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