Who am I?!

First, we are running behind with this week's blog. Sorry! But it's been a week of epic multi-tasking proportions.

Let's roll back to Thursday last week for a minute. As Mim was taking her midday nap, news came in that I'd been shortlisted for a job interview. This was very welcome news and as I continued with my usual Thursday nap-time cookathon, I started to turn my thoughts to the presentation and interview. These thoughts were halted abruptly as Mim woke up and we reverted to Mummy's Christmas card sweat shop - this is where I had her ladyship daubing green paint-loaded sponges onto paper and liberally waving around glitter glue for an hour in a fashion that would've made Tony Hart very proud. I thought I was rather brave, given our last craft session ended with us both doused in blue paint and looking like Smurfs.

Having finished with the festive artwork, we went bauble shopping (don't tell the good husband, apparently spending priorities do not include decorative Santas... what does he know?!) and as we rounded off the day with the usual mad maraudathon I prepared for the next task... the W.I.

A cursory hello to the good husband and it was off to a committee meeting for the nascent Flixton Women's Institute. Now, this is all new to me. I've never been one for jam and Jerusalem but ever since my maternity leave I'd been baking like a woman possessed and the good husband can only eat so much cake. I needed an outlet. I also have an insatiable need to 'get involved'. I don't know why this is? But I'm forever signing myself up for something or other and the W.I. at least is less strenuous than the 190 mile cycle challenge I heard myself agreeing to the last time I was feeling community spirited. Anyway, three hours later, I came away as Madam press secretary and feeling rather enthused by it all to boot!

The next few days were spent frantically alternating between work; entertaining Mim; interview preparation; Christmas tree purchasing; mince-pie, gingerbread and truffle making; Christmas card writing; Christmas shopping (mine and the husbands!) and W.I. goodness. I was starting to feel dizzy. Only one thing could help - copious amounts of alcohol!

And so it was, I found myself doing jaeger-bombs at three thirty in the morning. I know, I know! In my defence, I had just finished my interview and it was the much anticipated works Christmas do. If you think of it like that I really had no choice. It was a great night and my hangover was improved immeasurably by hearing I'd got the job!

All in all, it's been a crazy week but I can now relax into a great Christmas with the Good Husband and Millie and as ever, I have learnt several valuable lessons:

1) childcare on three hours' sleep and a shots hangover is not something to be repeated
2) The staff at the Hilton do not take kindly to drunken women doing wheelies round their lobby on their fancy luggage trollies
3) It's always good to sign up for new things, especially those that involve lovely ladies making cake
4) Put the baubles on the highest branches of the tree. Toddlers will try to ram raid your tree with buggies/ cars/ walkers/ sheer spirit
5) Don't accidentally put self-raising flour into your mince pie pastry

Word up!

When I started this blog a little over a month ago, I lamented that Millie was obsessed with a few words, namely Daddy. Well, I'm back in the game! 'Mummy' is the mot du jour (evidently still feeling the after effects of gay Paris).  Added to that, Mim seems to have added to her repetoire considerably.

While she's been rattling off farm animals, parts of the body and food items (most passionately) for a few weeks now, there has been a definite upsurge in both words and an understanding of the context in which they should be used. All of this has followed recovery from a mammoth nursery cold. I'm sure I read somewhere that developmental leaps come after a bout of sickness? Perhaps there's something in it? It hasn't worked for me, mind?!

Highlights of the week include:

• On arrival at cousin Fred and Billy's house she exclaimed 'door!' as we waited outside, then pointed to the porch light and said 'light', rapidly followed by 'on!' as it illuminated.
• Her animal vocab, of which monkey is at the forefront, has expanded to include giraffes, camels, elephants (with sound and mime effects Uncle Lawrence and Aunty Jess) and the lesser-spotted 'rufflo' - that's the Gruffalo to the uninitiated.
• After weeks of kicking off royally at the faintest hint of a nappy change, and I mean kicking off to the extent of abseiling off her changing table with her vest flapping in the breeze and her screams at a pitch only audible by dogs and dolphins, she's had a remarkable turn around. She has now taken to announcing she wants changing via the cunning method of saying 'bum' and toddling off to fetch her changing mat, placing it just so, then plonking herself down on it. 
• Half an hour spent stood at the window pointing and marvelling at the spectre of the moon as it disappeared and reappeared from behind shifting clouds. This was accompanied by persistent shouts of 'Moon, moon, moon!' throughout its appearance, to woeful cries of 'gone!' whenever a cloud obscured it.
• Telling me she's tired. Thanks Mim, I know this. I know this because I too am tired, tired becuase you elected to wake up at 4.45am this morning raring to go. They give with one hand...   

Quite why all of this makes me feel like I'm raising some kind of child genius I don't know? The small, rational part of my brain tells me that this is all fairly standard stuff, so I can only imagine it has something to do with that cruel and all-powerful proud parent gene. The one that robs you of the ability to show any kind of objectivity towards your offspring. It's a cruel mistress, particularly as it leaves you with your sense of self-awareness intact. You know you've gone over to the dark side yet are powerless to do anything about it.

Oh well, until normal order has been resumed (I reckon around Mim's teenage years when she is conducting herself in a mardy manner of which I am less proud) I will keep the basking in parental pride between myself and the good husband. He's worse than me. Yep, that bad!

When in Paris...

Triad on tour

Well, I survived. Just about. My first few hours in Paris were contemplative. I had several hours to get used to not worrying about anyone but myself, drink in the beauty of all things Paris and not have to bother myself with my daily to do list.

To begin with I didn't feel particularly liberated. It's hard to feel footloose and fancy free when you've a lump in your throat the size of Notre Dame. I missed my little bird, no two ways about it, but I was holding it together. My fellow travellers had only noted that I was uncharacteristically quiet, which some may consider a blessing. It was only when the good husband sent through a pic of her ladyship, all snuggled up and ready for bed, that the tears could be contained no longer. So it was that I found myself sitting in a beautiful Parisian bar crying into my woefully overpriced glass of Chablis.

Thankfully I pulled myself together. Helped by my highest heels, two very lovely and understanding friends, some serious back-combing, a bottle of rouge noir and the discovery of the best cocktail bar in the Marais, I nailed this Mum-at-large thing. By the time Sunday arrived we'd seen all the best sights - if you enjoy the sight of a cat on a lead, a shop full of macarons and the French Keith Lemon that is - and had a good old gossip to boot.

I'd had a fantastic time and it was good to be reminded of all the carefree things that make me feel like the old me. But, as I saw Mim waving at me across the airport, life as the new me felt better than ever.

Since my return, I note with relief that Millie is of course no worse off and her wardrobe has been enriched considerably. The only discernible difference is that she has, of late, insisted on wearing my beret and carrying round a Chanel bag? Could have been worse I suppose, at least she's not louchely smoking Gitanes.    



'Hat, hat!' Yes, you may wear Mummy's beret for lunch



You want to take the Chanel bag to nursery?!
As you wish, mademoiselle

 





A mother's guilt

As I prepare to take my first non-work related, non-wedding related trip away from Millie, I am filled with a deep sense of guilt.

I had to go on the other jaunts so they were somewhat immune from my guilty conscience. However, the only reason I have for sodding off to Paris with the girls for two nights is sheer indulgence. As a mother, I didn't think that was allowed anymore? To make matters worse, it is almost as if Millie has cottoned on to this fact.

These days my daughter goes straight off to sleep as soon as I put her down for a nap, or for the night  (believe me it wasn't always thus). When I leave for work, she waves me off with a cheery 'bye bye!' and a cursory wave of the hand. However, with the whiff of my impending departure hanging in the air, the rule book has been thrown unceremoniously out of the window.

Mim is grumbly, Mim is refusing to sleep anywhere but on me, Mim is generally being clingy.  I would assume she was sickening for something, except she's literally just had a cold. I know, I've now got it. That's where we come on to my next sod's law moment. It would appear that my health and wellbeing is in cahoots with my daughter as far as making sure this trip is one tinged with distress.

I am now suffering a full blown cold, shivers, nose about to explode, hacking cough... you get the picture. So as I frantically down lemsips, try to put a clingy Mim down to sleep, start my packing, batch cook, leave out ironed clothes and find time to get some freaking France money I find myself thinking 'HELL'S TEETH I NEED A HOLIDAY!' Oh wait...

NB. Dear Family and friends,
If I haven't returned by Sunday lunchtime ask the Gendarmerie to search for a frazzled looking women in her mid-thirties, collapsed somewhere off the Pont Neuf in a macaroon-induced diabetic coma.
   

The monkey is dead. Long live the monkey

Sad news has come to pass on the house of Millie. Shortly after my last post I was summoned to Millie's room by the sound of her hacking cough.

Mim had been suffering from the latest nursery cold, so I'd grown accustomed to the snuffles and coughs. This, however, sounded somewhat more vigorous. I was right. By the time I had reached the top of the stairs my little bird had coughed so hard she'd thrown up... all over her beloved monkey.

Now Monkey, as you know, has become the love of Millie's life. She shouts for him obsessively in the style of a miniature Johnny Vegas. But monkey is of the microvable heat-up kind, the kind that cannot be put in the washing machine. OH GOD!

So... having chased an inconsolable, puke-smeared Mim around her room by night light, I finally managed get her cleaned up, her bed changed, and get her back off to sleep. Then the fun began.

I had managed to extract monkey by stealth and had now commenced the pain-staking operation of picking at his matted, rancid fur like a nit-picking mummy monkey. I then proceeded to sponge clean the little dude with Comfort and hung him up to dry.

Morning came. Monkey was clean, monkey was dry, but monkey stank to high heaven and his tummy had taken on a most peculiar tinge of brown. Monkey had to go.

R.I.P. monkey

Having disposed of the putrid primate, I hotfooted it to Dunelm Mill to procure a replacement. Please God! Please God! 

As we sped into the shop I was overjoyed to find not one, but two monkeys still sitting on the shelf! Then I noticed that there were many more dogs and cows to be had and attempted to interest her in one of those. At least that way I'd have an endless reserve to fall back on in moments of crisis, of which I'm sure there would be many more. Mim looked at me like the fool I so clearly was and I crumbled. I promptly snatched up the two remaining monkeys and thrust them both towards her beaming chops.

While I'm sure this attachment object business will come to pass in due course, in the interim I urge any of you, next time you're passing a Dunelm Mill, to fetch up a microwavable monkey or two and know that you will one day be my saviour!



Left: Monkey.
Right: Stunt monkey (now safely tucked away in reserve)



Monkey swag

Monkey is invited
to join Mim for  a
celebratory lunch




 

In the blink of an eye...

 Millie with her friend
Aidan in the early weeks 

I like babies, especially the teeny ones. You know, the type of babies that like lots of cuddles and require your undivided attention. So, as you can imagine, I revelled in the early days of motherhood, sleepless nights notwithstanding.

Millie and Aidan one year on

While the good husband and several of my new Mum friends were eagerly awaiting the early baby days to pass so they could enjoy the more interactive ‘doing stuff’ stage, I made the most of being the centre of Millie’s universe. So, it was with some considerable upset that I acknowledged my little bird had turned, seemingly overnight, into a toddler who most certainly knows her own mind and isn’t afraid to let you know it.

However, I didn’t grieve for long. The milky, hazy, baby days may have gone but so too has the frumpy clothing and matchsticks in the eyes (see above right). In its place I have been delighted to find that I now have a plethora of tremendous toddler fun to enjoy. With every passing day, my tiny marauder seems to add something new to her arsenal.


This week, I have especially enjoyed the following:

1.      Teasing. Mim brings forth one of her prized possessions, waits for me to try and take it, then cackles with glee as she scuttles away in the opposite direction (repeated several times in rapid succession for maximum hilarity). Minx.

2.     Monkey. This week, cuddly monkey has enjoyed buggy rides, been fed dinner and had a vigorous go on the swings, roundabout and slide at the local park. Her face lights up brighter than Vegas when she sees the little dude. It’s not a stretch to say that if monkey could bring her food he would usurp me entirely in her affections. He NEVER leaves her side.

3.      Theft. She steals my breakfast with absolutely no subtlety whatsoever. This was rendered slightly less humorous when she rather over zealously tried to grab my spoon with the inevitable result that I ended up wearing the contents of the bowl. Mim, incidentally, did not spill one drop on herself.

4.       Dancing. It never stops. See dance-along-a sound of music.

5.      Family. Freddie, Billy and Biddabell – she asks for her cousins on repeat. The day usually starts with a round of their names and a kiss for her picture of Bidabell. This week she stopped in her tracks in front of a poster of a little girl that shared a passing resemblance and pointed at it, shouting ‘Bidabell!’ rather excitedly at the top of her lungs. She’s even asked for her in her sleep. As for Freddie and Billy, there is nothing more heartwarming than watching them all play together. Well, for about five minutes until they start battling each other over sharing stuff.

As for my love of teeny babies? Well, as soon as the novelty of drinking wine again has worn off I’ll go and fetch the good husband from the cellar!

Underground, overground, Mimbling free

It's finally happened. The good husband is leaving me. For a man... Kurt Cobain to be exact.

For those of you who know my beloved well, you will know that his obsession with Kurt knows no bounds. It's second only to his love of food. And that's a BIG love.

After a visit to see our friends Willem, Sara and Mr.Black (small jack russell with a lot of moxie if you were wondering), Mik struck upon an idea. You see, Willem and Sara have a new house and this house has a special room just for Willem. It is a glorious loft den full of music and guitars and thoughts of single malt. I could literally see the cogs of Mik's brain beginning to turn.

Fast forward a week and 'project cellar' is in full swing.   This weekend Mik has been clearing boxes and rummaging around among the spiders to unearth his old Nirvana memorabilia. Took a while. I'd hidden it well.

So, now his very own Daddy sanctuary is complete. The mini fridge will be installed before long and I will never see him again. Alas, I'll still be able to hear him - the electric guitar has moved down there with him. I give it about a month before my brother has pitched up with his drums.

Somewhere, amidst all of this underground activity, there was still time for some serious overground marauding and we managed to squeeze in:

• the park
• the swimming baths
• the park
• a Beatles dance-athon
• finger drums
• some quiet reading (praise be!) 
• and the park... again (Note to self: future blog topic on the highs and lows of Trafford and South Manchester parks).

All of which was kicked off in a typically boisterous start to the day.

The Mimbling knows no bounds.

Hello! Is it me you're looking for?

The first thing I would like to point out about this video is that I didn't get her ready. This occurred on a Monday, which is Daddy's day. 'Nuff said!

Now, while we love Nanna's knitted finery, I shuddered to note that a button had dropped off her cardigan (where is it? NB. must find and remove choking hazard). To top it off, the cardy is clearly not co-ordinated with her (summer) trousers, and come to think of it, where's her coat?! Daddies just don't worry about these things. They have fun instead.

This is probably the reason why Millie is so chilled out, a remarkable thing given I'm her Mum. It is also probably the reason why her new favourite word is 'Daddy', much to my chagrin. I get her up in the morning to be greeted by 'Daddy!', I collect her from nursery 'Daddy!', at various points during our days off together, 'Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!' Sigh.

I should point out that one of her first words was Mama, but she's mastered it. It's no longer of interest. She's moved on. She's like a tiny Simon Cowell bestowing favour on the next shiny bit of pop tinsel before casting them remorselessly aside. So, for now it's all about Daddy. But I sense that his time will soon be up.

You see, following a particularly vigorous fun-packed maraud around Head over Heels, Chorlton - Bidabell (that's cousin Isabel to you and me) has been singled out for special attention.

Exclamations of 'Bidabell!' are usually to be accompanied by Mim toddling off to find a picture of her to plant a kiss on. It's a heart-warmimg sight to behold.

As for me, I remain hopeful that one day my star will shine brightly once again. Until then, I'm changing my name to Daddy Bidabell.




Bidabell and Millie x

Let sleeping babies lie...

The clocks have gone back. The nights are drawing in. The weather has taken a turn for the Arctic. This prompts two thoughts: 1, should you ever wake a sleeping baby? and 2, what do you do with them if you do?

Last year, Millie was just three months old when this monumental event heralded the onslaught of weeks and weeks of zombified sleep deprivation. One year on and the same event has sparked a period of slumber loving. It is epic by comparison (Shhh! Don't tell the sleep fairies, they'll take it away).

Just the other day, the good husband awoke with a start at 8.50am. Our alarm - that would be Millie - had failed to go off. Off Mik beetled to work, as I scurried into her room to check that she was still breathing. You see, anything beyond 6.30am is something of an event in our house. There she was, tucked up, happily snoozing. I left her to it. I'm not mental!

Given I didn't have to be in work (for this happened on a Thursday, when I am free from the shackles of press enquiries and branding brainstorms), I enjoyed a leisurely shower, gave the kitchen a once over and savoured a hot cup of tea without distraction or grabbing baby paws. Finally, at around 10am she woke up. Bright eyed, bushy tailed and ready to maraud.

This is where the second dilemma kicked in.

This Summer we've been living in the public parks, beer gardens (a little over frequently) and community farms of south Manchester. As the weather has deteriorated we've moved onto - and already exhausted - the library, the aquarium, babycinos at Costa Coffee and dancing around the living room. I know all the words to 'my pencil's out to get me' courtesy of hours spent at Head over Heels playcentre in Chorlton and I really can't spend any more time at the supermarket - Millie's favourite place - for fear people will suspect I'm stockpiling tinned goods for a nuclear holocaust... or the harvest festival. One or the other.

So, any suggestions for things to do on rainy days gratefully received. And no, they can't just include 'visits to Nanna and Grandad's house'!

So here it is...

...the reason I entered into the hitherto uncharted world of blogs - Dance-along-a Sound of Music.

This is the video that brought on a clamour of 'more Millie stuff' from family who had thus far braved facebook only to keep abreast of my daughter's daily to'ings and fro'ings. Now expectations have been set way beyond the mere status update. We've gone full-on multimedia.

So, at the risk of alienating even further my beleagured facebook friends, the time has come to get blogging.

This is now the place where all the latest pics, films and general happenings of my little giddy kipper will call home.