I've always been good at my own PR. As the fourth child of five, I had to be. Otherwise I wouldn't get another piece of carrot cake or a new pair of shoess (instead of my sister's hand-me-downs). Seems like mummy blogging is on the rise in the UK, you can read …
HM, my four-year-old, was sitting on my lap last night; a snuggly warm bundle, still glowing from her bath. Her straw yellow hair had the faint smell of summer.
“Mummy,” she said looking at me intently with her father’s blue eyes, “I used to be best friends with Madison, and now I hardly see her.” She paused waiting patiently for my mummy-knows-everything answer.
It’s true. Madison left at the beginning of term to go to another school. We had a playdate with her yesterday, which is probably what prompted her comment. Some friendships are like butterflies, flitting in and out of your life. But how do you explain this to a four-year-old that just wants the comfort of colouring in with an old friend?
I knew when the phone rang it would be bad news.
It's half term. The girls are home 24 by 7. After a morning of noughts and crosses and making everyone we knew a birthday card, I needed a break. I told them to play amongst themselves while mummy washed her hair. I pointed at the toy box and then locked the front door to make sure no one escaped.
After five minutes in the shower (OK, more like ten), and another five drying, I emerged refreshed and ready to face the rest of half term. But my just-blown hair wilted when I saw the war zone living room: Operation parts mixed with puzzle pieces; Twister with unusal Mr. Potato Head constructions in each coloured circle; a pile of pick-up sticks and an entire box of dominoes. Oh, aren't my little darlings creative. No worries, I'll clean it up while they are at tennis camp.
There's a great game to go with it too. …
I could feel the murmur making its way down the reception queue this morning, the more keen mums reminding the late comers. “Don’t forget, cake sale day today.” Ah, cake sale day. The day we all dash down to Waitrose and spend at least £6 on essentials like cake mix, butter, icing sugar, smarties, and other decorations. Then we go home and …
I don’t remember actually defining our domestic roles, they just sort of evolved; I do everything related to food, and hubby is responsible for rubbish.
My first clue that food would fall under my realm was early on in our relationship when I asked him to make coffee. Keen to impress, he said yes without hesitation and shuffled off to the kitchen.
Ten minutes later and there was still no sign of coffee, just a slightly warm plastic odour. Getting antsy for my morning dose of caffeine, I peeked at the machine and noticed that it was on, but there was no water. Hhhmm, either this was calculated or he was really trying to navigate un-chartered waters.
I suffered a dry spell after our second child. A major one. One I imagine the Sahara Desert to be like. Long. Flat. Never ending. I just didn't feel like it anymore. I was too tired. It didn't hold my attention. I would crawl into bed after a day of wiping drippy noses and …
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