The Nursery Run: Wake Me Up Before You Go Go

I am incredibly lucky. Let us just get that out of the way right now. I realise this, I am blessed. I have a husband who earns enough to allow me to work part time and a mother who is willing to sacrifice both her fine wardrobe and a day each week to reduce our childcare costs, meaning I am only required to do the nursery run on two days of the week.

I age on those days.

I mean, obviously, I age on all days but on those particular days I feel that you can visibly see the permanent shadows cast over my face and the creases deepen around my weary eyes. My children break me on those days.

Broken

On those days, having routinely been up to greet the (by comparison) rather lazy lark, I shall have to coax the offspring from their slumber. Now this is a rather precarious process as I have a limited time frame in which to act but if I rouse them too abruptly then they shall be unsettled; needing both loving, physical reassurance throughout the getting- ready process and a protracted drop off in the nursery room. Frankly, no one has time for that. 

So ease them from their repose I do, with gentle beckons and a loving caress. Their lips curl into a smile, their eyelids begin to flutter and gentle murmurs are uttered. I painfully angle my body across the respective cot/bed railings, contorting my neck and manipulating my body in a way that would make a yoga master proud whilst desperately trying to hear their first words of the morning. Speak to me angel, Mummy is here; Mummy is listening: 

"Daddy?"

Without fail. Every morning.

Damn you Child Whisperer

You would think that at this point, in my jealous rage, I would tear those covers back and expose their little warm bodies to the arctic conditions that is an old house in Edinburgh; like a wife who has come home to discover that her adulterous husband has struck again. Alas, no. On those mornings I must play the long game. I swallow my envy down, dress my face in the warmest of smiles and continue to ease them into the day.

If the gods are smiling on me, the mini dictators  may take me up on the offer of CBeebies, permitting me to throw clothes onto merely mildly uncooperative mannequins but more often than not they shun the mesmerising gogglebox and choose to investigate the box of toys. This is despite the fact that the plethora of playthings have previously gone, at best entirely unnoticed and, at worst, cast a casual disdainful glance. On those days though, the wicker basket is a positive bounty of treasure with riches to please even the most jaded of toddlers.

Plunderers

Having wasted a solid twenty minutes feigning interest in assembling an intricate train route, I try to wrestle the necessary low grade clothing on to the small one while he wriggles with the fury of a ferret trapped in a rabbit hole. Eventually I emerge victorious but battle weary, bruised and with make up half way down my face but still ready to mount the next challenge. This particular opponent requires a different set of skills; a completely new approach. This opponent will not respond to brute strength; this opponent must be fought with reasoning (and failing that, bargaining.)

"Bear, sooner we get there, the sooner we get back!"

"Bear, you don't want to be late for your teacher do you?"

"Bear, mummy will be late for work!"

"Bear, if you get ready now there will be a treat when you get home... No one! ... Oh ok two? ... Fine, three [insert chocolate based treat here]."

So, both dressed, work and nursery bags packed and hanging from my person, we head for the door; this is it, sure we are twenty minutes late (stupid train track) but we are out. Jackets on, shoes buckled, teeth brushed (usually). "Sayonara house, catch you later!" Wait, what's that smell. It's bad. It smells warm and pungent. Can it wait? Yeah, definitely. No, wait; he'll probably want on my shoulders and I have a dry clean only coat on (otherwise I may not be so picky.) Damn it. Right, jacket off, nappy and wipes located, small child rugby tackled to the floor and cleaned up to a chorus of "Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, are we going yet? MUMMY, I DONT WANT TO BE LATE!" Should have thought about that during your 3rd bowl of Cheerios Sugar Lump.

Stupid train track

Finally, we make it beyond the threshold and venture into the daylight only to be greeted by the dull, dreich downpour of a spring Scottish morning. We stand side by side in the doorway glowering at the deluge; brothers in arms against the inclement weather. I grab an oversized brolly and foist it upon the eldest who walks along unseeing and struggling under its weight whilst I forsake my own blow dried, work ready hair in favour of mobilising the masses. I force the small one up onto my shoulders (despite the fact that I am laden down with a bag holding my world of work and two nursery bags overflowing with nursery essentials) and venture out into the squall; we are doing this. 

Not so Singin' in the Rain

Toy Story: The Adult Years

Generally I write about something that I know will sound familiar to many; words that will resonate across thousands of barriers be they gender, race or class. I try to pick topics that most of you can relate to or see as a possibility of your future or a well dodged bullet of your past. I am both thoughtful and insightful like that. You are welcome. Well today is different, today I must talk to you about what is bothering me and that is Toy Story.

You heard me.

Toy Story.

I am talking about Woody and I am talking about Buzz. I am talking about the terrifying predicament that they found themselves in and the fact that Rex, Mr. Potato Head and (above all) Slinky could not help them. I am talking about the classic film of my childhood where two, beloved toys were accidentally thrown to the wolf that was the terrifying, malevolent thug of a next door neighbour; Sid and had to journey back through a number of harrowing ordeals to be reunited with their little boy. An utter gem in the Pixar crown.

Toy Story: the horror film for toys

But here's the thing; I have not watched this film since it's original release in 1995. Back then, I was ensconced in an Odeon arm chair, fuelled with fruit gums (they lasted longer), sharing my pew with my favourite inanimate dog/rabbit/bear of the moment (don't judge, so I wasn't that picky) and shielding their eyes from the scenes of toy dismemberment. Today, I watched it with the eyes of a mother and I was left a little bereft. I mean tearing plastic toys limb from limb is one thing but it wasn't what troubled me most today. These observations had gone undetected in the ignorance of childhood:

1. Where is Andy's Dad?

This is not a big thing and if they are, in fact, a single parent household then more power to them; because, frankly, Andy's mum is nailing it. She has packed up the house while looking after an infant and an 8 year old, thrown an elaborate birthday party for the afore mentioned 8 year old and chosen the ultimate gift. She is more than enough parent for one family and I think everyone could learn something from Andy's mum, apart from fashion; I mean the floral smock top is quite something to behold and not in a good way.

Is the fact that she is the only parent present, the reason that they are moving though? Is Andy the child of a bitter divorce, or worse; has she been widowed? Is his attachment to particular inanimate objects at the age of eight actually a reflection of his feeling unsettled and uprooted? Or, in fact, is it entirely normal to be so attached to particular inanimate objects at the age of eight? When are children meant to discard their nocturnal comforters be they cuddly, soft, food encrusted or otherwise? Should I be advocating or deterring my children from their comforters? Do I even know anything about children? What am I even doing being a mother?

Should I be planning early retirement for Dog- Dog?

2. Where are Sid's Parents?

The absence of Sid's parents doesn't really strike you as surprising; after all he clearly has free reign to persecute his little sister, wears the same outfit day in and day out, his bed is entirely undressed with no sheet or duvet cover, he sleeps fully clothed with his shoes still adorning his, likely, malodorous feet and his teeth are mottled in appearance like a bar code for an item in the "must go" section of the supermarket. Furthermore, he seems to have unhampered access to a plentiful supply of matches. The only kink in the story is that he uses the matches to light expensive fireworks ordered from the internet, attached to toys which he has won during multiple attempts at an arcade game, based in a local fashionable eating establishment a car ride away. Who is funding these pastimes?

The plot thickens.

3. The Claw Crane

I love this film. I loved it back in 1995 and I love it just as much today, even through the jaded eyes of adulthood. However, I am utterly incandescent with rage over the ludicrous portrayal of this peddler of broken dreams. The number of children who have cleaned out their parents pockets initially trying with their own sticky, dimpled hands to manipulate the device and grasp the coveted prize before turning to their older sibling or caregiver with pleading eyes to take on the challenge. Daylight robbery. Nobody wins; everybody loses. Not in Toy Story though. No, in Toy Story, the dastardly Sid manages to win, not once but twice and on the second attempt bags two prizes for the price of one. Quite remarkable for a device which has previously struggled to lift an sparkly bouncy ball the size of a hedgehog's left testicle!

I apologise. I am calm. I have dealt with the scars of my childhood. I am not defined by material items.

Bouncy balls and My Little Pony were my life (and hats apparently)

Anyway, as I said; a complete fallacy. Do Disney have shares in those companies? Are they aware that they are infecting another generation with misplaced hope?

4. How Awesome is Planet Pizza?

Whilst the thought of Sid and his tortured existence is, indeed, heart wrenching we cannot leave Toy Story without first discussing how utterly amazing Planet Pizza looks. Why has this restaurant not become the world's most successful fast food franchise to date? Disney are not usually ones to shy away from exploiting a potential goldmine, so how on earth was this nugget overlooked? The automatic doors pretending to admit you into an international space station? The slime drinks dispensers? That embarrassing big footed clown with the stupidly coloured perm who goes on about his "double rainbow" pales in comparison to this wonderland.

You had me at "slime", make mine a Galactic Giardiniera.

Pizza + Planets would complete me

When we initially started watching films with the toddler folk we would meticulously run through the storylines in our heads searching for any menacing acts or villains which they may find a little too unsettling. To date we have overlooked:

• the "poor unfortunate souls" who have been turned into seaweed with anguished expressions and grab at Ariel as she enters Ursula's domain to ultimately sell her soul in The Little Mermaid. Just terrifying.
• The first beggar who is forced to enter the mouth of the cave by Jafar in Aladdin and meets an abrupt end. "Where has he gone Mummy?"
• The use of a pig's heart excised by the Hunter and placed in a jewellery box as a decoy in an attempt to try and outwit Snow White's nemesis. "What about the Piggy Mummy?"
• The riotous crowd brandishing pitch forks and flames as they descend upon the enchanted castle with murderous intent and cries of "Let's Kill the Beast!" "Mummy mummy mummy mummy MUMMY!"

As I watch these classic Disney films which I enjoyed in my youth, I do so with fresh eyes. I try to see them as my toddlers would, albeit from the comfort of the couch and not from behind an oversized cushion. Fairytales are dark and those brothers were indeed Grimm but everything works out in the end. Optimism is what is required to deal with the dark times; obstacles shall be overcome, people will be reunited and love shall conquer all.

Perfect viewing position

Well, except Pocahontas. My daughter is still waiting for John Smith to come back.

Parallel Lives: How the Other Half Live Child Free

Now I am not one who enjoys comparing themselves to others; I tend to find that I am never clever enough, funny enough, pretty enough, slim enough, fit enough or kind enough. However, this weekend I have retreated to the in laws for the Easter break where we are in the company of my husband's twin and her husband and I find myself searching my pockets for my yard stick once again and plotting our differences against one another. Now these differences are not in relation to our personal qualities (because obviously we are both equally as kind, beautiful and clever) but our experiences of similar events over the weekend.

Parallel Lives

1. The journey

My sister in law messaged the family WhatsApp group to inform the family of their arrival time, including elucidatory details of their planned journey. These tantalising nuggets included "the quiet coach", "M&S picnic" and "watching MasterChef en route". 

Meanwhile, I was wrangling with a 2 year old who refused to sleep despite the late hour and degree of exhaustion (loosely translated from his anguished screams of "I NO LIKE!!"). Attempts to ease him into the realm of unconsciousness whilst my husband attempted to concentrate on the road in the driving rain included, but were not limited to: 

• soothing tones and reassuring phrases issued in his general direction with reassuring pats of his legs. Response: "SHHHH! I NO LIKE!"

• putting on an over- exaggerated display of pretending to fall asleep myself. Response:  "MUMMYMUMMYMUMMYMUMMY MUM-MY!!"

• listening to the same banal nursery rhyme on repeat for an hour, slowly but surely feeling the will to live ebb from my body whilst also wondering if the vocalist every thought to question their life choices. Response: "AGAIN! AGAIN!"

Fighting a losing battle

2. The wake up

A fact universally acknowledged by the extended family is that this pair love a lie in; forever reluctant to stir from their recumbent position and face the world beyond their snug and warm duvet. Well, this weekend was no different. It was 9 o'clock before they emerged from the haven of their bedroom, loosely disheveled and in a dreamy haze; wandering down the stairs to greet the day and the youthful inhabitants of the house with the enthusiasm and vigour that only 8 hours of uninterrupted slumber can bestow.

We acknowledged their presence with subtle nods over the brim of our tepid cups of coffee; issuing a jaded greeting in their general direction like war veterans who were unable and unwilling to convey the terrors they had already lived through. We were broken. 

Bouncing into the day

The children had not transitioned from car to bedroom as seamlessly as we would have hoped and had needed frequent parental intervention for such emergencies as "the night is too dark", "my blanket is tangled" and "mummy, mummy, milk, mummy". They had, however, apparently been well rested enough to accompany the dawn chorus (the joys of countryside living) with their own dulcet tones and start the day with relentless enthusiasm for all forms of physical play; particularly those which involved sitting astride their mother and bouncing simultaneously with gay abandon.

Much like this...

3. The relationship

This twosome have been married for just over two years, a date I have etched on my calendar as my rascal child had penned in his arrival for two days later meaning my husband never got to see his twin be walked down the aisle, raise a toast to her future happiness or dance with her on her wedding day. Instead he was lucky enough to spend the day on labour ward being glowered at repeatedly (especially when being offered tea and biscuits mid contraction), have his beloved mutter audible profanities about him for putting her in such a position and being able to wipe the sweat from his wife's upper lip (I suffer from a very sweaty face) as she tried to expel an unruly grapefruit through the eye of the needle.

Parallel Lives

Despite being two years into matrimony and about 11 years into their relationship this other couple retain a display of physical affection that would be more suited to a fledgling romance; one that has not yet weathered the gastric illness, utility bills and domestic chores which come to all long term relationships. Hands are proferred for holding, armpits are snuggled into when seated on a couch and hugs are spontaneously bestowed upon each other freely and without ulterior motive. They appear very much in love.

Snuggle-tastic

We, on the other hand are comrades in arms, passing the undetonated (and sometimes detonated) bombs between us with an unspoken understanding. All physical affection is showered upon our offspring; hands are too busy carrying or wiping to be held, nooks are prefilled with small children who need a reassuring cuddle and spontaneous hugs are saved for times of childhood injury or uncertainty. On the rare occasions that we may try to bestow a loving touch or unsolicited kiss upon our other, we are met with outcry from our progeny. They appear to find it both unsettling and unfair; did we not realise that all affection must be lavished in their direction? 

Now, you may have read this and felt a twinge of pity for me or a hankering for those magical days where you weren't responsible for keeping another human entertained/fed/law- abiding/alive but I urge you to take solace in this fact: the other couple are expecting a baby. 

Toddler Charades: A 90s Musical Tribute

My toddler remains on the cusp of being a conversationalist. He has mastered a few key phrases including, but not limited to:

"Pot pot"

"I don't like"

"Are you OK?"

"T-ank ooo"

" 'ey Duggee?"

However, the vast majority of his utterings remain a nonsensical babble which is mostly directed at his beloved sister and which is always accompanied by the most earnest of expressions etched on his rather beautiful face (not biased in anyway.) His sister has the patience of a saint; engaging her skills as a thespian by pretending to understand, utilising her "active listening" body language and responding with generic phrases like:

"Oh really?!"

"That is interesting!"

"Tell me more"

Always There to Lend an Ear

But there are times when these platitudes will not appease him and he desperately craves understanding. He is clearly demanding something that is imperative to his continued survival but, for the life of me, I cannot decipher what. The resultant routine, which we have down to a fine art, can be summarised in a number of 90s classic hits. Why? 

Because [I] Want To!

"Why d'you always say what's on your mind? Because we want to! Because we want to! "

(Think Billie Piper in a crop top, baggy trousers and a classic 90s up-do. Got it? You are welcome.)

Stage One: Say My Name by Destiny's Child

"Say my name, say my name
If no one is around you"

The first thing that will happen is that my name will be emitted like a siren, with the toddler barely drawing breath in between anguished cries of:

"Mum-my, Mum-my, Mum-my..." (repeat until hoarse.)

On hearing his summons, I will abandon whatever I am, undoubtedly, in the middle of doing and present myself at his service. Did I mention that he is my baby? Anyhoo, he will continue to call my name upon my arrival despite my multiple, varied and exuberant gesticulations until I acknowledge his call verbally: "Yes, Sire?"

"Mum-my, Mum-my, Muuuuuuum-myyyyyyy"

Stage Two: You Oughta Know by Alanis Morissette

"It's not fair, to deny me
Of the cross I bear that you gave to me
You, you, you oughta know"

At this point, he shall look at me with a quizzical expression. Upon realising that we are not able to communicate telepathically, he shall roll his eyes thereby placing the blame firmly at my door, exhale loudly and mutter:

"Blah bloo blaboo blah bloo blah. Blah bloo?"

Upon hearing him trying to converse with me, my expression will lift into one of maniacal joy. He is trying to tell me something! He is so clever! No one has ever been this clever in the history of clever people. We shouldn't gloat, no one likes those parents who boast about their toddlers. Just look at that Deborah from playgroup. She is always banging on about Jack's self potty training over a two day period and his ability to catch a ball while standing on one leg, with his hands tied behind his back. No one likes Deborah. No, we shall keep this one to ourselves and just bask in the happy glow of knowing that our toddler is going to change the world.

"Come on, Mother.... focus"

Wait. Why is he looking at me like that?

"BLAH BLOO BLABOO BLAH BLOO BLAH. BLAH BLOO?!"

Oh! He wants me to respond?

Bollocks.

Stage Three: I Want It That Way by The Backstreet Boys

 "But I want it that way

Tell me why
Ain't nothin' but a heartache
Tell me why
Ain't nothin' but a mistake
Tell me why"

The next stage involves me haring around the room like a rabbit on Ritalin whilst he repeats his indecipherable command at crescendoing volumes. I will try to follow the general direction of his wild, thrusting points which he casts around the room with reckless abandonment, becoming increasingly frustrated at my apparent incompetence as his primary caregiver and swearing never to partner me in any future games of charades.

"That! No, not that. That!"

When I proffer what I think he has been longing for he wails in anguish. How could I do this to him? How could I hurt him in this way? Am I doing this on purpose? I throw the offending object over my shoulder and start again.

Stage Four: Killing In the Name Of by Rage Against the Machine

"F@&! you, [you] won't do what [I tell you]
 F@&! you, [you] won't do what [I tell you]

F@&! you, [you] won't do what [I tell you]

F@&! you, [you] won't do what [I tell you]

F@&! you, [you] won't do what [I tell you]

F@&! you, [you] won't do what [I tell you]

F@&! you, [you] won't do what [I tell you]

F@&! you, [you] won't do what [I tell you]

F@&! you, [you] won't do what [I tell you]!

F@&! you, [you] won't do what [I tell you]!

F@&! you, [you] won't do what [I tell you]!

F@&! you, [you] won't do what [I tell you]!

F@&! you, [you] won't do what [I tell you]!

F@&! you, [you] won't do what [I tell you]!

F@&! you, [you] won't do what [I tell you]!

F@&! you, [you] won't do what [I tell you]!
 Motherf@&!$*!
Uggh!"

Incandescent rage.

He is overcome with frustration; he locks his elbows, clenches his dimpled hands into immoveable fists and proceeds to bang his head on whichever surface is closest and hardest. This is it. He must end it all. Inflicting pain on himself is the only possible answer. Nobody will ever understand him.

"Don't look at me..."

Stage Five: Enter Sandman by Metallica

 "Exit, light
Enter, night
Take my hand
We're off to never-never land"

I go to retrieve him, hopefully  in time to prevent any serious concussions and he instantly becomes compliant; moulding himself around me and snuggling in, his body limp with sheer exhaustion. 

He looks up; the realisation dawning that he now has reach and leans his body in the direction that he wants me to go. At my height he can reach the fridge door which he then beckons me to open. 

Milk. 

It's always milk.

...and relax...

The Parenting Hunger Games

Today I can honestly say that I was one of ‘those’ mums. The one who appears unable to control her feral offspring; the one looking broken, harassed and intermittently bewildered. I was the mum upon whom we bestow the half smile; the one laced with good intentions and heartfelt compassion, the one often accompanied by a conspiratorial nod loosely interpreted as “can’t they all be rascals sometimes?”.

Well I may be going out on a limb here, but I fear that that gesture is often tainted with a mere hint of smugness and a whiff of relief. Oh look, it’s not me today! The gods have spun their daily wheel of fortune, the violent whirring slowed to a gentle rhythmical revolution before ominously click, click, clicking into its final resting place. Today’s parenting ‘tributes’ have been selected.


Well today, that was me.


I should have known. It had been an inauspicious start to the day as, having thrown caution, knowledge and common sense to one side, I had attempted to free my 4 year old from the bind of night time nappies ignoring the fact that they were more often than not full to bursting on her morning liberation. Damn you mumsnet discussion threads! You had led me to believe that there was a chance that my pre-schooler merely needed to have that safety net removed. A little push in the right direction to encourage her to become more "bladder aware" when she is sleeping. It turns out she may need more of a shove.

Having leapt out of bed, awoken from the deepest, sweetest slumber by an anguished scream, I threw myself in her direction, ricocheting off the walls on the way to ambush what was a clearly an intruder trying to maim my first born. On arrival, I discovered that there was no masked man to wrestle but a deluge to wade through.

Pre-schooler bedroom at 0430

If you are yet to enter the toddler years, let me warn you, dealing with them when they have been woken abruptly is like dealing with an over amorous drunk, oscillating between uncontrollable giggles and inconsolable weeping with intermittent declarations of undying love thrown in for good measure. Having stripped everything that could possibly be stripped (child and selves included) we stumbled back into bed just before 5am dog tired and yet annoyingly awake.

Needless to say, this did not set me up for the day.

Sleep, why have you forsaken me?

The morning was a battle of wills, not so much with my eldest who was clearly fatigued from her nocturnal exertions, but with my near two year old. He is on the brink of being able to string together coherent sentences but will babble incessantly like every syllable is of paramount importance and then emit a blood curdling shriek when he realises that he is not being understood. This noise is also often accompanied with some act of defiance. This is not a fun stage.

I fear this is not the last time I will see him in striped overalls trying to break out of confinement

To top it all off we were being summoned back to the optician as my 4 year old had declared an inability to see the last line of the eye chart that was conveniently accompanied by an urgent desire for some spectacles which were uncannily similar to her best friend's. Odd how these things happen together. Still, we were to return for a reassessment to ensure that my child was merely a time waster but on this occasion I was to be outnumbered on the childcare front.

We entered the shop like a whirlwind with my son slipping his sweaty paw from my grip and running like he had stolen something. He was pulling all the frames available to him (at knee height) from their display before casually discarding them at his feet and moving on to throwing the meticulously piled leaflets into the air like oversized confetti, while I followed behind trying to rectify the situation and whispering "sorry, sorry, sorry" like an apologetic bridesmaid. I finally managed to bundle him under my arm in the classic rugby ball hold while I let the startled looking girl behind the desk know we were here. Just in case she missed our opening number.

Shame. Face.

We were ushered to a bank of seats at the back of the shop to await the optician but as soon as I loosened my vice like grip on the small one in order to remove my daughter's coat, he was off again, ducking and diving through the labyrinth of customer's legs. This time, a member of staff took pity on me and gallantly bestowed the gift of balloons on my offspring. Not just balloons though, but balloons on sticks. These are weapons in the hands of an unruly toddler and sure enough soon the elderly, poor sighted population of Edinburgh were being whacked in the face with an accompanying "BOOP!" resulting in instant transformations from looks of affection to utter bewilderment. As I wrestled the offending article from his sweaty hands I could see my saviour walking towards me, shrouded in a halo of light (which in retrospect could have been a loose light fitting). He was here, the optician, soon this hell would be over and I could manhandle the toddler back into the buggy.

Shame. Face.

No sooner had that sweet relief started to diffuse through my bloodstream than I heard a muted whisper of "Mummy I need the pot pot". My face fell as I slowly turned my head towards the source of such a wholly inconvenient declaration. Unlike her initial eye test, her appearance was so earnest and she had started to hop from foot to foot to demonstrate a sense of urgency.

The optician looked terrified. Clearly he was more used to dealing with the octogenarian population and was pre-child rearing in his personal life.

"Really sorry, but do you have a customer bathroom?"

"No, but there is a Gregg's a few doors down."

My face must have filled with instant contempt. I gestured to the hopping child at my feet and the kicking legs of the small one who remained bundled under my arm and he was off to ask the manager if we could use the staff one. She was clearly consumed with either compassion or an urgent desire to get us out of the shop as we were soon ushered to the employee's area. On a side note, why are the staff areas of shops quite so depressing? Is there really no where else to stow the mop than the communal bathroom? Is there no left over paint from the front of house that they could recycle to make their employees feel just a little appreciated? Anyhoo, I digress. There we were, in the downtrodden bathroom with me having to relinquish the toddler to expedite the toileting of the other but trying to maintain some parental control by intermittently shouting:

"DO NOT TOUCH THAT!"

"DIRTY, DIRTY!"

"DO NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!"

As I help my daughter dismount and rectify her multiple layers of clothing there is an undeniable high pitched whine and I am aware of a stampede of footsteps running down the corridor in our direction. I stand up and turn to see the toddler gripping a red piece of string with a wide smile and an evil glint in his eye.

"Mama! I did it!" Clear as a bell...

Toddler free to a good home.

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Sharing a Life: A Tale of the Modern Day Family

I was reading this lesser known Julia Donaldson number to my pre- schooler the other evening when I realised that the story is very much in keeping with the magical/horrific first year of parenthood where everyone is very much in love but mostly with the new baby and also a little bit lost in themselves. Thus, another parody was born:

Look! A girl- with low self esteem,
Flirting with all the wrong men.
Tap, tap, tap
"You can't come in!"
You can't share a life with them

Or them
Or them
Or them!

Look! A cad, full of false promises
Run for your life, girl- hide!

At last, a flat, a space of your own!
Quick, girl! Scuttle inside.

Nightclub dancing (obviously)

One girl, safe in her flat,
When all of her dating is done,
Roaming all over the nightclubs
Then back to her home for one.

Look! A boy, a kind handsome boy.
Who can this nice boy be?
"Go away, Boy, whoever you are -
You can't share a life with me."

"I'm pretty awesome, not just nice.
Please let me share your life.
Give me a chance to prove that I care,
And perhaps you will soon be my wife."

The Wedding Day

Look! A job, a career moulding job.
A long distance move- here goes!
He flits to join her, puts a ring on her,
Their life together just flows!

Two friends, sharing a house,
Feeling happy and new,
Romping all over the house parties
Then back to their home for two.

Look! A child thing, trying to get in,
Wiggling and making a fuss.
"Go away, child, whoever you are -
You can't share a home with us."

"I'm not a child, I'm YOUR offspring.
Please let me in - don't be mean,
I love causing chaos; I'll keep you from sleep
You'll know your house used to be clean."

Three friends, sharing a home,
Tired as people can be,
Rollicking all round baby groups
Then back to their wonderful home for three.

But look how they've changed! The home feels too small.
"You're not doing washing" says Wife
"I'm fed up with being stuck in here.
It's time that I found a new life."

Grumps

"Really!" says Boy. "How ungrateful!"
Here I am, slaving away,
Working to feed our whole family.
If that's how you feel, I won't stay."

"Stop!" cries Child, but nobody hears.
The other two have a grump.
Wife empties a full ice-cream tub.
Boy finds a pub for his rump

Look! A scare, a terrible scare,
Giving everyone a fright
Two people look at each other
Know they were stupid to fight

But, look! A truce, a mutual truce.
Wife and the Kind Boy stare,
Too shy to speak to each other,
Too proud to say, "I was unfair"

Listen! A voice! And out comes a word
From the child wrapped around their necks
"Mama", "Dada" and everything's good
They might even consider some .... special cuddles?

Cuddles