparently) on the topic of secret goodness... Or in other words; How to Hoodwinks Little Uns into Eating Something (Preferably Something Healthy). Well, I learned lots of good tips and hoped to put them to work tonight, but no, Little was having none of it. What she was having some of though was, as follows:</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >fishfingers</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >noodles</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >grapes</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >banana</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >blueberries</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >carrots</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >peas</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >cheese (of course - what else would you put with the listed ingredients?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >I hope no-one has a brief look and assumes this is a recipe. It isn't. However - it does create a happy meal time. </span></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAarjpp8fO66aQQKBEjoO4i71gQjiUhC7qzZLlqcqT3eo4htiD5IADEm-0GBZ-qp4DaK6wyhb4wtScq_3ygynLfLjzejHD0k6S924tbjis2Zy0-ONlWpMM14PSc-mly03n1BMtOT6pcQ/s200/Feeding+time+Feb+2011.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 125px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569531370655442962" /></div><div><br /></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-24601973681265128362011-02-02T08:50:00.002+00:002011-02-02T08:57:33.267+00:00The Gallery:Shapes<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>So this is the last photo I thought I would share, but when Tara over at Sticky Fingers announced that this weeks Gallery would be focussing on 'Shapes' I thought of this. It was taken pretty much exactly one year ago - as I was starting my maternity leave, just five weeks before CK was born. It evokes some pretty grim memories of sleepless nights and discomfort, but it also speaks of the imminent arrival of the prodigal child!<div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiBE1FfzCysBebUlJwoPxSfzLFYrKJhx2pihBBzjOp0vxSVWiL7y5SuQLskvUbiZck2Tr9ak_qFYoTlrpEr_aPDE7JPX1x6pdqLWMpPAff6FkYZ2m5RDalnDWzA8PmsXrPRkPvav3bv00/s200/DSC_0049.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569013307738949762" /></div><div><br /></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-6138887861141753922011-02-01T18:18:00.003+00:002011-02-01T18:51:27.446+00:00In defence of the only...<div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; white-space: pre-wrap; " >Only the Lonely</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; " >Only children are spoilt, socially inept, lonely and odd, right? Some children are spoilt, some are socially inept, some are lonely and some (take it from me, I’m a teacher) are certainly odd, but I don’t think this has anything to do with being an ‘only’. I’m sure some onlies fit into these categories, but some of the sibling-rich do too.</span></div></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;" ><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; ">I grew up as an only child (technically, I wasn’t an only child til I was two when my brother died - so maybe I don’t count?!) and I had an amazing experience of childhood. I suppose I was ‘spoilt’ - I travelled with my parents, ate in proper restaurants (not just Little Chef roadside pitstops, or Wimpys while out shopping - although I secretly pined for these culinary delights!), and had the saxophone I wanted. But I wasn’t spoilt, I knew my manners, knew I was lucky, and I never expected anything. I wasn’t once lonely as I always had friends around me (who by the way I could choose, unlike siblings). I don’t think I am socially inept, and could always make believe with other kids as well as being able to chat with adults. I admit, I am probably odd, but that has nothing to do with being an only.</span></div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; background-color: transparent; "></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;" ><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; ">So I am writing this in defence of my decision to make CK a little odd, inept, spoilt, lonely only. This post is addressed to everyone who has been saying (just a tad smugly) to me for the last year “I said that, and then I went on to have another 3 children!”. No, when I say I don’t want anymore, I really mean it. I don’t want the 9 months of morning sickness, the 9 months of indigestion, the 9 months of feeling blue. I don’t want anymore stretch marks to compliment the ones I already have. I don’t want my body to be any more deformed that it already is. And I don’t want to share my time or my heart.</span></div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; "></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;" ><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; ">I have the confidence that I can make CK a rounded, happy, normal individual without providing another child, without her having someone to squabble with, without her having to share the toy/book/remote control.</span></div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; "><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; ">And if she turns out a little odd, that is fine too - she will fit in with the rest of the human race!</span></div></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Mummatron</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; border-collapse: collapse; " ><p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 0.00pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span">Get Over It!!</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 0.00pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span"> Only Children are just children without siblings, it’s no big deal, get over it!</span></p><p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: o 0.00pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="line-height: normal; "> </span>Families these days come in all shapes and sizes and their dynamics are always changing.<span style="line-height: normal; "> </span>Children can be surrounded by ‘siblings’ one day and find themselves ‘only children’ the next, sometimes swiftly joined by a bunch of new ‘siblings’, … with some of these being part time ‘siblings’.<span style="line-height: normal; "> </span>Life these days is complicated and children have to learn to live with all sorts of relationships.<span style="line-height: normal; "> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span">I did not set out to have just one child but after our son died, we started to discover the advantages to having just one little girl to introduce to the world.<span> </span>We had the time, the space, and our limited budget could stretch to all sorts of things like museum visits and books, but mostly we had the time.<span> </span>Time to think about how to handle our daughters’ up-bringing; time to answer her questions, time to explain things to her, time to listen to her questions, time to fetch and carry her playmates to our house and her to theirs, time to educate her, time to pay attention to her development as a socially adept little person, and time to talk to her about the birds and the bees when the perfect moment came.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span">If this is what you call spoiling a child then I say bring it on!<span> </span>In my book the only way you can ‘spoil’ a child is to bring it up to be bad mannered, uncaring, rude, anti-social and selfish, and the best way to do that, is to bring it up with no guide lines or rules which will lead to a complete lack of self discipline and a false perception of their importance in the world. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span">Let’s face it ‘there’s nowt so queer as folk’, we’re all different thank goodness, because we are all a product of our indiv</span><span class="Apple-style-span">idual up-bringing, and that’s what makes the world such a wonderfully diverse place full of such wonderfully diverse people.<span> </span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span"> Granny Bloggings</span></p></span></span></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-42008047180518717122011-01-30T09:55:00.002+00:002011-01-30T10:01:29.065+00:00Silent Sunday<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Birdwatching...<div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb-q3jPfmn8KDjCre8PPeUTeYgU0pjBoj6iSTHx6ehRrOdgOmPVeBfKZsHgQKvzTjxcEGM3D-hqNmp8TWuJzxztLDNhCKUoDJZgE1aYc9yHdlvmiPrsSZV7BCjW-SQCyJI4P9cIpSeOxs/s200/DSC_0052.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567915906035110354" /></div><div><br /></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-64117746523647248712011-01-28T10:04:00.005+00:002011-01-28T10:16:57.349+00:00The Old Booby Question<span class="Apple-style-span" ><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>Bringing Back the Boobies!</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div>Disclaimer... if you are a) a squeamish male, b) a female who would like to breastfeed one day or c) anyone I have ever taught, you may not want to read this post!</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: transparent; vertical-align: baseline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have reclaimed my boobs. Yes, that is right, after 10 months of breastfeeding I (and my child) decided enough was enough. And now that I am finished, there are so many wonderful things I can do with my new and (not very) improved breasts; I can give myself a round of applause with them if I run up stairs (but not too fast or I give myself two black eyes); I no longer need a pencil case for my stationary; and if ever I need to defend myself I can use them as a form of fleshly </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; white-space: pre-wrap;">nun-chucks</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="background-color: transparent; vertical-align: baseline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; border-collapse: collapse; ">Despite all this, there is a lot of smugness involved in breastfeeding and after having now done my fair share, I can see why. First up, it isn’t the easiest. I expected to just pop the baby on and nurture her to her hearts content. I thought maybe I could do it whist carrying her in a sling, so that I could load the dishwasher and breastfeed, or maybe, hoover, read a book and breastfeed or even enjoy a latte, on the run, while catching the bus and generally gadding about town, while breastfeeding. How wrong I was... It took me about 9 weeks just to be able to give Little what she needed to keep her going, and another few weeks after that before I could do it comfortably without involving about 16 cushions. So when you do finally master it, yes, I can see why you might feel smug.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; border-collapse: collapse; ">I suppose the whole ‘Best for Baby’ thing makes us breastfeeders feel pretty pleased with ourselves too. That is until the government, or the NHS, or a bunch of scientists come along and tell you that maybe, just maybe, it ain’t best for baby and that some babies might need something different. What, you mean to tell me each individual baby is different and has different needs? Shock horror! Don’t get me started on that one.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; border-collapse: collapse; ">So I guess what I think I have learned over these many months of breastfeeding is that I am a closet bottle feeder. Despite the fact that I didn’t choose formula, I fervently want to defend the rights of women to choose. Some women can’t breastfeed, and some women don’t want to - and who am I to suggest that they should? The best thing about being a woman in the new millennium is having the right to choose; to choose whether or not to have kids, to choose whether or not to go back to work; to choose whether or not to marry; so why not have the right to a choice on this one too?</span></span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; border-collapse: collapse; " ><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; border-collapse: collapse; " >Mummatron</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; border-collapse: collapse; " ><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; border-collapse: collapse; " ><b>Back in the Day</b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; border-collapse: collapse; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; white-space: normal; " ><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">Ah, the old breast is best issue, how nice to see that some things about the world of babies never change!</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span> </span>When I had my first baby back in 1976 we were given an information booklet at our first Antenatal class.<span> </span>Antenatal classes were similar to NCT classes, but they were spread over quite a few weeks, were very instructive and they were absolutely free!<span> </span>We were taught about the birth, our part in the production (‘scuse the pun), how to relax (not much use during labour but great for when dealing with a two year old tantrum) and about how to care for the baby once we were ‘home alone’.<span> </span>But I digress so back to the leaflet:<span> </span>there was a section on feeding, and to be fair, it explained about both bottle and breast-feeding.</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">The breast-feeding pages showed a beautiful coloured picture of a slim young woman with long blonde hair wearing an elegant white frock.<span> </span>She was sitting in an antique rocking chair breast-feeding her baby next to an open French window through which you could glimpse a perfect garden of rolling lawns and gently wafting willow trees.<span> </span>Aaah.</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">Turn the page to find out about bottle feeding; the picture is in stark black and white and depicts a fat old hag of a woman with her greasy hair only partly covered by a turban, she is sitting on a hard wooden kitchen chair surrounded by the debris of several meals and her floral overalls are grubby with nicotine stains.<span> </span>She holds the baby with one hand whilst using her free hand to tap the ash off her ciggie before shoving a dirty looking bottle into the poor little waifs’ mouth.<span> </span>Well, I may exaggerate a little but you get the idea ……..</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">So even back in 1976, no pressure about breast-feeding then……………..</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">I think it has always been a contentious issue which not only veers madly from one fashion to another but has always been a ‘class’ issue.<span> </span>I was a little bit hippy in my day and so knew without a doubt that there was only breast-feeding for me (oh yes, and, I nearly forgot, the baby too).<span> </span>The trouble was my baby had ideas of his own, and believe me, however hard I tried that baby would not take the breast.<span> </span>I struggled, he struggled, we all struggled until, one day, presented with a vaguely <span> </span>yellow, slightly jaundiced unhappy little baby I gave in and offered him a bottle.<span> </span>Reader, he didn’t just drink, he guzzled!<span> </span>He relaxed, I relaxed, we all relaxed.</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">Another Life lesson learnt – thank you baby.</p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; ">Granny Bloggings</p></span></b></span></span></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-8641832582985080222011-01-21T07:59:00.002+00:002011-01-21T08:03:36.654+00:00Meow - Make way for this Tiger Mummy!<div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span id="internal-source-marker_0.9025015991646796" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >Tiger Mummy - Loud and Proud</span></b></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span id="internal-source-marker_0.9025015991646796" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span id="internal-source-marker_0.9025015991646796" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Good for Amy Chua. She published an article recently in the </span><a href="http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704111504576059713528698754.html"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">WSJ </span></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">about Chinese Mummies and their attitude to child rearing. For those of you who don’t want to bother to wade through the article here is a potted version; a Chinese mother is the best mother because they zealously guard their children’s future by enforcing strict rules designed to create the most wonderful human being possible. Nothing major, just rules such as practising your chosen musical instrument (either violin or piano and no other) for at least three hours a day; never coming home with anything less than an ‘A’; never watching TV or taking part in a school play; and never (and I mean never) complaining about any of the rules.</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">As you can imagine, it has provoked quite a stir. But I say good for her. It’s great that she is so confident that she is doing the right thing for her children and that she feels she wants to spread a little of her success to the rest of us. She calls it being a Tiger Mother (not to be confused with a Tiger Moth - a whole different, but I am sure equally intimidating thing).</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I have been inspired by her methods and have decided to become a Tiger Mother myself. Well, CK is 10 months now, and that isn’t too young to start...right? So here are my rules for successful parenthood which will be rigidly adhered to:</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">1. CK will be forced to enjoy herself for at least 70-95% of her waking hours. Everything will be made to be fun and games, and there will be no complaining about it.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">2. Mess is a big part of the regime. I expect grubbiness and stains on all clothes and a clean face will be a disappointment - if there isn’t food all around her gob then she clearly isn’t fully engaging with her meals.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">3. Music is key to producing a well rounded individual so we shall sing and dance our way through each day (I have already made a start - please see </span><a href="http://mummysquared.blogspot.com/2011/01/brain-mush-bleugh.html"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Brain. Mush. Bleugh.</span></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">)</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">4. Just as Ms Chua recognises the major effect of the peer group on the development of her girls and so forbids sleepovers and playdates, I too believe that colleagues can have a formative influence over my little one. That is why we will strive every day to see at least one friend, we will always take someone on holiday for Little to play with and I will commit to driving her from one social event to the next.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">So there it is folks, the game plan. I like to think of myself as a Lioness, ensuring that my child gets the best of everything in life. Fun, Happiness and the freedom to be who she wants to be.</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Mummatron</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; ">Lions and Tigers and Bears, oh my!</span></span></b></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; ">Tiger mothers?<span> </span>Well, I honestly think there is only one comment I can make on this:</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; ">I am SO proud of my daughter for her comments!<span> </span>She has said it all!!</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; ">(Do you think I could take a little credit though for bringing up my daughter to be able to see what is truly important in child rearing?)<span> </span>Also, because although I said that she has said it all, when have I ever managed to just be quiet?<span> </span>If asked my philosophy of child rearing I always say, ‘save it for the drugs, sex and rock and roll, and don’t worry about the sex and rock and roll.’</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Granny Bloggins</span></span></span></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-42516692320812165102011-01-19T09:00:00.005+00:002011-01-19T09:05:16.631+00:00The GalleryOnce again, it is gallery time and this week we have the challenge of Mother Nature. Where better to find her than in Africa? So here are my offerings for this week (I couldn't choose just one!)<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisXuHioJQJYH0YNNljpY9-kxsTUweXkR56kATJWD0aO1CVKowAO8j0azCYYTrypORWryual5aD33t-2BiiiwHbSjmBfR9MjHWH0CSSh2c5PrJCN2mv8ezghLOEv6985t-SRe9tf80NPRo/s200/DSC_0845-1.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563819800667350002" /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5np9e_veJRHXkx9ltX34GXAaPBmpLV8rZjCc439Pw4h3_PaP93H04gUCRGtNBfWF8gA612gep3AdgIszKt85ayx4UJn5370XfcIxbCsKhi9D0t1WF0mE38MxL1N904OOOVdIVy9kQIpM/s200/DSC_0115-1.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 155px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563820183915308130" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_h1LJSZvLFtyVrmtvKH94NJQtfjNSlXzJqEuyZB7f8b0qYRgtEQAkTuT2gFQRxFZqFbtp8FGkP0McHus5rPpOkXwfaVSqliHoGpzfyOuujfHYP5i5Tzd5pVm3zexpHdiuowF48yTOcmc/s1600/waterhole.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 72px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_h1LJSZvLFtyVrmtvKH94NJQtfjNSlXzJqEuyZB7f8b0qYRgtEQAkTuT2gFQRxFZqFbtp8FGkP0McHus5rPpOkXwfaVSqliHoGpzfyOuujfHYP5i5Tzd5pVm3zexpHdiuowF48yTOcmc/s200/waterhole.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563820088814016706" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKEm2Vsd1Xb3YzVJ7NF1Bqds8Uxyb0VOf9E_e6IbuJGt7bOWr35JMyxGz8Qp5I48RqVn4EzT8t5X8JYX-LxYTVzfkAPyWXh0ok-f6H01hs4TzOlkfF-ZfSwG7NSozawQK56CrnrPiOAjQ/s1600/DSC_0997.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKEm2Vsd1Xb3YzVJ7NF1Bqds8Uxyb0VOf9E_e6IbuJGt7bOWr35JMyxGz8Qp5I48RqVn4EzT8t5X8JYX-LxYTVzfkAPyWXh0ok-f6H01hs4TzOlkfF-ZfSwG7NSozawQK56CrnrPiOAjQ/s200/DSC_0997.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563819949485499778" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-88930525207966755592011-01-18T13:55:00.004+00:002011-01-18T14:19:14.348+00:00Seven Things...<span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There is a big old party happening out there in the Blogosphere today. A mixer, of sorts. But without the pressure of getting dressed up, and without actually having to have a real conversation. Weird eh? The idea is this - one blogger lists their '7 things you never knew you wanted to know about me' and then nominates other bloggers to follow suit. They (those cool little media pups in the know) call it a meme. And, thank you, <a href="http://ghostwritermummy.wordpress.com/">Ghost Writer Mummy</a>, for inviting me to this party. So here we go...
<br />
<br />But I thought I'd add a wee twist. As this is Mummysquared, I'm going to bring me old dame (Granny Bloggins will love that new title) to the party too. Some of the 7 below are me, and some are 'er. See if you can work out which is which and put your answers on a post card - or on the comment board below!</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">1. On the morning of my 16th Birthday I lit up a fag at the breakfast table, kind of because I could, but mostly to annoy my parents.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">2. When I was 17 I got a tattoo, <meta equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8">kind of because I could, but mostly to annoy my parents.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">3. I have a scar from when I stabbed myself trying to peel the cellophane from a cucumber - see, eating your 5 a day is a very dangerous pursuit.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">4. I used to drive a classic Beetle.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">5. I rocked out at the Isle of Wight festival when I was 19</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">6. I have a number of unusual crushes, including Nialls Crane (Frasier's wimpy brother), Martin Sheen, and Phil Jupitus</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">7. I sing whilst doing my weekly shop. Loudly. It keeps my spirits up and keeps other shoppers at bay - "Beware the loon!"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">OK... so that's it. See if you can figure out which is me and which is she... And then check out some other peoples lists. In this big game of blogger tag, I am slapping the following on the back:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Manana Mama (sorry I can't do the twiddly bit above manana) - because she writes so beautifully</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Tattie weasle - because I wanted to write Tattie Weasle and because she makes me laugh</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Tiddlyompompom - just because... As Marks and spencer would say.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ready? Go!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span>
<br /></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-83403296792198478082011-01-17T14:35:00.004+00:002011-01-17T18:22:18.827+00:00Watch where you step...<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small; "><b>Little Miss </b><b>Independant</b></div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I am such a fool. I have totally wished away the last 10 months. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; ">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I'll admit it, I have felt somewhat inadequate since becoming a mummy due to the fact that I haven’t been filled with a ‘Sound Of Music’ style joy, revelling in my new found mummy status. No, that’s right folks, I haven’t been skipping through fields in bloom, flipping my dirndl (sp?) with one hand and swinging my picnic basket with the other, singing about the wonders of being at home with a baby all day long. I have spent the last few months saying “It’ll be easier once she can roll over/eat solids/nap properly/ sit unaided /crawl/stand/ walk/complete an open university course.” </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br />And now she is crawling and I realise that I was wrong - for everyone of these milestones a new challenge comes along. What I wasn’t prepared for is the hard work involved in keeping her safe now that she is into everything, checking what scraps off the floor she is shoving in her mouth (such as ladybirds), and childproofing every door, shelf, cupboard and corner. Why didn't I make more of the last 10 months when she was a (cute) static blob?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I do, however, LOVE that she can now follow me from place to place, I love that she is Missy Independant (takes after her mother), and I love that she can find the cereal box cupboard and unpack every weetabix onto the floor. No I do, I love it *grits teeth*.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br />I even love that her favourite place in the house now is sitting on the inside of the dishwasher door. She stares at me with real glee every time on her face, "Look at me Mummy! I'm in the dishwasher" she seems to be saying, a dirty spoon clutched tightly in each hand and grubby, indeterminate food scraps stuck to her little derrière. Precious.</span></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Love in a Larder Cupboard</span></span></b></div><div><b><meta equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; border-collapse: collapse; "><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So little CK has started crawling and I have just realised how slow I am these days.<span> </span>Obviously, over the festive season I spent quite a bit of time in the kitchen, little CK following me like Marys’ proverbial lamb.<span> </span>She spent hours playing with an empty syrup tin and enjoyed chowing down on a silicone baking tray.<span> </span>However, <span> </span>it seems that all that time she was in fact as alert as a wolf in a lambing shed. Whenever I thought she was completely absorbed in her tin or her tray and I tried to slip away into the larder, she achieved light speed and was in through the door at warp factor five.<span> </span>She would have her gums wrapped around an onion or an apple before you could say, “Nigella!”,<span> </span>Then she would sit back, clutching her contraband, and look up at me with a cheeky little grin on her adorable face. <span> </span>Of course I am a complete push-over and thought her capers cute in the extreme.<span> </span>That’s not to say that granny is a complete idiot and <b><i>I</i></b> can reach the high shelves so everything migrated upwards except for the fruit and plastic boxes – hah!</span></span></p><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Granny Bloggins</span></span></p></span></b></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-49693405082692177102011-01-13T19:02:00.011+00:002011-01-14T09:24:21.970+00:00Take 5 Places... Listography<span class="Apple-style-span"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Mummy2's Top 5</span></span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br />
<br />So over at <a href="http://katetakes5.blogspot.com/">Kate Takes 5</a> (one of my favourite fellow bloggers) there is a weekly challenge to do a 'top 5' and this week it really called out to me as the challenge is to compile a list of your top 5 places. Oh yes, me likes. So here, with no further ado, and in no particular order are my Top 5 Hot (and cold) spots:</span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">1. Sossusvlei - you know on Windows you can get a sand dune as your back</span></span></span></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibNGF8-yVj9lAstjAWJykPFKQiRlcKZxpn0kn4TmWGQmxfg4_S4yRnhcRDL5HOZNQhtk-WW_9QHKI82ymXcvMoW9A_B8aq2sXcbt0YUnTEflo-JYOo0ayyTJr7A5cMEJSiZehRIinEzQ0/s200/DSC_0347.JPG" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561762727245176370" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> drop? That is Sossusvlei; well actually it is the dune just behind the vlei (that's a salt pan to you and me). When we visited there on our African Adventure, hubby insisted I get up before 5am, yes that's right <i>before </i>5am, to see it in it's glory. Surely it wasn't going anywhere, I protested,</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> surely it won't be any different at 7am. But (and I HATE to admit this) he was right. We were there alone, as the sun rose, surveying the whole of the Namib desert which lay in front of us. Wow.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">2. My house - smug much? Yep, I love my house. It is cosy and comfy and warm and has the biggest couch you have ever seen. A couch which will save us wh</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">en God sends the flood; a couch on which you truly could fit two of every animal. And this couch of prodigious proportions, it faces the TV. What more does a girl need?</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">3. Palenque, Mexico. In 2007 the much beloved and I decided to holiday in Mexico and we fell in love with it (once we </span></span></span></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3UOWHYbEpbokOcvw5TUkkqAQig3zzU2RJ-HJEHNr6SsTHpQux9rMCYul1xb5BYnVklSZGf6C-PHIdCjKegVAHSGou4hxL-T4yreU2bK5t5xAsyfH0HYR1mvC89wUYgZgYU33FSnHQCkQ/s200/357.JPG" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561752699516044962" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">left Cancun and all the Starbucks bloody franchises behind - don't get me wrong I love a frappucino every now and again, but I don't go for an 'exotic' holiday in order to get a mini sanitized American experience). We loved the beaches, the food, the culture, the history and t</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">he ruins. We did not love hurricane Dean which hit when we had no accommodation and only our little tiny hire car to shelter us. So when </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">we heard he was coming, we packed up and headed in land and found</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> ourselves in Palenque. And what a find... a deserted </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Aztec city hidden in the jungle. My very own Indiana Jones fantasy come to life... Except that my lovely hubby is not quite (almost, but not quite) Harry Ford. Dream on.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">4. Loch Katrine - Growing up in Scotland this was one of our favourite family spots for long walks and even though I probably moaned the whole time (Oh come on, it was my job, I was a child) I have very fond memories of picnics and ice creams and roller skating around there.</span></span></span></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1UvkD86zwFlAcVWxFnyMJ98FExhBL5fhoUpZ04bDFbEsO9rXnVfC1CkZsJtVMhrE3GS0N8jHgFRNx1S4TwRG4PYHj1yvo_JRdGxh135wJzZf-sng0-B9YVZcYLD_re8yM1Kw8PhxNQR8/s200/DSC_0923.JPG" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561753887342655426" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> I</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">even (believe it or not Granny B) have fond memories of</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> climbing the mountains nearby. And yes, I moaned all the way up and all the way down. I have perfected my technique nowadays though - always have a bar of chocky to eat at the top - it makes the whole ascent so much more worthwhile.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">5. So I reckon I seem like a bit of a coutryphile (countryfile?) from these entries, but the truth is th</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">at big wide open spaces scare me and I would much prefer the crush of a city street. I love nothing more than romping around the alleys and winds of a foreign hotspot, grazing, gawping and generally gallivanting about. So my finally entry is Istanbul. What an awesome city - no really , it inspires awe in me. It offers everything one would ever want; history, culture, big stuff to look at, tall stuff to climb up, yummy (really yummy) stuff to eat, and we</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">t stuff to sail about on. Oh and some bloody good moustaches. Thus.</span></span></span></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDF0yuFAD-zT51vzL_aLVDIqyv4RL-bjc9cv-9boQaVQ5QCuUiqPISsXRaON1aiOJTdbJNK1t4oGOkTP1CQakcJ8Hcc5UyjXsXbLw-jZTTRfNBk2PHGBjOGp-ZaN2JsazoJLEvDXiPXbw/s200/DSC_0174.JPG" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561762260629056898" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> PS Sorry I am so crap at adding photos - other people seem much more proficient at this one.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Granny B's Top 5</span></span></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><meta equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I find it interesting that my top 5 places do not completely coincide with my daughters’.<span> </span>By the age of eight my daughter had travelled, with us, right round the world so I thought our 5 places might have been more shared, perhaps we should have left her at home and saved the airfare!</span></span></p><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My top 5 places, like everyone elses’ are <span> </span>places where I have been happy, the weather has been, like baby bears porridge, juuust right, the company has been juuust right, the scenery/people have been juuust right…..</span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">1.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </span>Milford Sound in New Zealand.<span> </span>We stayed the night in a little camper van, all alone facing down this most beautiful Sound.<span> </span>During the evening an opossum dropped from an overhanging tree onto our roof and then sat looking apologetic at our feet when we tumbled out to see what had happened.<span> </span>A couple of Kia (parrots) decided the liked the rubber on the windscreen wipers and tried to steal it, and when Gramps went for a pee in the middle of the night he found he couldn’t perform as he was accompanied by two curious Kakapo (different parrots) who seemed very interested in his wedding tackle (sorry). It is a truly awesome place and not to be missed.</span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">2.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </span>OK here I agree Loch Katrine in Scotland was a favourite haunt of ours; where small visitors fell in the lake, daughter and friends broke the sublime silence screaming past on roller blades, bikes and skate boards, the Wrinkles strolled, friends sat and painted, and American visitors ‘wowed’ a lot.</span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">3.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </span>A place on the Dorset coast which will remain namless because, although, dear reader, I love you very much I do not want to share my special place with you!<span> </span>Suffice to say, it is wild and woolly and requires quite long walk to get there but to perfect the experience there is a pub nearby where you can sit by a log fire and eat a pie with brown sauce off a paper plate – ye ha.</span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">4.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </span>My daughters house, not because of that ridiculous sofa but, because my favourite people in the world live there.</span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">5.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </span>My bed.</span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Having travelled a lot in my time and been very impressed with things like the Grand Canyon and loads of beautiful beaches I find it interesting that those are my top 5 places, it just goes to show that it is not all about the scenery.</span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 10pt; margin-right: 42.75pt; margin-left: 18pt; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Granny Bloggins</span></span></p></span></span></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373494450283164942.post-86643615734226729122011-01-12T21:04:00.001+00:002011-01-12T21:06:35.782+00:00Brain. Mush. Bleugh.<div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span id="internal-source-marker_0.47530348505824804" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><b>The Soundtrack of my Day</b></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span id="internal-source-marker_0.47530348505824804" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; vertical-align: baseline; "><b></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: normal; vertical-align: baseline; background-color: transparent; "></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><u><br /></u></b></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Hello Puppy calling, do you want to play with me? We’ll have fun together while you learn your ABCs... Is the theme tune of my life. Does anyone else find themselves singing this one as they push the trolley round the supermarket, apply their mascara or indeed head to bed with darling hubby? No? It’s just me whose life is supported by the V-tech soundtrack? Yes that’s right, I have traded my sound knowledge of the lyrics of current popular hits from that there hit parade, for the lyrics of my child’s toys. </span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; background-color: transparent; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Bleugh.</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">And lets face it, it don’t get much better - being a mother has reduced me to spewing forth utter gibberish. I found myself in the kitchen earlier today making dinner in anticipation of lovely hubby’s return from work (oh what a wonderful housewife I truly am), singing (to the tune of ‘Here we Go round the Mulberry Bush’), “I’m making a yummy coq au vin, coq au vin, coq au vin, I’m making a yummy coq au vin, coq au coq.” An unfortunate ending to any song, I agree.</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I blame my child (although I must confess she was actually napping whilst I was composing the above gem). Not only do all her toys play the same plinky plonky versions of the same vile melodies, but her mere presence, and her sleep patterns, have reduced me to this nonsense. Thank God I am opting to stay at home - not sure a classroom of 16 year olds would really appreciate the Coq Au Vin song. Either that or I would be a You Tube hit overnight.</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Mummatron</span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; "><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; "><b><u>Inane Gibbering</u></b></p><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; ">What is it about babies that makes us all gabble nonsense at them in an absurdly high tone of voice?<span> </span>I am sure there is a good reason for it, and babies do seem to respond, but do we really want to teach them to speak in a register which only small dogs can pick up clearly?<span> </span>And what’s with all the rubbish we spout?</p><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; ">Many years ago we lived next door to a Dutch family with three small girls. <span> </span>During that time there were a couple of incidents which made me realise that I excel in nonsensical drivel.<span> </span>The first was when the two year old appeared at the fence in her bathing costume.<span> </span>I complimented her on her attire:</p><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; ">Me; “I love your bathers.”</p><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; ">Annelise: “what?”</p><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; ">Me: “I love your cozzie, my sister in Australia calls it bathers.”</p><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; ">Annelise: “What?”</p><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; ">Me: “ I love your bathing costume, my sister in Australia calls it bathers”.</p><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; ">Annelise: “What?”</p><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; ">Me: “I love what you are wearing, I call it a cozzie, but my sister in Australia calls it your bathers.”</p><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; ">Annelise, showing some impatience: “yes, yes, but what is this Australia?”</p><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; ">The second was when we were in our respective gardens one lovely summer afternoon and the father of the three girls pulled the hover mower backwards and took off two of his toes.<span> </span>Gramps, who was considerably younger in those days, vaulted over the fence and ran to administer first aid, the mother of the three girls ran to call the ambulance, and I gathered the three girls and took them indoors away from it all.<span> </span>The inane gibbering began almost at once as I heard myself saying:</p><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; ">“Don’t worry, your daddy will be fine, it’s only his toes … I mean unless he wants to be a ballet dancer he will be just fine.”<span> </span>What?!<span> </span>“He doesn’t want to be a ballet dancer does he?”<span> </span>Three solemn little faces regarded me with utter disbelief but, bless them, three little heads shook in unison and one of them even tried a wan little smile.<span> </span></p><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; ">So maybe one of my new years’ resolutions should have been to talk to my granddaughter as if she is a human being and not a cast member of a Punch and Judy show – think I’ll now go and practise a sexy lower register…</p><p style="margin-right: 42.75pt; line-height: normal; ">Granny Bloggings</p></span></span></span></div>Mummysquaredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11316899870247508321noreply@blogger.com5