If: An Ode to the Mother

If you are familiar with Kipling's poem "If" where he describes the attributes required to be a grown up then I can only apologise. I have pillaged his fine verse and manipulated it to describe the attributes required to be a mother... 

If you are a member of the PTA or NCT, I do apologise. You are lovely people really. 

If you can't keep your head when mums about you   

    Are losing theirs and terrifying you,   

If you can't cope when your NCT doubt you,

    And make no allowance for their choice too;   

If you can wait - but be so tired of waiting,

    And make up lies -  but not be duped by lies,

Or have mated, but can't mind ever mating,

    And never look good, nor ever be wise:

Never look good

If you can't dream, when passed out on the pillow;   

    If you can't think— yet are always on, go!   

If you can't face the PTA once again

    And yet treat those impostors just the same;   

If you can't bear to hear your clichés spoken

    Uttered despite promising to be "cool",

Or watch the things you have treasured be broken,

    And stoop to pick ’em up. Life can be cruel!

A dreamless sleep

If you can ignore the big heap of washing

   And rake through it for a top without sauce, 

And fail, leaving the house filthy for shopping

    And whilst dreading bumping into your boss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To answer cries in the dark around two,   

And stay awake when there's nothing left in you

    But the sheer need to protect this life, new.

New life

If you have the will to "pretend" one more time, 

    Or watch as food coats the walls where hands touch,

If dealing with the toddler poop now seems fine,

  And midnight vomit is much of a much. 

If all of your clothes either stretch or "control", 

    Your unwashed hair is scraped back in a bun;

If you can quote all six of the Paw Patrol, 

    Whilst navigating the morning's school run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a stressed out Mum!

Oh the stress... 

Some Day I'll Be Saturday Night: The Week That Never Ends

Well it has been quite the week on the rodeo of life that is parenting small children. The universe seemed to delight in making the stars align in such a way that an astrological apocalypse was created, if you believe in that sort of thing, interfering with my week as a working mother of two young children.

Let me walk you through it:

Monday

As we were on the 2.5 mile round trip to school, the wheel of the pram (and sole transportation device for the highly time pressured morning drop off) snapped beyond repair leaving it to limp sadly along the road with an air of Del Boy's Reliant Robin. Having coaxed it back down the hill and waved my husband and the The Toddler off to coax it home, I headed into the office to start my working week. As I settled myself down to work, opening my laptop and passing some light chit chat with my colleagues about the weekends events (theirs lavish and fun-filled, mine protracted and potty-based) I answered the phone to a rather distressed husband who, upon returning home had discovered that we were imminently about to be revisited by all of our son’s contributions to the family reunion in Pooland and was requesting the number of a "decent drain man". I have quite the little black book, clearly.

Tuesday

I woke with renewed optimism as the drains had been remedied and a new wheel was winging its way to us in the post. This was extremely fortunate as it was a day when optimism would be crucial as I had to run the gauntlet that is swimming lessons; solo. Now you may think that I am being overly dramatic and I am sure that there are parents in their droves who routinely deal with two small children in a swimming pool without too much anguish whatsoever. However I am not one of them. Dealing with two hungry, grumpy, slippery dictators who are reluctant to leave the fun of the pool never mind help in their drying and dressing is akin to wrangling a lubricated, enraged octopus into a leather one piece. Twice.

In all honesty though, the ordeal of swimming was merely the cherry on the top of this day following our impromptu voyage into town after the school drop off. Mixing a borderline potty trained toddler who has a penchant for trying out all the local facilities available to him with the first real cold snap of the year (rendering his bladder overactive and thimble sized) was, perhaps in hindsight, a touch cavalier but you will recall that I was feeling somewhat optimistic that morning. Having merely vacated the third premises a matter of moments earlier, the toddler emitted a shriek for "potty!" at such a pitch that it would have been injudicious of me to ignore his plea. The nearest convenience was (inconveniently) four floors above and only accessible by a single lift which moved at the pace of a fatigued snail so by the time we reached our destination the toddler was shedding clothes at a terrifying rate of knots as he ran towards his target. I too, ditched everything I was carrying in order to airlift him onto the receptacle in time.

We made it. My phone? Not so much.

Wednesday

Wednesday was a fiasco from beginning to end. My mother routinely treks across the country to provide childcare for us on a Wednesday thereby allowing me to hold down some form of employment without bankrupting ourselves on nursery fees. Today however, an ill judged petits four after lunch with the girls on the preceding day had resulted in a fractured front crown and a trip to the emergency dentist which meant I was left to partake in a business call with my youngest attempting to sit on my head. Totes profesh.

Thursday

Thursday was doomed before it began. I returned from a late hospital appointment the previous evening to the news that The Toddler was lurgy filled, spiking a temperature, intolerant of everybody and everything and, as a result, had taken to his bed at an unprecedented early hour. We settled on half hourly checks (never ones to overreact) and my mother called at half past ten to relay her concerns of meningitis. Needless to say sleep was sparse. It was determined prior to his waking that a GP visit was essential so the husband delayed his own GP duties to drop the Big One off at school to allow me to partake in the ridiculous system that our medical practice operates whereby patients must present on the morning to be seen as part of a triage system. With a two hour wait ahead of us (and a mandatory training course on the other side of the country beckoning) I was a touch frustrated to see the toddler terrorising the rest of the waiting room as "Spider Max" showing no signs of being anything other than brimming with health and vitality.

Damn you child.

Friday

Husband had to go away for the weekend and I was entirely understanding right up until the point that there was a double danger nap. At five o'clock. Enough said.

Saturday

Today is still ongoing and whilst I generally like to remain open minded, being that this day started at four thirty and has involved liquid poop I feel that perhaps I should just submit and wait until the stars shift or Mars does its retrograde thing.

Tomorrow is a new day.

Don't Speak: The Toddler Learns to Talk

My youngest is hitting that "good age", you know the one I mean; when their vocabulary extends beyond "Daddy" (accompanied by a wistful look and a clammy hand round his neck) and "No Mummy!" (two words that are never to be separated, clearly attributing blame for everything from third world poverty to why mud doesn't taste so good.) Now though, we are hearing those words being strung together into coherent sentences, so articulate (by the third attempt and with a firm grasp of the back story) and insightful ("triceratops DOES have a horn, my darling!") that no one can possibly dispute his superior intellect.

High brow conversationalist. 

His new found prowess with the spoken word just seems to have made life that little bit easier for all concerned. I (mostly) understand him and he understands me, despite deliberately choosing to disregard everything I say. He and his sister play so well together (now that he can follow orders and mimic feline behaviour upon demand) that I hope to soon be usurped as the lead in our impromptu (and yet critically acclaimed) household productions. The ability to reason with him is within touching distance (on a good day) and he is turning out to be quite the conversationalist.

They are forming an alliance. 

However, getting to this point (and I suspect moving beyond) has not been without its hurdles. There have been times when his mispronunciations have rendered us utterly bewildered,  convulsing with laughter and, on one occasion, absolutely toe- curlingly mortified when he started screaming "You can't!" at the top of his lungs but misemployed a "u" rather than an "a" in the second word.

Our much less offensive and therefore endearing mispronunciations to date include (but are not limited to) "poop-pets" when describing the toy he had created by donning his socks on his hands during a long car journey, "empehent" for the giant grey creature with tusks and a trunk and "ear-muffins" in reference to his sisters winter headgear. Whilst these examples still make me laugh on the inside I pity the fool who allows their lip curl upwards in his presence lest you forget that "it is NOT FUNNY!"

Just not funny... 

His frustrations do not stop there I am afraid. Should you fail to comprehend the information which he is desperately trying to impart, he will repeat the phrase a maximum of three times before raising his clenched fists, gritting his teeth and making a shrill, blood curdling scream thereby ensuring that you are fully aware that you have displeased him. I once had a rather protracted conversation with him about the number of ways in which I did not resemble the rotund, balding effigy of a medieval heroic figure to which he was directing my gaze whilst declaring "That's you! That's you, Mummy!" It was only upon dodging the flailing limbs and rupturing my left ear drum that I realised he had probably been pointing out a "Statue! Statue Mummy!" I should never have doubted him. Did I tell you that he is really clever?

Hopefully all these things will be in the past now that his vocabulary is expanding at a terrifying rate of knots. The one aspect of the toddler which I hadn't factored in, however, is their rather brutal honesty. My first child left the womb exuding empathy; she would cuddle you if you looked anything less than delighted and when her words arrived they were always thoughtful and considerate. My youngest has little time for that. He frequently keeps me updated on the squishiness of my stomach, the prevalence of my grey hairs and the number of wrinkles that adorn my tired face. 

Brutal honesty

Maybe I won't rush the arrival of the rest of his vocabulary.

Let It Go: The Subtle Art of Potty Training

This week has involved exponential loads of laundry, protracted periods spent on unforgivingly cold and hard tiled flooring and a multitude of poetic musings on the potential emotions that faecal matter may experience when finally reunited with their long lost family. For this week we have been potty training.

I will admit that I have been putting it off for a while. 

I have, in fact, previously denied my son access to a toilet having cruelly met his inaugural utterance of the phrase "POT POT!" with "Good boy for asking but you might just need to go in your nappy this time". In hindsight, a bit harsh but in my defence, we were on a motorway and I really don't like pulling over, or driving, or having urine stain my shoes. However, as he started to verbalise his preference for the porcelain over the junior Tena lady on a more regular basis the proverbial bullet had to be bitten.

The Holy Grail

The first step was to go underwear shopping for some "Big Boy Pants" that he couldn't possibly bear to part with should they become sullied by some rogue activity from his nether regions. Superheroes seemed to be his preferred theme but he was reminded that these gallant avengers were at his mercy. His poop was their nemesis.

"There is nothing to fear but fear itself" AND poop. Obvs. 

We were timid at first, choosing to loiter around the house with The Boy roaming trouser free and flaunting his pants to any passing visitor/delivery man while we punctuated each sentence with "Do you need to go pot- pot?“ and" Remember that Batman will need to go in the bin if the poop gets him" - a lesser known fact applicable to all masked avengers. We would hear his strained vocals, witness his straight legged stance and immediately enquire as to whether he needed a vessel into which his imminent deposit could be made. When he would immediately answer in the negative, we would play on his love for his novel wardrobe addition by decreeing them to be lost forever should they fall victim to his bodily excretion. An assessment that would induce him to instantly reabsorb any faecal matter which maybe making its way towards the light.

After 48 hours or so we became emboldened by the lack of reverse banana hammocks and started to reintroduce more layers on the bottom half. This bolstered us with false confidence as we played loose and free with the olfactory nerves; lifting the toddler in the air and taking deep, almost meditative, inhalations to assess the situation on a regular basis. Sure, we were accident free but we had had to imprint a map of public toilets, anonymous department stores and friendly establishments whom we could access at a moments notice should the need arise, and it did. With a disturbing and relentless frequency.

At least he dressed for easy access... 

As my work days approached and the baton of childcare was about to be passed to the Mother ship, The Boy's stomach had started to bloat to the point that he resembled an off season Santa who was prone to overindulgence and was yet to don his whiskers for the winter season. Yet, still that turtle refused to emerge from its hiding place. We were all on tenter hooks.

We were all living on the edge

In the end it took a communal visit to the bathroom with his beloved mentor/sister and the decision to coach one another through the birthing process. When it finally happened, he frightened himself by turning to look at what had been lurking within and was startled to find the potty straining to contain what must have constituted half his bodyweight not five minutes earlier. Party poppers were discharged with wild abandon, anthemic songs were chanted and everyone hugged amid slaps on the back and tears of pride being wiped from their smiling faces. We had done it. I felt like lighting a cigar.

I returned to work with a spring in my step and when I received a phone call the next day from my mother to relay the magical story of how The Boy had reenacted the event that very morning, I was beaming with a pride so overwhelming that I had to relay the news to my unsuspecting work colleagues. An act I immediately regretted as I witnessed their faces adopt what can only be described as a mixture of dismay and disgust. My mother's pride was so palpable that she later confused my enquiry into how their day was going with a request for a more detailed assessment of his faecal matter. A request that she happily and rather illustratively attended to as a matter of priority.

Communications took a dark turn

We are now four days into no accidents and two poos down. Whilst I would be cavalier to declare Gotham to be safe from imminent harm I do believe that the masked avenger is definitely getting his strut back.

Summer In The City: A Mini-Break to London

This week we are on holiday. Now, all burglars take note. Please, have a rummage and help yourselves to as many luridly coloured plastic toys as you can fit into your swag bag. I would personally recommend anything by vtech: they seem to have set their volume levels at that of a Slipknot concert but with less musical content. A must in every house.

Anyway, I digress, going back to the holiday with having been to France only a month ago in the company of a heavily expectant member of the family (who thankfully made it back to British soil with baby still in situ), we had booked a week off after the due date in order to make the pilgrimage south and welcome the newest member of the family. We had planned to spend the majority of the week with the grandparents in rural Shropshire, introducing our city children to the concept of country walks, wildlife and village fetes but with a brief foray into the big smoke to visit cousins new and old(er).

Country chic...

The first leg of country living was a success with unprecedented good weather and access to a garden sprinkler. Minutes of entertainment. The second leg involved an arduous journey into the bustling metropolis of London town where success was brief, intermittent and cruelly interspersed with prolonged periods in a car with no air conditioning that reached temperatures hotter than the sun.

The audience with the new babe as she wriggled, sighed and mewled to perfection (as only those days into their lives can do) captivated the toddlers' attention for at least 45 seconds before they were back to rough housing their, somewhat fatigued, uncle who had been weakened by the nocturnal demands of his progeny.

Minutes of entertainment...

Our next "adventure" took us across town to the Natural History Museum where the Big One was desperate to introduce the Little One to her "best friend" Butterfly- The T- Rex. There was much anticipation as we boarded novel mode of transport after novel form of transport; there was an actual Big Red Bus followed by a "Choo Choo" that went under the ground before boarding another that travelled above the houses. They were living their best lives.

When we finally arrived they ran straight in pointing to all the signs adorned with pictorial representations of the giant reptiles with cries from the Little One of "Mummy! Mummy! Dine-e-saw!" He trotted after his beloved big sister with complete trust that she was leading him to see something that would change his life forever. "Mummy! Mummy! Come! Come!" As we entered the darkened enclosure where "Butterfly" lived and she emitted a deep, prolonged roar he hurled himself between my legs gripping so tightly that I feared the sensation would never return. With pleading eyes raised he muttered "I a bit scared. No like dine-e-saw". We tried and failed to reassure him explaining that she was no more real than his toy Dog Dog, perhaps delivering two cruels blows in one day so we admitted defeat and went to buy ice cream.

Just terrified

Next on the agenda was a visit to the Queen's house, an absolute must in the book of the pre-schooler who has made the decision that an actor's life is for her, being that she hears this is the way to become a Princess. The toddler was easily swayed with images of Julia Donaldson's Ladybird on Holiday so back on the various forms of transport we went.

Four flights of stairs, three toddler tantrums, two cramped trains and one busy change later we were there. As I pointed in the direction of the gold embellished palace with the flourish of a magician's assistant I was greeted with a look of disdain: "Urgh, can we go home yet?"

So over it...

So back into our mobile oven we went just in time to sit in gridlock traffic before extending our journey by several miles in an attempt to rock the raging toddler into sleep, all to the musical accompaniment of "It's a Small World" on repeat, for 3 hours. 

Oh, if only it was.

Enter Sandman: The Nighttime Negotiation

It is a truth universally acknowledged that, following an Oscar worthy performance of surprise when the allotted bed time hour rolls around, a toddler will resolutely refuse to go to sleep on those evenings on which you need them to most. These evenings include, but are not limited to:

1. When you have cobbled together enough energy and enthusiasm for a rare night out and have promised the rather shell shocked looking babysitter that the children will be asleep for the duration.

2. Following a particularly hard day at the office (be it actual, home or metaphorical); when you have expended every last ounce of patience placating Nora the office nag/Nigel from accounts/Ned the tyrannical toddler.

3. When you have any form of urgent, non toddler friendly activity to undertake e.g. the home hair dye when you are less roots and more bad ombre, any computer based activity (see bill paying, blogging, on line shopping, etc.), long overdue marital relations (oh it feels good to laugh.)

These are the evenings on which the toddler will take it upon themselves to inhabit the role of cocaine addled Wall Street banker circa 1985. Their meticulously choreographed bedtime revolt will undoubtedly follow five similar stages to those of grief:

Stage One: Denial

At the mere mention of bed the toddler will instantly find great interest in a previously ignored plaything, probably previously relegated to the bottom of the over filled toy box which they will undoubtedly need to violently ransack to locate afore mentioned object. This toy shall utterly consume them to the point that they will be unable to hear repeated requests to brush their teeth, use the potty or stop torturing the family pet.

"Bedtime you say? We're off..."

Stage Two: Anger

At the point in which you need to step in and physically extricate them from the situation, proffer the toothpaste laden brush towards their person and plop them on the urine receptacle they shall mount one of two responses:

(1)   Writhe around like a fish on dry land until you are forced to put them down for fear of dropping them (which would only serve to delay bed time further – eyes on the prize, people.)

(2)   Full body plank with such rigidity that you fear rigor mortis has set in.

He is a wily character...

Stage Three: Bargaining

If your toddler has mastered the art of verbal communication they will likely attempt to play on your emotions, weakened by the day’s events and guilt for your unfettered joy at the potential of parting with your beloved offspring, you will likely be wholly susceptible to their doe eyes, petted lips and pleads for “just one more stowy” (knowing full well that they can pronounce the ‘r’s’ with aplomb when they are demanding rice cakes, raisins and Raa Raa the Reprehensible Lion.) Should your toddler be yet to vocalise they will employ their inner thespian, using the body as a tool to pluck at your heart strings. There will be clammy hands thrown around the neck, deep and desperate cuddles that make you feel indispensable; the absolute definition of their continued wellbeing. You will be convinced that a few minutes more body contact will eventually result in a bedtime without reproach. You will be wrong though.  

Just 5 more minutes....

Stage Four: Depression

The tears will flow. And flow. Then they will ebb, and you may even get hopeful, but then they will flow. You shall wait outside the door listening to their anguished cries citing your failure to love them as the reason that they can no longer go on. You will feel bad.

You will feel (and potentially look) bad

Stage Five: Acceptance

The good news is that no child has actually stayed up all night (don’t quote me on that) and they will eventually tire themselves out and have to submit to slumber. There is, however, the distinct possibility that by the time this happens you will have missed the event you were meant to be attending, witnessed your babysitter running for the hills with arms flailing or fallen asleep yourself.

   ...and relax

Sorry about that.  

Listen to Your Heart: A Tongue In Cheek Review of What The Ladybird Heard Live

'What the Ladybird Heard" - Julia Donaldson's modern classic about a small, timorous  insect who uses her ingenuity to overthrow a local crime ring when she learns that they threaten those to whom she is closest - is a story that the breeders of this country are well acquainted. It is a story which transcends race, class and the age of faecal continence; the tale of good overcoming evil and a small, noble voice finally being, not merely acknowledged, but revered. 

We were an hour early

In short, the telling of such a beloved chronicle was always going to be a tough undertaking and I arrived at the doors of the King's Theatre in Edinburgh under a cloud of scepticism. To be honest, when I entered the world of children's literature in the summer of 2014, I favoured those publications with rhyme and elegant art. Having stumbled upon Julia Donaldson (which in parenting terms is like stumbling across J.K. Rowling) I favoured the Axel Scheffler illustrations as I thought them more pleasing to the adult eye (and my daughter was an avid book reader so you had to look out for yourself) but when she saw the rainbow colours and farmyard animals adorning the cover of this volume she was enraptured. I, however, was less than enthused as I thought the drawings simplistic and two dimensional but my faith in Jules was strong so we made the investment and our life was never the same again. Well, ok, maybe not but it was a bloody good children's book.

Bloody good

When my son finally started showing interest in the literary world at the grand age of 18months, having previously been far more concerned with the laws of physics (how far can I throw this ball/meal/small animal?), this was the cornerstone of his education. It had everything from colours to first animal noises with a dusting of moral philosophy throughout. He would read nothing else. 

The ONLY book he will read

So when I happened upon "What The Ladybird Heard- Live" and saw that it was coming to a theatre near us I was rushing to stand in line at the box office (the digital line, obviously, this isn't the 90s). Three months later, having battled through a particularly nasty bout of gastroenteritis (me), prolific protestations regarding leaving the house (them) and incredibly inclement weather (Edinburgh), we were there. Along with our own "fine prize cow" and the entire breeding community of the Lothian area. 

Our "fine prize cow"

Whilst attempting to rouse one toddler from an untimely slumber and placate the other, who has more questions about life than the British people do about Brexit, we took the opportunity to survey the set design. It was meticulous both in its childlike form and in its ability to transport us into the world of Lydia Monks (the book's illustrator). My cloud of scepticism was lifting.

Setting the Scene

The play closely adhered to its origins, focussing on a motley group of farm workers and their enactment of the favourite tale. The farm had a prize winning cow, two cats (who spoke and were the Muppets Waldorf & Statler reincarnated) and a timid ladybird. The remaining creatures were cobbled together on stage using paraphernalia from the farmyard. While I was initially disappointed at this turn of events the livestock eventually assembled were even closer to their illustrations than a puppet could have ever been. It was sublime. Furthermore, the score was infectious and had me audibly singing along during the performance (despite the heckles from the stalls) and on numerous occasions since.

The acting was simply divine with the (clearly classically trained) thespians inhabiting their roles like Daniel Day Lewis in an Oscar winning performance. Raymond, in particular, who played the part of Lanky Len has impeccable comic timing and the voice of an angel (albeit a fallen, gravelly one), a true credit to the actors guild and a shoe in for a Tony as soon as this show hits Broadway.

In summary, should you get the opportunity to see this production (and I believe they are on tour around the UK) I would strongly urge you to nurture your inner "culture vulture" and feast upon this delectable banquet of stagecraft. 

PS. Genuinely, this is one of the best children's productions I have seen to date and I have seen quite a few (anything to take a break from Duggee and the Jetters). Having said that, my daughter is to "inhabit the role" of the lead character in Julia's later work of the "Snail and the Whale" in her nursery performance in a few weeks so this crowd are sure to be bumped down the leaderboard soon.

Here's the link: http://www.whattheladybirdheardlive.co.uk/

Just Another Manic Monday: A Day in the Life of a Two Year Old

I scare myself half to death at 5am when I attempt to pass wind and get a little bit more than I bargained for so I decide to communicate dissatisfaction at being so rudely awakened to the rest of the household. I mean, they would want to know about it and it's not like they are doing anything else. Plus, I can't go back to sleep now; what if it happens again?! This nappy can only take so much. They do seem to be taking their time responding to my summons though, maybe I need to take this up a notch? Really ramp up the anguished, blood curdling shriek I have going. Ah wait, yes here she is. Why does she ricochet off the wall like that? It's almost like she hasn't been poised; ready to react at a moment's notice to my beckon call. Odd.

Anyway, a cuddle. Oh this is nice, so warm and soft. Maybe the world isn't such a terrible place. Maybe I will make it to the morning alive. Hey! Hang on! Why are you putting me back down? Oh hell no. This is not happening. Pick me up woman. What on earth do you think you are doing? I know, I'll throw a few agonised "Mummy"s into the mix, clench these clammy hands round her neck and she'll soon crack. That's it, well done. Now, head towards the door. Good work. Your bedroom is that way. Great.

Oh! Daddy? I never realised you were here. You can leave now. I've got this. There is a bed in my room. We'll see you in the morning.

If anyone is looking for me this is where I'll be

Mummy? Why are you closing your eyes? Mummy? Mummy! Mummy! Oh good, there you are. What's that? Oh a picture? Really? Interesting. Oh Mummy! Sorry you were closing your eyes again and I had something really important to ask you; what's that?! Still a picture? Wow. Mummy? Mummy! Hi, me again. Just checking, what's that? Did you say lesser spotted woodpecker? No. Picture? Huh. There you go.

It's all love really Mummy

Well that was a really fun two hours in your bed Mummy. I know you weren't too into the routine eyes checks I was performing but one can never been too careful (or forceful.) It paid dividends when you relented and let me watch Go Jetters on the "Tapper". Don't be too harsh on yourself, after all, it is educational. Did you know that Loch Ness holds more water than all of the lakes and rivers in England and Wales combined? A real live unicorn taught me that.

I don't mean to criticise but I think you really need to work on your listening. I don't know why you thought I wanted the Cheerios, yoghurt or toast for breakfast. I was very clearly just practising my ability to say those words and nod in an assenting fashion. Of course I didn't actually want them. I thought you would have realised that when I watched you prepare them and didn't say anything. Not one word. I mean if you aren't going to listen to me then I will have to show you; across the wall.

Raspberries were clearly what we wanted

Talking of walls, I really think you are being more than a little contradictory. Yesterday you were allowing me, no, joining me in decorating the stone walls in the garden with our unique "Banksy" stylings but today? Today, you seemed to be more than a little disgruntled when I tried to introduce my creative flair to your rather pedestrian walls in the hallway. Pick a side people!

Did it not speak to your soul?

I did enjoy our little trip to my sister's ballet lesson though. Sure, I vocalised my scorn for the mobile baby cage for the duration of our journey there but when we arrived I had the best time mixing with the other siblings whilst we waited for her return. I know you question this as apparently the shrieks of "mine!" came across as quite hostile but I thought my enthusiastic rugby tackles against those who were showing interest in my ball were heartfelt? Wouldn't Daddy be proud of me? No? Well I am struggling to see the difference.

I don't understand why we can't use the baby carrier! Do you not love me anymore?!

Lunch? Lunch is for losers; as is sleep. Do you even know how old I am? Two. Two whole years. Basically, I have seen all of this before and I have more than enough energy to last the day. Just give me the milk and be done with it lady. Ah milk. The sweet nectar of the gods.

I think I have a milk problem

Our afternoon was fun! Painting! You are quite literally the bravest person I know, and I know at least 12 people. I hope you liked the many variations of brown that I managed to concoct. I really am quite proud of myself. When life gives you a rainbow pallet make brown, that is what I say. I could tell you were a little nervous when I started using my fingers, then my palms before moving on to my feet and my nose but you handled yourself well. I could barely tell. The dog from next door says hello by the way, he tells me that when you make that particular noise it reminds him of his mother when she was trapped in the well.

Do you see the way I have captured the depth of "stick brown"?

Bath time followed swiftly especially after I doused myself in the soup which you presented at dinner. It was perhaps a little harsh to hold me at arm's length while you whisked me into the bathroom and slightly confusing when you shouted at me for trying to wash my hands in that big sink that you all sit on. I can't seem to do right for doing wrong sometimes. I did enjoy the bubbles though and helping my sister wash her hair, even if she wasn't initially inclined. Her chanting my name really boosted my confidence so I ignored her wriggles, pouts and intermittent "stop it"s. Go with your gut I say.

Daddy's arrival home soon followed so I managed to get my horse riding practice in. He really needs to work on his lateral movements though or we are never going to place in the dressage finals this year. He tries his best though so I gave him his treat and let him read the book about the Ladybird to me again. He bloody loves that book and seems to get a kick out of me saying all the animal noises. Bless him. I have noticed that sometimes he pretends to show interest in other titles and will on occasion pretend to be unable to find that yellow book but I soon find an image of it on one of Julia's other volumes and he feigns annoyance but I know he loves it really.

This is me, just practising a timely "Moo"

Bedtime once again, who knew? Certainly not me, I mean there was dinner then water play then our beloved book, teeth, nappy change, sleep sack but to be honest this declaration that it is time for some shut eye is coming a little left field. I have a few thoughts on the matter that I would be more than happy to voice to you through my closed door. I know you appreciate the feedback. I'll sleep on the rest and get back to you in the morning. 5am work? Brilliant. See you then Mummy. 

Love you.