I came, I saw, I did a little shopping...

Trainers and Trotters

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?
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.
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.
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.
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.

The Mummatron

This Little Piggy

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!

Granny Bloggins

Growing Pains

When your baby is not your baby anymore...

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.

How do you know when you baby turns into a toddler? There should be a few clues:

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.
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.
And then she looks at me as if it is my fault.

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.

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.

Mummatron

Big Babies

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!

Granny Bloggings

Welcome to the Terrible Twos?

Welcome to Tantrumland

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.

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.

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.

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!

Mummatron

Temper Temper

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. 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). However, I do remember a time when she was a tiny little person of two. 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 must in baby fashion accessories.

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. 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, 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. 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. This worked relatively well on the shiny floor but once we hit the tarmac of the car park the going got pretty tough. I trudged, she screamed, I stopped, she looked up, I asked if she had had enough, she nodded and stood up. I think it was the look in my eye!

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. 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 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.

Granny Bloggins