What's the story in Ballamory today?

I can't watch Ballamory any more. PC Plum's apparently innocuous daily visits to the supposedly demure Miss Hoolie? Honestly, you know as well as I do that they're straight in that stationery cupboard the minute our backs are turned...

Miss Hoolie was drooly for PC Plum's truncheon,
Succumbed to his charms and had a wee munch on
it, caught by young Penny who cried out "Och noo!
A respectable school teacher, it jest does nae do!"

PC Plum went awandering to conquer his lust,
pausing to leer over Suzie Sweet's bust.
He popped by McCready's and honked on her horn,
Then visited Archie to look at some porn.

Archie invented a brand new contraption,
allowing the copper some lengthy love action.
They frolicked and gambolled from dawn until dusk,
Archie's hair curling tight o'er his eyes filled with lust.

All across Ballamory the curtains were twitching,
but PC Plod's plums were insatiably itching.
He wanted some more, and he wanted it now;
He knew who to see, but he didn't know how...

Spencer's musical ladder was wanting a climb,
PC Plum had the rhythm but was it bed-time?
The orange house beckoned with door open wide,
but PC Plum just wasn't up to the ride.

Archie's contraption had run out of juice,
and Plum was no longer free and footloose.
Without visiting Josie and jumping her bones,
he packed up his truncheon and headed for home.

And that's the story in Ballamory today.

Assessing Mary Poppins

Mary Poppins arrived with us at the start of the year, in preparation for my full-time return to work. I'm not sure of the correct criteria for assessing a nanny's performance, but I'd say she's been a resounding success. She hasn't resigned, the children don't cry when I leave them (although they do often cry when she leaves, which does little for maternal confidence), and she doesn't appear to have stolen anything or sold my secrets to the Daily Mail. She hasn't found my vibrator (at least, if she has, she's very good at putting it back undisturbed) and most importantly - according to the nanny horror stories with which I was regaled when I first suggested the idea to my friends - she's not sleeping with my husband. To my knowledge. And I have to say, the children are so very happy with her, and she keeps the house so very nicely, and we pay her so very little, that if I were to come home and find her in bed with my husband, it'd be a tough call as to who I asked to leave. Well, nannies don't grow on trees, you know.

Everywhere I go people tell me how wonderful my nanny is. I receive a veritable stream of text messages from all my stay-at-home-mum friends; "jst seen yr brood in town - so cute!", "wow, ur lot havin so much fun @ twins clb!", "sat in music grp with yr littlst on my lap!", "OMG can't believe u cld be so evil as 2 leave ur kids while u sell yr soul for a public sectr pension!" Well okay, that last one was made-up, but in the early weeks back at work, when I was still emotional about leaving the pygmies with a virtual stranger, these messages were like knives in my post-natal conscience. It was useful feedback though; otherwise how on earth do you know how your nanny's really getting on? We do run a 'nanny diary' which is a useful communication method on those days when I run out of the door at 7am just as she's putting her key in the door;

"Morning, hope you had a great weekend & the kids aren't too bad for you. Neighbour brought some apples round - crumble maybe? Toilet-training not a raging success - says he likes to poo in his pants. Any ideas? Girls have bad colds - feel free to dose with Calpol . See you later, will try to get off on time"

Mary Poppins' responses are always beautifully measured with never an ounce of frustration. It took me a while to learn how to read between the lines and discover that the difficulty of her day is in direct proportion to the number of exclamation marks used in her diary summary...

"Hi, hope you had a good day. Gosh, the girls have been full of beans!!!! I didn't think they'd ever go to sleep after lunch!!!! J hasn't quite cracked the poo issue, but I'm sure that was because of today's upset tummy!! Think we need some more washing powder LOL!!!! We went to toddler group but came home after five minutes because E was a bit clingy!!!! Oh well, I'm sure they'll all be more cheerful tomorrow!!! Let's hope so!!!!!!!!"

Two or three consecutive diary entries with similar punctuation and I know it's time to give her a half-day.

The obvious feedback method for care-givers is to ask the children, but that's tricky when they're all under three. J is the only one articulate enough to complain, so one morning I went on a fishing trip...

"Do you like Mary Poppins, darling?" (that's not her real name by the way)

"Yes"

Hmm, need to probe further.

"What do you like about her?"

"I like the playing. And the painting"

Well, that sounds promising. At least she's not just sitting them in front of CBeebies with a quart of juice; the juvenile equivalent of red wine and porn.

"But I don't like the shouting"

What? Oh my God. She shouts? How dare she? We don't pay her to shout. We pay her to remain calm in the face of adversity, to do the childrens' washing, cook their meals and prevent the house from looking as though Fisher Price has thrown up on it. But definitely not to shout.

"What does she shout, darling?" I asked brightly, in a manner I fondly hoped was akin to a child psychologist with several degrees in communicating with pygmies. Not a paranoid mother shamelessly using her child as a pawn to assess employee performance.

My son stood stock still, legs akimbo and hands on his hips, looking all the world like Les Dawson at the garden fence. "GET IN HERE NOW - I WON'T TELL YOU AGAIN! FOR GOD'S SAKE WHY AREN'T YOU LISTENING TO ME?"

Horrified, I dropped to my knees and embraced him; an instinctive move to protect him from this harridan I had inflicted on him and his sisters. What on earth should I do? Should I sack her immediately? Should I employ friends and family to spy on her? Buy a nanny-cam and watch her from my car on a wireless connection hi-jacked from the neighbours?

J continued his undercover reportage;

"But that's only when YOU'RE home, Mummy. The nanny doesn't EVER shout - she's LOVELY".

I guess that's why I go to work.

Birthday wishes

Why does it have to be so fucking hard? I thought time was supposed to be a great healer? Well you know what? It still hurts like I've been punched in the solar plexus. Tomorrow my little boy will be three years old, and if life wasn't so cruel I'd now be writing two birthday cards, wrapping two lots of presents and swearing over two birthday cakes I should have made sooner.


Tomorrow doesn't just mark their birthday, it marks the start of the five hardest weeks of my calendar. Five weeks when I once had two sons, when I held them both and planned our future, when I came home from the hospital and pushed the double buggy round the living room practising for when they'd come home. Each year I dread this time in limbo and breathe a sorrowful sigh of relief when the anniversary has passed and I can start living again.

Has everyone forgotten my son? No-one mentions him any more, no-one gives me a hug and says how hard this day must be for us. How is it that no-one realises how much it still hurts? Happiness for one child's future can't ever dilute the grief one feels for another child's past.

I know tomorrow should be a celebration of my lost son's birthday, as much as it is a celebration for his living brother. But I defy you to find something, anything to celebrate about a baby who never lived to blow out his first candle.

The right to choose

There have been times over the last few years when the hospital has been as familiar to me as my own home. I've slept there, kept my milk in the fridge, given the Women's Centre as my postal address and wandered around in my slippers. I'm no longer daunted by white coats or blue scrubs.

I didn't really want the appointment. Didn't need it. We're not planning more children, so it's of no concern not to have periods. But it's irksome to still get the monthly cramps, and it feels wrong that my body still isn't back to normal after nearly two years. So I took the appointment, and duly hopped up onto the examination couch, having whipped off my trousers before even confirming my date of birth. The sonographer was new; struggled to find my uterus and pressed uncomfortably onto my stretchmarked stomach. Predictably she suggested an internal scan would be necessary, and expertly rolled a durex onto the dildo-cam. I'm never able to watch that without a snigger; I remember at the height of my infertility investigations, pointing out to the sonographer that if I couldn't get pregnant with a real life penis, such protection against technology was hardly necessary. She whipped the probe under my modesty sheet and pushed... I practically leapt off the table with a shout of dismay,
"what on earth?"
"Are you a little nervous of internals?"
"Not at all", I replied, "but last time I checked, my uterus was accessed via my vagina, not through my bottom".
She blushed and rearranged her equipment. I breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed my rather nervous rectum.

Later on, I watched the consultant view my scan pictures whilst simultaneously making notes and asking for my complete obstetric history. I've recounted it so often it comes out pat, sounding like a soap opera plot. The battle with infertility, the IVF twins, the baby who died, the natural twin pregnancy resulting in two healthy girls. The risks, the fears, the difficult deliveries. And now a diagnosis; a simple reason for the absence of periods.
"You have Asherman's Syndrome"

I do remember the disclaimer my husband signed on my behalf as I drifted in and out of consciousness; I remember their reluctance to perform a D&C so soon after delivery, despite my insistence that I had a retained placenta. I remember the risks they outlined; to my recovery, to my health, to my fertility. But I also remember that I'd have died without intervention. So where was the choice?

And now there will be no more children.

"It won't affect you" she said, "it's not important for you".

But it is important. It's important because it's my body, it's my life, it's my fertility, and it's my CHOICE. That's what I wanted to tell her. But of course I didn't. What I did was to start crying. Silently at first, tears rolling down my cheeks as she explained I couldn't ever conceive or carry a child. That I would continue getting the pains as I was still 'mechanically menstruating' and would need to continue with contraception to guard against ectopic pregnancy. That I may need a hysterectomy. That at 33 I serve no useful purpose as a woman.

I know I've had my children. I know I didn't plan for more, and I know there are thousands of women out there who have none, and who yearn for them. I don't place myself in their shoes now, although I once walked in them, and will never forget the pain they caused. I know how very lucky I am. But you see, my family will always be one child short, because I will never again hold in my arms the boy who should be sleeping upstairs. We live in a society where we encourage women to embrace their right to choose. Yet sometimes we have no choice at all.

The Isle of Wight

When the PR pitches began pouring in a few months ago, I got extremely excited. Offers of books, food, shoes, toiletries... they just kept coming. I did a few reviews, thought it was pretty cool to get something for nothing, then had a change of heart. With limited time to write, now that I work full time, I wanted to keep the blog solely as an insight into being More Than Just a Mother. So I shunned subsequent PR pitches until one dropped into my inbox from Five by Five Digital, offering me a family break in the Isle of Wight. Well, it took all of five by five minutes for my resolve to break down...

A while ago the Husband and I vowed never again to take our children abroad. We were traumatised by a flight to Portugal with three children under the age of 18 months, and determined that until our children could entertain themselves (with book, colouring pad or illicitly smuggled narcotics) we would stay in the UK. So I was particularly excited by the prospect of staying on an island for a few nights. Yes, yes, I know England is an island, but you know - a proper island. "Do we need our passports?" I wondered aloud, before catching sight of the Husband's incredulous look. I guess not, then.

The ferry was fab actually - just long enough (an hour) to be interesting for the children, and to get a cup of tea or a bite to eat, but not so long the pygmies would get fidgety. We changed our ferry times both ways and www.redfunnel.co.uk was really flexible, with no charges for making changes. What's great about the Isle of Wight is it's so small it doesn't matter where you stay, because everywhere is within easy driving distance. There seemed to be loads of buses too, although I confess to not being a regular on public transport, so don't take my word for it if you're carless.

We stayed here, in a place that - if I'm absolutely honest - I wouldn't have booked in a million years. I run at the speed of light from anything approaching a 'community', and even faster from anything with on-site entertainment and nightly bingo. Yeesh. But you know what? It was okay, it really was. Our bungalow was pristine and well furnished, and although I did feel rather as though I was moving into a warden-controlled residence for the over 70s, it was perfect for our needs. Ours didn't have one of the site's luxury hot-tubs; a relief really, after the vomit experience. We duly tried out the crazy golf (crazy children, more like - have you ever seen a toddler wielding a golf club? Scary) couldn't avoid the enormous amusement arcade, and even tried eating out one evening in the camp's restaurant. Hmm, well, it was never going to be Michelin starred, was it? The point is, they had three high-chairs, enough fish-fingers to sink a battle-ship, and high tolerance levels for our ASBOs-in-waiting. The following day we took a dip in the indoor pool, which was so cold it turned the girls blue and gave me nipples like bullets, much to the excitement of the octogenarian lane-swimmer.

We visited the Isle of Wight Zoo, which has an incredible tiger sanctury and is a truly amazing place to visit. The children could run around safely, and stand less than a metre away from endangered species. There are a huge number of attractions to choose from, especially considering the small size of the island, and I felt we could easily spend a fortnight there and not run out of things to do. We spent the best part of a day at Blackgang Chine, a theme park largely geared towards young children. It was refreshing to go somewhere so perfectly aimed for our kids (3 & 22m), who had a ball spotting dinosaurs and giant bugs hidden in the undergrowth, and climbing Sleeping Beauty's castle. Finally we visited Carisbrooke Castle, an English Heritage site I probably would have bypassed, if left to my own devices. In fact the children loved climbing the steep steps up to the buttresses and walking round the top of the ruins, and they were almost apoplectic at the "real donkey!" used to raise water from the well.

The five of us had a really great weekend somewhere we wouldn't have considered going without the gentle (and generous) nudge from the lovely PR gurus Lou and Natalie. We'd certainly think about going back, as I'd like to explore the Island a bit more. I wasn't overly inspired by the towns we drove through (Newport, Ryde, Shanklin...) which had the dated feel common to some seaside resorts, but we caught glimpses of some beautiful places, such as Godshill, which I'd like to see.

So there you have it; a rare review by MTJAM, on the Isle of Wight, one of the UK's top holiday destinations. I stand by my pledge never to go abroad again with children, but if... ahem... Mark Warner would care to take up the challenge, I'm open to offers...

You can find out more about this fab holiday destination at www.islandbreaks.co.uk

Travel sickness

The promise of a holiday has been in existence since the beginning of the year. Ever present but tantalisingly out of reach; always just too far ahead to get excited about. As work has become increasingly stressful I have stolen just a few minutes to look again at the web page; at the beautiful house with its private beach and boat house. "Almost holiday-time", we'd tell each other, when the daily grind became almost too much to bear. "Only seven more sleeps!" we celebrated, like children, when marital ships passing in the night became ships who never even docked in the same place (except occasionally in the kitchen, as regular readers will know). A whole week together as a family.

And so we set off with the promise of glorious weather, the car filled to the gunnels with life-jackets, kites and picnic hampers. Throwing caution to the wind we left both the double and the triple buggy languishing in the garage, relying on Shanks' pony and a rusty Maclaren stroller to give toddler legs a break.

It was roughly two hours into the journey before Twin 1 was violently sick. Too far to turn back; still unsufferably far from our destination. Vomit dripped from every surface of the car and permeated into the fabric of the car seat. Stripped to her nappy, we forced the poor girl back into her sodden seat and continued on our way, windows wide open in a vain attempt to repel the smell.

The Husband was due to play golf the next day and the weather was grey and unappealing. The prospect of a day with the in-laws being equally unappealing, I had located a toddler group not far away, and duly loaded the pygmies in the car for an early start, the offending car-seat cover appropriately laundered and replaced. Twenty minutes down the road Toddler boy threw up. And up, and up and up. His sister's projectile efforts of the previous day paled into insignificance in light of the copious amounts of regurgitated banana and cheerios pouring into the footwell of the back seat. Stripped to his nappy, we returned home. I didn't bother opening the windows - I was almost getting used to the smell.

The following day we woke to incredible sunshine, yachts sailing up and down outside our window, and a much improved Toddler. In a homage to Arthur Ransome we played on the beach all day, rowed the children across the estuary and collected shells to barter with the pirates in exchange for our lunch. As the day grew cooler we retired to the sun terrace where the hot-tub bubbled invitingly next to an array of cocktails and mocktails. I submerged myself into the warm water and felt my entire body relax, before coming to the surface to take the first child from my husband. The Toddler leapt into my arms, all sickness forgotten in his excitement. Twin 1 smiled gleefully as she was passed into my arms, all arm-bands and swim nappy. I reached out for Twin 2 and beamed at her as I brought her into the bubbles, watching my three beautiful children bobbing around against a backdrop of boats and seagulls.

It was all over in a second. A sudden pallor across Twin 2's face, and the oasis was transformed into a bubbling mass of heated vomit, swirling around us and clinging to exposed skin. "Yuk", she said. "Yuk", said her sister, cringing away from the floating chunks of carrot. "Yuk", said the Toddler. Wordlessly I passed the pygmies back out in turn to the Husband, waiting on the decking, and wrapped them in soft warm towels.

As the children trooped along the terrace I looked back to see where the Husband was, only to see him step down into the tub and lean back into a seat. Incredulously I wondered if perhaps he had somehow managed to miss the three-foot stream of orange coming from his daughter's mouth just a few seconds ago.

"I saw it", he replied. "But I'm past caring. And anyway, it's still preferable to doing bath-time".

Funny how your standards drop once you have children. I nearly fought him to get back in...

Catering for marital sex

Yesterday the Husband and I seized the moment and had sex in the kitchen. This is not the first time it has happened there; it's not that there's anything particularly erotic about our kitchen, simply that we tend to be in there at the same time, which is a rarity nowadays.

Half-way through (not that I knew it was half-way through at the time; it could have been barely past the opening act. It's always tricky to tell) I absent mindedly reached out to stir the risotto.

"What are you doing?"

"Stirring the risotto - it was starting to stick"

"It's not very passionate, is it?

I put down my wooden spoon and gave a few gasps of enjoyment.

"Now you're just being silly"

"Well, what do you want me to do, then?"

"There has to be a middle ground, surely? I mean, somewhere between the Meg Ryan impression and the Jamie Oliver?"

"Nigella?"

"Now you're talking..."

I moaned a little, and licked chicken stock from my index finger. It didn't really work for either of us.

Charades on the front lawn

The magnificent lilac at the front of our house was cultivated by former occupants and was much loved by them and their neighbours. As we conveyed endless boxes through the front door on moving day, no fewer than five local residents dropped by with welcome cards and pruning tips. Clearly we had inherited a shrub of great horticultural importance.

In the last two years the lilac has flowered twice. The first time we missed it entirely, returning home from holiday to a lawn carpeted in purple petals and a chorus of approval from Derek and Enid next door. Last year even I was impressed to see the amethyst bloom leap from bough to bough, the scent of lilac blossom filling the air as I walked up the drive. “The best year yet!” Alan and Carole wrote in the card they slipped through our door (they don’t talk much, preferring to record their views on barking dogs, crying children and next year’s street barbecue on notelets depicting Monet watercolours).

My husband has been threatening the lilac with the secateurs since last summer, complaining that the over-laden boughs steal our sunlight and dampen our lawn. It has been the topic of much after-dinner discussion, as I defend the right of the lilac to spread its glorious arms and bask in what little sunshine we have had this summer.

Now I ease the car into second gear as I turn into our close, sensing immediately that something is amiss. As always, despite my best efforts, I park askew in the driveway and step out of the car, leaving the door open in shock at what I can now see. Cut down in its prime, the lilac stands mutilated, amputated beyond all reasonable pruning standards, its few remaining branches limp and humiliated. Raped of its late blooms and bereft of foliage, it is unidentifiable.

The front door eases open and my husband tentatively steps outside, his face the image of our son’s after last week’s encounter with a reluctant cat and a pot of Sudocreme. “I got a little carried away” he needlessly explains, “I wasn’t sure when to stop”. I open my mouth to say something, but he interrupts; “Could you... er... look pleased about it, do you think? Regardless of what you really think?”

“What?” I snap, trying to get past him and into the house, where I know a vat of white wine is chilling in the fridge.

“Oh please, honey, just look happy about it, and sort of... look around a bit. You know, with a smile on your face. It’s just that Derek told me how cross you’d be, and I told him you’d told me to do it like that, and that you’d be delighted. So could you be? Delighted, I mean”.

I am as far from being delighted as if I had just stood in a dog turd. Wearing flip flops. But he is after all my husband, and his little face pleads with me in a fashion not dissimilar to the way in which the toddler appeals for an extra half hour of CBeebies. I slick an over-exuberant grin onto my face and walk towards the massacred lilac, looking it up and down and nodding vigorously as I mouth “oh yes, yes, this is exactly what I was after” as though communicating across a crowd to a profoundly deaf guest at a heavy metal concert.

“God, yes, that’s perfect” Husband hisses, “keep going – Enid’s looking out of the kitchen window”.

Getting into it now, I give an admiring pat to the beleaguered trunk of the lilac then punch the air in the manner of American football players; “Woo! Yeah! Right on!” I wheel round and high-five my slightly stunned husband, who is beginning to wish he had simply ushered me inside without comment. The neighbours may now believe that I approve of my husband’s horticultural endeavours, but they also now consider his wife belongs in an asylum. Nice.

Toilet training on the move

Life with three children in nappies is undoubtedly hard work, however I can’t help but conclude it is far simpler than life with two children in nappies... and one in big boy pants. I have been dreading toilet training almost since the Toddler was born, and have been ignoring the signs of readiness for several months. Finally, last weekend, I gave in when the Toddler asked to go to the loo whilst at a restaurant, despite the fact that he had on a perfectly good nappy. I just can’t understand his eagerness; I mean, if you could get away with peeing in your pants all day, wouldn’t you do that instead of fannying around working out where the Ladies are? I’d be far more productive at work if I didn’t have to take frequent loo breaks.

Still, big pants it is (for both of us – mine being considerably bigger than his) and he’s taken to them like a toilet duck to water, with only one accident all week. And that was my fault really; I was distracted by this vase on Flog it! just like one in our loft, and I was waiting for the auction to see if some how we might be inadvertently mega-rich. It went for £2.50 in the end, which won’t even pay to get the carpets cleaned.

This morning I was trying to get myself showered and dressed as well as sorting out the pygmies so we could be in the car and on the road by 9.30am. I was feeling on particularly top form after a 5am wake-up call from the Toddler, who was freaking out thanks to a recently acquired poster of a horse on the back of the bedroom door (“His nose is so biiiiiiiiiiig” he wailed, waking the twins with a cacophony of cries and securing the mood for the entire day).

Just as I thought everyone was ready to go I realised the Toddler was standing suspiciously still, legs apart and emitting a familiar smell. “Oh no”, I said, “not again...” Yes, I know Gina Ford tells you never to reprimand a child for an accident; I know this is the one area of parenting that most of the gurus actually agree on; but it’s very easy to deal with a hypothetical poo with a bright smile and a “never mind, shall we try for the potty next time?” There is something very wearing about scraping poo from pants, especially when it has been intentionally curled out; “but it makes me nice and warm, Mummy”. A top toddler tip for those chilly winter mornings, perhaps.

Clean, dry and in the car, sandwiched between his two sisters, I fixed the Toddler with a deathly stare; “right, we are going to be driving for two hours, so you WILL need to wee. You need to tell me when you need a wee and I will stop the car.” Only six days into toilet training (‘potty training in a week’? Oh pur-lease, like maybe if you start when they’re NINE...) I was somewhat nervous about attempting a long car journey without the safeguard of a nappy, and had visions of swerving across several lanes of the M5 to reach the hard-shoulder before the Toddler’s bladder shared its bounty with the car interior. The Toddler looked at me like I’d just been let out of an asylum (if only; I could do with the break) and we set off.

As we passed each layby, turning or otherwise suitable opening, I slowed to a crawl to give the Toddler ample time to flag up any toileting needs. In between loo-stopportunities I slammed my foot down on the accelerator, like a child racing between the last two stools in a game of Musical Chairs. Inevitably, just as I committed myself to joining the dual carriage-way, he piped up; “Mummy -I-need-a-wee-NOW!” Now, I know this stretch of the A40 like the back of my hand, and I know enough local gossip to avoid a particular lay-by. The one fast approaching, and the only available place to pull over safely enough for an emergency wee. Please don’t think me remotely bigoted, or at all reluctant to engage with all sectors of the community, but if you Google this particular Oxford lay-by you will find it features in a variety of Dogging sites (not of the Crufts variety, if you get my drift), several Cruising guides (no, not of the Mediteranean type), and a fair few Cottaging blogs (and no, not of the holiday-home ilk). So you can perhaps see why I was reluctant to expose my children (not to mention my childrens’ bits) to a beauty spot of ill repute. However, needs must when the devil’s threatening to wee on your gearstick, so I gingerly pulled over, extracted the Toddler from his central seat and pulled down his pants the bare minimum amount necessary to permit a standing up wee against the car. I wrapped my cardigan round us both, glaring around the deserted lay-by as though any moment now a paedophile was going to leap out of a bush with a zoom lens and a grubby hand in his pocket. Armed with the fierce instinct of a hormonal mother, I fished around in my handbag for an old eye-liner (to take down the numbers of suspicious cars lurking with intent) and a can of Impulse (I’m a bit hazy on how this might help, but I saw a programme once where someone sprayed air-freshener – or hair-spray maybe - in the eyes of a would-be rapist. Or something. Anyway, it worked a treat, whatever they did).

I took a break from my sweeping surveillance to glance down at the Toddler, who was looking with interest at his uncooperative apendage. “Look, Mummy, I didn’t need a wee after all!”

There’s a lot to be said for nappies.

Family ties

I follow my mother's car back home from the hospital; his things in a brown paper bag on the passenger seat next to me. I need to be there for her when she first opens the door, and we walk in together, silently acknowledging the absence of a man whose presence defined us all. The lingering smell of the fine cigars that were a background to my childhood is a bitter reminder of the illness that has robbed a man of his retirement, a woman of her soul mate, my children of their beloved grandfather. I haven't cried yet, but my heart is in pieces as I walk round the house touching his spectacles, his whisky glass, his newspaper with the crossword half filled out. How can someone simply disappear? How is it possible that a man with such intelligence, such skill and such passion for life can cease to exist in a heartbeat? I can't fathom it.
My sisters arrive, each with their own take on grief, and we join my mother in the kitchen. We are drinking gin at just past noon and our mid-week gathering is so unusual it feels like Christmas. We talk of how glad we were that it was swift, that the horror of these last few days is over, and that he is no longer in pain. We realise we must let others know, and my eldest sister takes the phone to call our uncle. She dials and immediately tells him the news is bad, "he died this morning". There is a pause. "Oh I do apologise", she says, and puts the phone down. She looks aghast. "It was the wrong number". We burst out laughing and can't stop, clutching our sides and spilling our gin, a near-manic release of tension. In the midst of this hysteria the phone rings and my younger sister answers it; "can I speak with Dr Greenwood, please?" It is a sales call. "Are you a medium?" she says. "No? Then you will find it difficult". Her audacity launches us back into peals of laughter, and I marvel at the strength of women, who see humour in tragedy and hope in despair.

A series of visitors come and go all day and we congregate in the sitting room, drinking tea and perching on footstools; studiously avoiding my father's chair. The elephant in the room. Huge and unwieldy, it goes with nothing, but yields unsurpassed comfort which justifies its presence. As children, it was with immense daring we would sink into its battered arms, leaping up the instant he appeared in the doorway to reclaim his throne. The visitors all say we must be relieved. Must we? Can't we be angry? Or devastated? I am both. But still I cannot cry.

The house is silent, so silent. The reassuring tick-tock of the Grandfather clock has always made me feel safe, marking the progression of time with constancy and history. The clock has fallen silent; no-one but my father knows how to wind it. I worry what else we will discover, that only he knew, and I mourn that loss of knowledge. I miss the support of my husband and it is strange to be in the family home with no men, but I am glad for my mother that her sudden solitude is not underpinned by the presence of her sons-in-law. It is right that we spend this time together; my father's girls.

We spend the afternoon roaming restlessly round the house, each separately managing our mourning, yet drawing on the support of our sisterhood. My mother is writing lists, my younger sister sifting through old photographs of my father, and my older sister mopping floors as though she can wipe away sadness. I am upstairs, sat cross-legged on the floor with my father's tie collection spread out around me. Celebrated for this quirky addition to his otherwise conservative dress sense, I touch the fabrics reverently. They are my father. I can see the raised eyebrows at board meetings; I can follow his travels in souvenir ties. The dancing skeletons he wore to see patients, the dollar bills he sported before his accountant. All chosen with care to suit the occasion; some beautiful, some amusing, some quite tasteless. I choose my favourite and wrap it round my wrist, feeling my pulse beat against this piece of my father. I pull the fabric tighter, like a tourniquet, and the beat becomes fierce and strong like my love for him. But still I cannot cry for him, and I don't know why.

Secrets of an 18th Century cupboard

Children are essentially engineers, aren’t they? They just love taking things apart and – just occasionally – putting them back together. Dropping shapes into shape-sorters, posting letters through boxes, under the fridge or down the back of the radiator; nothing gives them greater pleasure than slotting pieces into holes. My toddler is obsessed with keys, happily playing for hours inserting the door key into make-believe locks.

By the side of my bed I have an 18th Century cupboard that serves as a bedside table. A beautiful mahogany unit, with a matching mate in slightly less perfect condition, but both with their original keys and locks. I bid for them in a haphazard but enthusiastic fashion at a dusty Cotswold auction when we first moved in together, and it’s survived several moves wrapped in acres of partially-popped bubble wrap, and a fair few spilt glasses of Merlot. Such a cupboard undoubtedly once housed china chamber pots filled to various degrees of unpleasantness, and my now bedside cabinet continues the tradition by providing a haven for a motley collection of books, biscuit crumbs and used tissues. At least, that’s what I keep in mine; I suspect Husband’s is a rather more organised endeavour, but I wouldn’t know; we have an unspoken rule that our cabinets are sacred territory, home to the occasional love note left on the tumble dryer when our paths haven’t crossed for a few days.

Each morning the toddler toddles in around 6.30am, resigned to the fact that prising Mummy from her bed before 7am will be harder than raising the dead. He sits quietly on the floor next to me; sometimes with a book of his own he’s brought in with him, sometimes leafing through whatever crime thriller I’ve left my bookmark in, making what he considers to be appropriate noises of interest as he turns the page. Bored with reading, he’ll fiddle with the lock in my bedside cabinet, pushing the old battered key in and out and in and out again. Eventually I’ll give in to the inevitability of the day, and roll out of bed into my slippers to take him downstairs.

I realise one evening, whilst rooting around the bedroom for a lip salve that hasn’t been used as lubricant for an uncooperative Transformer, that the key to my bedside cabinet no longer opens ye olde antique lock. The beautiful pewter key turns fruitlessly with no satisfying ‘click’. The door remains resolutely closed. It wouldn’t bother me usually, but I’m half-way through a Kay Scarpetta with a really quite intriguing twist, and I’m just not sure the butler really did it. The following day I root out the Yellow Pages and begin searching for an appropriate craftsman. A few J R Hartley phone calls later and I’ve hit on the quintessential locksmith who assures me he can have the cabinet open in a jiffy. On our way back from toddler group I drop it off to his workshop and return home to feed and water the children. The master cabinet-maker has slotted my apparently simple job into his first few cases of the day, and I look forward to settling back into my murder mystery once the children are in bed.

Cup of tea in hand, the children playing happily at my feet as I flick through the paper, I suddenly freeze, near-artic blood running through my veins. Like a cine film playing across my mind I can see in glorious technicolour the pile of books in my bedside cabinet, the tissues, the biscuits… and the nine inch Rampant Rabbit with its accompanying bottle of lube. I feel sick to my stomach; to my socks even. I recall how the locksmith – a friend of my father’s - sent his regards to my parents, and I blush at the thought of his knowledge of my carnal shame.

In one fluid movement I am out of the armchair and into the car, children flung into their car seats in confusion, as I desperately dial the locksmith’s number to tell him I’ve changed my mind about the work. I almost succumb to the waves of nausea as I hear the recorded message; “Thank you for calling Cotswold Locks, I am in my workshop at the moment, but I’ll get back to you as soon as I can…”

“Nooooooooo!” I howl, crunching the Galaxy into gear and swerving my way through the parked cars. “Don’t be in your workshop! Don’t be opening my beautiful cabinet and concluding I’m a sexually depraved housewife who seeks fulfilment from rigid latex”. I screech through an amber light as I envisage the locksmith gazing at the Rabbit with a wry smile on his face, beckoning over the fifteen year old apprentice for an introduction in sexual politics. I imagine them all cavorting round the warehouse, spanking each other with my dusty dildo and squirting menthol lubricant from a water pistol. I can see the knowing looks on their faces as I turn up to collect my cabinet, struggling to contain their smirks and eyeing me up to establish the true extent of my sexual depravity. Oh the shame of it! We’ll have to move. I couldn’t possibly walk through town, knowing that everyone knows I resort to frolicking with a pink plastic vibrator. With ears. Oh my God – is it even clean…?

Seconds later I pull up outside the warehouse, coming to a diagonal halt across two disabled spaces. I race into reception and gabble the excuses necessary to get back my property; “I don’t need it open after all – I’ve never liked that book anyway - I urgently need a table to put my water on…” It works. Someone is smiling upon me and feels there is insufficient sport to be had in totally humiliating me. For now.

I refuse all assistance - as though I’m terrified the cabinet will suddenly spring open of its own accord, spilling out my dirty secrets for the world to know. From now on only I will handle it, with its lock untouched and its key useless to me. The cabinet has already survived generations, and there’s every reason to suppose it will continue to be passed on to my own children and grandchildren, each baffled by the non-presence of a key. Fear strikes my heart again as I consider the next few generations, alighting on my great, great, great grandchildren, who will manage to spring the lock and sit gazing in confusion at the old-fashioned silicone, the dated colours and the sheer fact that their great great great grandmother lived in a time when orgasms were still manually induced. Perhaps they will think I’m a bit of a goer. If only…

A narrow escape from poo-related career downfall

With the rose-tinted memory of maternity leave still fresh in my mind, and a boss whose idea of flexible working is asking his secretary to bend over to pick up a file, I am ever conscious of making a good impression in my new job. Rightly or wrongly I don’t want to be labelled as someone with ‘childcare issues’. You’d think that nowadays that would be no bad badge to bear, but in fact you might just as well be labelled as syphilitic, for the distance you’ll see between you and some of your colleagues.

Some mornings I leave for work a little later than usual. I like to help the nanny get the children up, and participate in the conveyor belt of nappy changing, which is no mean feat now that they are all running around. Given that no child under three wants to stay still for any longer than he has to, the nanny and I have adopted the Tag Team production line method. You station yourselves on opposite sides of the room, each with a child. You strip your respective baby, then spin them round and it’s ‘ready, steady, go!’ across the room as fast as they can, into the arms of a waiting nappy and clean clothes. Whoever finishes first gets to catch and change the remaining sproglet. The naked running is admittedly a high risk strategy, given the bladder control of a 15 month old, but I like to live dangerously.

Last Thursday the pygmies were competing to discover who could provide the most rancid nappy. All three were nose-meltingly awful, requiring double-bagging before I even dared risk taking them out to the wheelie-bin on my way down the drive. It never ceases to amaze me just how toxic baby poo can be, considering they rarely have to contend with dodgy curries or eight pints of Foster’s finest. Delicious though my children are, it is still lovely to leave them behind with the wonderful nanny, and travel in peace and quiet on my own to work. Classic FM instead of Heads, Shoulders, Knees and, well you know the rest. Quiet contemplation of the Cotswold countryside, instead of “Yes darling it’s another sheep. No she probably doesn’t have a willy. Well, because she’s a girl sheep. No, she doesn’t have boobs, exactly…”.

I arrived into work just ever so slightly late and tried to sneak up the stairs to my office before it became very obvious that it had gone 9am, I still had my coat on and was carrying my lunchbox. Alas, before I’d barely touched the bottom tread my boss poked his head round the door and summoned me into his inner sanctum. “I thought it would be good to see how you’re settling back after your career break”. Yup. Excellent. Just what I feel like doing.

Still, at least a cup of tea was proffered, and no mention made of my tardiness. In fact, a glowing report all round – I scarcely recognised myself. I shrugged off my coat, kicked my lunchbox under my chair and dumped my bag at my feet as I settled into this sugar-coated feedback. Maybe I really do know what I’m doing, after all? Maybe I’m just naturally talented? Suddenly I caught a whiff of something throat-catching, before the lure of my bourbon (that’s the biscuit, not the hard liquor – this is the public sector and it IS only 9am) diverted my attention and I turned back to my cup and saucer. But then I smelt it again; an unmistakable waft of infant waste mixed with the sickly sweet scent of a Tesco Value nappy bag. I glanced down at my feet and saw, nestling in my open handbag, a tight knot of plastic containing three potential weapons of mass credibility destruction.

My boss sniffed the air, cautiously. “Can you smell something?” he asked. “Er, no, I don’t think so”, I lied, simultaneously gagging against the stench of night-time urine gradually warming up against the radiator behind me. He pressed a buzzer on his desk; “Eileen, can you get hold of the cleaners again – they’ve left a God-awful smell in here and it’s getting worse”. He turned to me with an un-natural smile, “So, you’ve got children”, my boss began. (Clearly he has just returned from a course in Employee Relations; step one, ‘get to know your staff’). “How old are they?”

Oh God, I can’t admit I have nappy-aged children. He might be one or two pork-pies short of a corporate buffet, but he’s not completely stupid, he just has to look down and see that I’ve brought dirty nappies into work with me, and I’ll be on the fast train to redeployment before you can spell diarrheaoa. Diarhea. Diarrhear. Oh crap.

“They’re er 16, er 15 and er 14”. Oh fuck. Now I’m opening myself up to a wealth of questions about GCSE options and explaining why I’ve booked all my holiday in term time. I need to get out. Now.

“Boss, I er have a pretty crucial meeting I need to go to, actually. Yeah it’s the er, you know, the new T8 process we’re implementing – well to be frank it needs a bit of a steer”. Blimey, I do sound pretty impressive. No wonder he thinks I’m settling in well.

“Ah, well in that case, you shoot off. We’ll continue this little chat later. Sounds like you’ve got everything under control. Anyway I need to sort out this confounded stench…”

I slunk out of the office with my offending package, heading straight for the canteen bins, where the smell of over-cooked cabbage would surely mask my off-spring’s foul produce. Note to self – do not take poo into work.

A problem with my Mother board

My blog has not been updated for a week. My blog-roll has burst off the page. E-mails are stacking up in my inbox; friends offended by my lack of response, PR companies looking elsewhere for a freebie recipient. My statcounter has plummeted, my Followers shrinking, and my Adsense revenue reduced to a trickle. I have to visit a real store for the weekly shop, can't browse Boden's halcyon cyber-aisles or add to my Amazon wish-list.

My computer is broken. Kaput. Busted. Dead. The connecting thingy that you plug the power cable into is wiggling around and there is a worrying rattling noise which suggests something has actually come away and is making its way into the very bowels of the laptop. There are 'male' and 'female' elements making up this essential connection, and I wonder if it is signifcant that it is the masculine part which has failed me. Plus ca change...

For two whole days I have eked out the remaining battery life by turning it on for short bursts, frantically checking e-mail and backing up files in anticipation of its inevitable demise, which came late last night. I phoned the wonder-Geeks who successfully removed a persistent virus from my laptop only last month. They told me they can't themselves fix the problem, which ironically is a problem with my Mother-board. They have recommended someone who will charge me at least £100 for the privilege of restoring my power. Ultimately, they have gently suggested it may be time for my ageing laptop to go to the great hard-drive in the sky.

In other words, I am incommunicado aside from the very occasional covert foray from work. Please don't abandon me just because I'm not getting out much - I was only just getting into the swing of this blogging lark...

What are boobs for?

Eating out at lunchtime is not a regular event. What with the number of highchairs required and the need to work around The Routine, it's simply easier to stay at home. From time to time, however, the call of the skinny latte is too strong for me to resist, and I load up the triple buggy and head into town.

I had planned to go to the park this morning, but woke to the sound of rain and my heart sank. Rain is the Multiple Mum's nemesis. We don't care if it's cold, or if the wind is whipping round us, Wizard of Oz style. We don't care if the sun's beating down or just peeking through the clouds. All these weather events can be combatted with sunshields, with extra layers, hats and scarves. In my (very short) time as a mother of one, the rain was really no problem; a cover on the Maclaren and a raincoat for me, and we carried on regardless. Nowadays rain presents logistical difficulties that stop short of 'fun'. Three children means three trips from the house to the buggy or car. That's three occasions to get wet, and tramp muddy footprints back into the hall. The babies sit tight in their buggy seats, the raincover already steaming up, but they are at least dry. The Toddler is forced to ride high on his toddler seat, three feet closer to the rain clouds, with no more protection against the elements than the hood of his coat. None of us enjoys it.

So we stay indoors on wet days, and this morning was no exception. I racked my brains for rainy-day activities. We built lego towns, read books, made a cardboard house and painted it with handprints. We sang songs, did the hokey-cokey, played musical instruments, had a teddy bears' picnic and practiced marching. We played with dried pasta, made cookies, ate strawberries and led a treasure hunt through the house. A busy schedule, and I was beginning to flag. I looked at my watch: 8.45am.

When the rain dried up a couple of hours later, and the sun broke through the clouds in a grudging reprieve for we tired mothers, I abandoned routine and told the children I was taking them out for lunch. With great excitement we tumbled into the only cafe in town with a wide enough front door and enough back-ground noise not to mind our chaotic chatter. Food order placed, the babies were happily chasing raisins round the table when the Toddler turned to me and placed his hands firmly on my bosoms;

"Mummy, are they boobs?"

(I will forgive his uncertainty - my post-natal chest has little in common with the traditional female form).

"Yes darling". I handed him a sachet of tomato ketchup and challenged him to open it with his teeth. It was a desperate move, but even that failed to distract him;

"What are they for?"

Hmm, good question. Around us, other customers stared meaningfully into their cups of coffee as their ears strain to catch my answer. A waiter paused, mid-order, his pen hovering above his pad. You could have heard a pin drop. Would I seize the opportunity to explain to my two year old about the wonders of nourishing babies?

"Well," I stammered, "They're just for looking at, really"

The man at the next table snorted into his cappucino.

A hundred years of feminism undone.

Baby Led Weaning

I hate weaning. I was momentarily excited by my very first batch of steaming, blending, freezing and labelling, but it soon lost its appeal when my G&T was presented with a slice but no ice - the freezer section given over to Annabelle Karmel’s finest pea and pear puree.

During my second pregnancy I read up on Baby Led Weaning (BLW) and vowed to follow its philosophy and consign my blender to the cupboard. The basic philosophy is as follows; skip the puree, the mash, the gradual transition to lumpy food, and simply present your baby with a selection of whole foods to play with. Gill Rapley, a BLW ‘guru’, explodes the myths surrounding conventional weaning, claiming that now that the Government guidelines are to wean at six months (previously babies have been weaned at 16 weeks, and as early as 12 weeks) there is no argument for giving purees, as babies have by then gained the necessary ability to handle food and to chew.

When my twins were just over four months old, my health visitor advised weaning them, as they were failing to thrive on milk alone. Later on, this poor weight gain was attributed to a medical condition, however at the time it was a reasonable suggestion to make. I duly presented my girls with spoonfuls of mush. They weren’t interested, it disrupted their routine – and mine – and my toddler began demanding baby food in place of his usual meals. It was a disaster and I stopped after a week.

So at six months I began sitting the babies at the table while we ate, giving them chunks of fruit, steamed vegetables and bread with humous or jam. At first they weren’t interested at all, then they wanted to eat but didn’t have the co-ordination to match – that was frustrating! Gradually their motor skills improved, along with their appetites, and by seven months they were doing pretty well.

At that stage a typical day would start with toast, shredded wheat and fruit. Lunch and supper would be whatever their big brother was having, which was in turn whatever we had eaten the previous night! The babies would tuck happily into handfuls of spaghetti bolognaise, scrambled egg (overcooked till it’s a bit rubbery and easy to eat with fingers), or chunks of chicken and steamed veg. By eight months they happily handled whole sausages or pieces of beef casserole, and it was fantastic to see their fine motor skills developing, till they were able to catch the peas they were chasing round the table.

Since then I’ve abandoned some of the principles of baby-led weaning; I use a spoon, for a start – there is a limit to the amount of mess I can handle! Baby Led Weaning isn’t for everyone, and I’m not sure I would have had the confidence to have done it the first time around. You have to be happy with the knowledge that your child is getting everything they need from milk; in their first year food is simply about exploring tastes and textures. You also have to be prepared for the mess! I swiftly abandoned my fabric-lined high-chairs and bought Ikea’s plastic ones which are beautifully stackable and easy to wipe clean. But it’s surprising how quickly they learned to eat well, and I’ve found the weaning process so much fun this time around.

The benefits of BLW for me have been enormous; I have never had to cook separate food for the babies, or mess around with blenders and freezer bags. I rarely take food out and about with me, as from six months they’ve always been able to grab a sandwich with me, or eat a banana, despite still having no teeth at a year old! Surprisingly perhaps, I have had far fewer gagging/choking incidents with BLW, then when I weaned my son onto purees. Gill Rapley explains that purees encourage babies to ‘suck’ the food off the spoon; something much more likely to result in food going down the wrong way, than when a baby self-feeds. With three children under 2 to feed, mealtimes were pretty chaotic, so it was a tremendous benefit to teach the girls to feed themselves from the outset, leaving my hands free to load the dishwasher, or even have a cup of tea myself!

Identity crisis

There are times when I worry I will disappear entirely under the weight of identities I carry about me as I weave through life. First and foremost I bear the badge of Motherhood, and although the toddler cries of ‘Mu-mmy!’ will in time give way to teenage grunts of ‘Mum!’, my identity will never change. There are faux-enthusiastic greetings from other women on the baby-circuit, who know me only as ‘the twins’ mother’. The midwives on the post-natal ward never bothered to check my chart; “How’s Mum today?”; “Come on Mum, let’s get those stitches checked”. Even my own mother has succombed to this sickly sweet trend, addressing me as ‘Mummy’ when my children are in the room. In second place I’m a wife, refered to as such by my husband’s colleagues, his family and the double-glazing salesman who hopefully calls every now and then. At varying times I’m a Treasurer, Secretary, Volunteer, Customer or Boss. Some of these roles carry respect, some derision.

My husband and I so rarely use our first names that it is a shock when, in the presence of visitors, he eschews ‘honey’, ‘darling’ and ‘trout-face’ in favour of ‘Emily’. It sounds clumsy on his lips; as though he’s talking about a stranger. And that’s who I have become – a stranger to myself. Floating somewhere beneath the Daughter, the Sister, the Mother, the Friend, the Wife and the Worker, is the girl who loved to dance, to act, to sing and to write. The girl who grew up with a passion for the theatre and a zest for life. The girl who fell in love, married and travelled though a lifetime of broken hearts to find her family. The girl who loves her job, still dances, and counts her blessings as she kisses her children good-night.

Who is she? It’s time to find her again.

It's the Mummy Bloggers' Carnival!

Roll up, roll up for fun and games, and lots more laughs besides
When you join the Mummy Bloggers it's a literary ride

Twice-monthly we all club together for tea and virtual cake
To share our favourite blog posts as we snatch a quick tea break.

(In my effort to ensure that each contributor receives a link back to their homepage, as well as to their actual entry, I realised too late that it wasn't always clear which link was which. To get over this, the Carnival entry link is now prefaced with a *. Next time I'll just post a sodding list, instead of spending four hours trying to make things rhyme.)

Emily's Maternal Tales are always far from tame
She makes us laugh with this post where she asks *What's in a name?

Susanna is A Modern Mother who knows she'll never win
Men just simply can't *wash up - it's genetically programmed in.

*For the woman who has everything perhaps you'd like to know
About intimate protection, as Time Management Mum will show

Family Friendly Working bears a very useful post
On *flexible working; what to do and how to get the most

New Mummy shows the difference in her *beauty care routine
Now baby's here it's no mean feat just simply to stay clean

WHAM-BAM's Tasha works from home and juggles household chores
Her post asks for opinions on small children *mopping floors

Author Charlotte Moerman writes a blog for Raising Kids
Her post on *children's kisses is just sure to win your bids

Amy is our supermum with four kids under four
She shares a fond reflection on a *friend from days of yore

A change of look is ordered for a harassed Laura Driver
No botox or sharp scalpels though, a *makeover survivor

Cartside tries for five-a-day but never wins the war
Her kids resist the *healthy snacks and rarely ask for more

Mothership's an ex rock-chick who won't reveal her name
She makes *a grown man shed a tear yet still she hides from fame

Nixdminx shares a touching tale of something *lost and found
Leafleting the neighbours when the tortoise went to ground

Bureaucracy in Bosnia means Brits struggle for a visa
A *medical's not straight-forward and the process could be easier

Should men *sit down to take a wee, to keep the bathroom clean?
Raving Mary opens the debate which some find quite obscene

Our Divorcee from Dulwich mourns the *loss of her trim waist
When a trip to Boden's sale room leaves her breathing in, shame-faced

If you're off to Northern Ireland you'd do well to read *this list
Of top ten places on the coast that simply can't be missed

*Parental pay is tackled in this thought-provoking piece
By Noble Savage wondering if mat leave will increase

Rosie Scribble takes the time to have a *good old moan
On old men spitting, eating crisps, and skirts she'd never own.

Rebel Mother's diary details *Mother's Day from hell
I hope things have improved since then - it's difficult to tell

I feel for lovely Ella, and her very poorly son
She gives some *tips on eating which apply to everyone

Tara's Sticky Fingers are a regular delight
These *comments from her son will make you hug your children tight

And finally a charming blog which merits your attention
Submit your *children's letters for a great world wide web mention

I trust that you've enjoyed this stroll through Mummy blogging sites
Perhaps you'd like to join us for the next list of delights?

The 28th of April sees us round at Mothership's
So e-mail her at .... oh for heaven's sake, how on earth am I supposed to make that scan? Look, send a link to your best post to info (at) motherhoodthefinalfrontier (dot) com.


See you there ;)

Book review: Instructions not included, by Charlotte Moerman

Those lovely people at Virgin books are forgiven for sending me The One I Hated, because they also sent me this one; The One I Really Quite Enjoyed. I knew I’d like it as soon as I saw that (despite its mom-lit credentials) the cover wasn’t pink with swirly writing and a graphic of a high heeled shoe impaled in a dirty nappy. More importantly, Charlotte Moerman is actually me. Well ok, she might dispute that, but basically we are interchangeable. She may have three boys to my 1:2 boy:girl ratio, but that’s pretty similar. She married a Dutchman, I married a Scotsman. Her blog was plucked from obscurity to become a shiny hardback book, and mine.... hmm, ok, well maybe we’re not quite the same.

The fact remains that Charlotte (I feel as though we’re on first name terms, now that we’ve met properly through British Mummy Bloggers) is really quite normal. She doesn’t have an affair with an ex-colleague, then realise the grass really was greener at home after all. She doesn’t manage a multi-million dollar business whilst looking fantastic and wearing her children in a hand-woven papoose. She just muddles through life with her boys, her absent (hard-working, not deserting) husband, and her quirky sense of humour.

The book encompasses Charlotte’s family life from early pregnancy with her first child, to the day that boy starts school, throwing in a couple more babies in the middle. I couldn’t help but feel it was a bit of a gallop, and I could have done with her pausing for breath in the middle and allowing me to catch up. It was rather like going out for a drink with a favourite old school friend you rarely see, with five years of gossip to catch up on. Confusing chronological leaps between friends can be easily sorted over a leisurely G&T with a, “so was that before he vommed on the cat, or after?”, but I was left flicking back pages to check which stage we were at. Even without knowing the author’s history as a successful blogger, I’d have hazarded a guess that this was a blog-to-book venture; it has a slightly disjointed, episodic feel to it, with (extremely amusing) Bridget Jones-esque fantasy breaks here and there. But such criticism is all rather mundane and structural and it would be churlish to allow these nit-picks to detract from Charlotte’s excellent writing which is fresh, chatty and amusing. I genuinely enjoyed reading her book, and laughed out loud on several occasions, causing much consternation from my husband (the dour Scotsman, remember?)

Just as we found out What Katy did Next, I’m looking forward to seeing where Charlotte goes now. I almost feel there were two books to be written out of Instructions not included; firstly the plot-based story of her own family and the challenges of moving from full-time career girl to full-time mum, and secondly a dip-in-and-out humourous guide to parenting, encompassing all the quirky asides hidden in her first book, which sometimes get lost in the reader’s need to follow the story.

I do hope there’s another book in Mrs Moerman; her writing deserves another outing.

Roll up, roll up!

Roll up, roll up, it’s Carnival time! The Best of the British Mummy Bloggers Carnival takes place every two weeks and highlights the hottest posts from the British mummy blogging community.
Every fortnight a different mummy blogger “hosts” the carnival. Bloggers submit their best post from the past month - this could be your most popular post, something that has done well on StumbleUpon or Digg, one that has struck a chord and attracted lots of comments, or just one that you feel is their personal best. The next carnival will be held here on April 14th, so start looking through your blog to find your favourite post. I have virtual Hobnobs and a pot of tea on stand-by for anyone who wants to drop by.

Send a link to your entry to morethanjustamother AT virgin.net and make sure you signpost the carnival on your own blog so your readers can enter too!

In the meantime I am thrilled to bits to receive this beautiful award from a new reader of mine, Cartright, whose own blog, Mummy do that, is a re-invention of a previous web log and has me hooked already, mainly in order to find out how a German ended up in Glasgow... Thank you for my award :)

I have to tell you five things I'm addicted to, before passing on the award. In no particular order (and leaving out blogging/the internet/e-mail, which is frankly a given) they are;

1. Tea. Many, many cups of tea. The only time I've been able to give it up is during the first few months of pregnancy, when just the thought of a cuppa would send me rushing for a bucket. I keep trying to wean myself off it, trying green tea, herbal tea, fruit tea... But I always come back to PG Tips.


2. My mobile phone. I actually feel quite shaky and ill at ease if I leave the house without it, even if I'm only nipping to the shops. I haven't worked out if I'm scared of not being able to call for help, or if I genuinely can't cope with the thought of not being able to instantly reply to a text message. Either way, it's pretty pathetic.


3. Shoes. Heels, flats, pumps, trainers, dancewear, clogs, wedges... if you can put it on your feet, I'll buy it.


4. Sleep. I think I could sleep anywhere, at pretty much any time. As a teenager I frequently fell asleep in night-clubs; just curled up next to the speakers and nodded off. Nowadays lying down on the sofa with my feet on my husband's lap is fatal - five minutes later I'm away with the sandman.


5. Kissing my children. It's as though I'm trying to stockpile them for a time when they won't give them away so freely. Cheeks, tummies, bottoms, hands and feet - just everywhere.

I pass this rather cute award onto b, whose blog is far more practical and useful than my own introspective ramblings. I'm also throwing it aross to Tara, because her Sticky Fingers are well worth a read if you haven't done so already. Enjoy.

See you all at the carnival!

Baby talk

If you were teaching someone a foreign language, would you write down the proper word on the blackboard, or a made-up one of your choosing? Would you require them to end each noun with the letter ‘y’, regardless of the actual spelling? Then why, oh why, do you insist on talking to my children about the nice doggy, the ickle fishy, the pretty dolly, and the bloody horsey?

Why is a car a ‘brum-brum’ and an ambulance a ‘nee-naw’?

Do I really have to change my baby’s ‘botty’?

I mean seriously, what is wrong with teaching our children proper English from the outset? I loathe baby talk with the fury of a thousand dirty nappies, and have refused point-blank to allow it in the house. There is plenty of time for our children to murder our beautiful language with the slang of teenage grunts and txt spk. For their first few speaking years, at least, can’t we teach them the beauty of real words, without patronising them with baby language?

My personal pet hate is the teaching of the word ‘ta’ to babes in arms. Perhaps if ‘ta’ is a term you use yourself, it is understandable that your child will learn it too, although I still shudder at the thought. But what I simply can’t understand is educated parents who would no sooner say ‘ta’ for their tea than they would hang leopard-print dice from the rear-view mirror of their Range Rover. It’s not a proper word! What’s wrong with thank you? Or thanks? How is that harder to say than ‘ta’? A ten month old might not enunciate her consonants as well as Eliza Doolittle, but she’ll have a damn good stab at it.

The fact that I’m a snob is well established, and I make no apologies for it. I want my children to grow up using decent English and I believe it’s important for our heritage and our self-respect as a nation that we encourage the next generation to cherish their language. After all, it’s a gift. Innit?

Photo credit: Karmalize

Is there sex after babies?

Never mind sex before marriage, the hot debate centres on who’s having sex after children. How much, how often, and how soon.

Just as soon as the first flush of parental excitement has faded, the new baby is sleeping more than twenty minutes at a time, and you’re able to sit down without an inflatable ring, the question of sex rears its er... head.

“Oh darling...” your husband whispers, as he slips into bed beside you, a hopeful hand ferreting beneath your brushed cotton jammies, fingers struggling to locate the furrow where your Spanx pants end and your nursing bra begins. “Harry’s six weeks old today”.

This will be the only time your husband knows for certain how old your children are, so make the most of it. Just as you have always known exactly how many weeks pregnant you are, whilst your husband pontificates that you are “about half-way now”, so you will always know the precise age of your offspring, in days, weeks, months and eventually years. Your spouse, however, has latched onto just one date. One phrase has leapt out at him from the scores of pregnancy manuals littering the house. Just a solitary sentence out of the entire NCT antenatal course has filtered into his consciousness and quite possibly into his Blackberry as an Outlook reminder;

“it is advisable to wait until the six week check with your GP before having sex”.

An innocuous instruction prompting a dismissive snort the first time I read it. You actually think I’m considering having SEX again? Somehow, when men read this same sentence, the words get thrown up in the air and jumbled up, and when they fall back down again they read;

“you can have sex again when your baby is six weeks old”.

Which just isn’t the same thing at all.

I honestly don’t know how it happens, but a chat with my mummy friends over a glass of vino has revealed that each of us has had to fend off an amorous partner on the stroke of six weeks. With an over-enthusiastic labrador as a bed-fellow, there are a variety of pysiological stalling techniques at your disposal, from spurting milk ducts to unmentionable goings on down below, designed to deter even the most ardent admirer from delving too deep.

P-Day for me was around 10 weeks after having the twins when I finally decided I had to get it over with, if only to stop my frustrated husband from using so much hot water when he disappeared into the shower every morning. We are on a meter, after all. I was so busy gritting my teeth and wondering if the cross-stitch would hold, that I forgot about contraception until the crucial moment, interrupting Husband’s “Yes, yes, yes!” with a howl of “Noooooooooooo” as I wriggled out of harm’s way before our new-found fertility became responsible for another batch of babies.

It is with nostalgia that I look back on the pre-baby sex of my early married days; the spontanity, the raw desire, the ability to orgasm without leaking wee... Forget working full-time, or running a business, there is nothing that epitomises multi-tasking more than a post-natal woman having sex. Holding in your stomach for an hour (well okay, fifteen minutes) whilst simultaneously tightening your pelvic floor in an attempt to redress the fact that you now have a vagina like Dumbledore’s sleeve, is a feat not to be sneezed at.

Last night I was caught up in the moment and allowed Husband to flip me over and take me from behind against the kitchen table. (No, I don’t know what came over me either, but Eastenders had finished and my wireless connection was on the blink. The scrubbed pine has had a good going over from Mr Muscle. Which makes two of us). I glanced down at my erst-while slender torso, where my spaniel-ear bosoms swung enthusiastically yet pathetically, like marbles in knee-high socks, incapable even of masking the corrogated curtain of stomach skin draped behind in elegant folds. In an attempt to distract myself I looked around to find something to focus on. Is that marmite on the wall? I didn’t even think we had any marmite. Oh God, I hope it’s marmite...

This morning I have a new resolution. A determination to reclaim my lost sexiness and embrace this strange new body I didn’t order, but nevertheless find myself zipped into. It has to be possible; the world is full of weird and wonderfully shaped women who have active sex lives and are presumably confident in their skins. Most of them have appeared alongside Jeremy Kyle. I have no wish to feature on reality shame-TV, however I am embracing both their wobbly bits and my own and vow to never again suck in my stomach, puff out my chest, or insist I enjoy the missionary position simply to avoid the forces of gravity. I will continue with the pelvic floors though; the Harry Potter effect can’t be ovecome by magic alone.

Photo credit: Margoloves

For more shame and embarassment, my weekly column is over at Bambino Goodies right now!

Escape from despair

This post follows on from my descent into madness, and is for Iota, who wanted a happy ending.

There had to be a way out of the darkness. Somehow, in amongst the thick mire of despair that enveloped me, there had to be a beacon of light to guide me back towards sanity. I sat mutely before my doctor, unable to open my mouth. Unable to find the words to explain how my identity was crumbling away and I was losing my mind. I pushed a piece of paper across the table, on which I had written four words.

I don’t love them.

Tears ran down my face and dropped into my hands, which were clenching uncontrollably in my lap. The skin between my fingers was raw and angry from weeks of repetitive wringing hidden beneath baby blankets, my nerves frayed from the public display of perfection. She held my gaze and I pleaded silently with her to help me break out from the torturous prison in which I had been incarcerated for so many months.

I left that day with medication and a place in the queue for counselling services. A frustrating wait of six weeks for salvation from the black dog who shadowed my every move, waiting round corners and snapping at my heels. I handed my husband the blue leaflet on Post Natal Depression which assured him I would get better, on the same page where it listed the ways in which it could get worse. I assured him I didn’t feel as though I wanted to kill myself; I just didn’t want to be alive any more. It wasn’t the same thing, was it?

After ten medicated days I woke up and realised even before I opened my eyes that the grey cloud of intertia had lifted. My legs were no longer leaden, and the cotton wool that had filled my head was floating out, taking with it the feeling of irrational anxiety that had furrowed my brow and thinned my hair. It was by no means the end, but it was undoubtedly the beginning of the end. I had a new-found awareness of how I was malfunctioning; my inability to finish a sentence no longer confused or stressed me now that I could see it as symptomatic of an illness. I began to separate the chemical imbalance of depression from the legitimate grief of a mother who watched her first-born die, and I began the long overdue process of mourning for my son.

Some weeks later I felt the invisible cords of motherhood pulling me upstairs and into the darkened nursery, where I sat on the floor between the two cots. I listened to my sleeping babies breathing in turn, their soft sounds filling the room with a sense of tranquillity. They breathed life back into my soul that night, and what I felt for them threatened to break out from my heart and suffocate us all. It was all I could do to stop myself from snatching them from their dreams and hugging them tight to my chest, pouring months of guilt into my embrace. The tears fell freely onto my lap and splashed on my now still hands as I finally lay down my madness and realised it was over.

I loved them.

Photo credit: Xavier Fargas

Humiliation for the Mummy nation

This week over at Bambino Goodies I have been detailing yet another embarrassing child-fuelled moment for your delectation and delight. Fortunately humiliation is not a new concept to me; as a child I was so clumsy that for several years I actually believed my first name was Careful!, so frequently did it prefix my given name. My children have inherited this physical ineptitude, much to the chagrin of the Husband, who is annoyingly sporty in a public school sort of way. The Toddler should really be titled The Tripper, capable of finding a stumbling block on the smoothest of surfaces.

So here's the deal. Go away and blog about your own humiliation rituals; those moments when the children make you want to disappear into your own socks. When you're done, come back here and leave us a link, so we can all have a good laugh at your expense. You're a mummy - you have no shame, remember?

What's in your bag?

There isn't a lot about motherhood to satisfy one's sartorial desires; flat shoes, non-iron fabric that won't show the milk stains, bras you can fit your head in (until you stop breast-feeding, and swap your boulder holders for a Tammy Girl training bra, that is). Motherhood's one redeeming fashion attraction, however, is the need for many bags. Of many shapes and sizes. In many colours. It is years before children become low maintenance enough to allow you to leave home without a change bag of some description manacled to your shoulder, so you may as well pick a desirable one. Over the last two years I have had a variety of beautiful bags, both big and small, and there is always a selection to choose from to match my outfit or my mood. The disadvantage of this fickle approach is that it involves keeping the content of at least seven nappy bags current and clean. Or not, as it appears.

Today I took the children out and made the mistake of grabbing the bag I thought would most suit today's image (funky mummy with a sensible undercurrent AKA Fat Face dress with M&S shoes) Any bag I use SHOULD be packed with all the essentials for three under 3s. Barely an hour later, several miles from home and following a poo-mergency, I discovered...

2 spare vests, far too small for either of the girls
2 spare pairs of trousers. Ditto.
a change of clothes for the Toddler - dirty
a memory stick (so that's where it's been)
raisins
3 spoons
1 size 3 nappy
2 size 4 nappies (my children all wear size 5 nappies, of which I had none)
more raisins
a ten pound note
three packets of wipes, all dried up
another box of raisins
a sun hat
a Tommy Tippee cup
one sock
a condom
literally hundreds of nappy bags
7 pens (3 of which don't work)
yet another box of raisins

I'm just not sure I'm prepared for all eventualities. The ten pound note would have been an excellent result, except that I had to use it to buy more nappies and a clean t-shirt. I have no idea what the condom was doing in there. A trip out with three pygmies, an upset tummy and no nappies is contraception enough.


So go and get your change bag (or your hand-bag, if you're lucky enough to no longer need a nappy bag) and tell me what's inside. Oh, and I'll know if you're hiding something from me...


Photo credit: !Bluebird

Lotions, potions and sexual commotions

I have recently scored a few points in the on-going war between my husband (blogging is a waste of time, you spend more time with your computer than you do with me, blah-de-blah-de-blah) and me (blogging stops me going insane, my computer is nicer to me than you are, blah-de-blah-de-blah). My victory came in the form of a package from the lovely Aveeno ladies, and my returning commitment to review some products for them. Several other mummy bloggers have also taken up the challenge, and you can read a lovely review here from Tara and her daughter.

I am naturally pale, with the sensitive skin of a redhead and the scales of one who has never kept her New Year resolutions to drink more water. My skin, particularly on my legs, is frequently uncomfortably tight and itchy, so I am a life-long friend of lotions and potions. Hmm, I sound so attractive... Anyway, I was delighted to read in Aveeno's blurb that "Colloidal Oatmeal is proven to protect even the driest skin by replenishing moisture and locking it in, improving the look and feel of dry skin", and vowed to try it out immediately. The packaging didn't float my boat; it's earthy and oh-so-natural, and wouldn't jump up and down on the shelves, crying "buy me, buy me!" But then, I'm not an eco-queen. In fact I'm a complete product whore and all too easily seduced by glitzy packaging and pseudo-technobabble.

As any mother of smalls will testify, finding the opportunity to test out a new cream - let alone a bath product - is easier said than done. With my husband home for the evening, and the children in bed, I decided to seize the moment and ran a hot steaming bath, liberally shaking the oatmeal powder into the steam. The products are 'fragrance free', which I guess is a selling point for some. Personally if my bathroom doesn't smell like a tart's boudoir after a pampering session, I never really feel I've had my money's worth. I eased myself into my annual treat. Barely five minutes elapsed before I heard the familiar wails of a poo-scream from the girls' bedroom. Ha ha - I had timed my bath well... Less than thirty seconds later I was to take back that statement, as Husband burst through into the bathroom with a semi-naked baby. "INCOMING!" he bellowed, as he dropped her poo-clad behind into my relaxing retreat. What on earth was wrong with using baby wipes?

The creams come in two different tubes, but with no application instructions. Before you snort at my apparent ineptitude, I do know how to put on lotion for heaven's sake, just as long as I know which body part to aim for. I ruled out face cream and foot lotion, kept my fingers crossed it wasn't haemorroid treatment, and began smearing it on my legs, bottom and poor beleagured stomach. In my twenties I would liberally apply all manner of body butters to myself, lying naked on the bed for half an hour afterwards, allowing it to soak in while I read Mills & Boon and had a servant feed me chocolate-coated marshmallows. Nowadays the need to speed-dress in ten seconds flat, whilst simultaneously fending off pygmies and applying mascara, leaves me disinclined to slap on too much gloop. Putting on jeans too soon afterwards leads one to that childhood feeling of pulling on a wet bathing suit on holiday beaches.

So I was delighted - no, enraptured - to see how my thirsty skin drank in the Aveeno cream, leaving just enough on the surface to keep my skin moisturised but not sticky. It was rich, smooth and didn't have the musty smell that many 'fragrance-free' products carry. I liked it.

The packaging vowed 24 hour moisturisation and that evening, over twelve hours later, I wondered if the product was delivering on its promise so far. My skin still felt beautifully soft and smooth; I was impressed. Across the room I noticed Husband was looking at me with a lascivious glint in his eye, and I realised I was still stroking my legs seductively. Hastily, I pulled a hairy cat blanket over my lower half and decided I had better not use any more high-performance moisturisers - it's hard enough trying to juggle a full-time job and three children, without having to be sexy as well.

What makes you the best person for the job?

My friend Ann was interviewed yesterday. She was so desperate to be successful that she hadn't slept in days, deciding what to wear and what to say. She told me some of the questions she was asked;

"How would you ensure the children had a healthy, balanced diet?"

"What techniques would you use to manage sibling rivalry?"

"What is your approach to disciplining children?"

"Do you and your partner have a consistent approach to parenting?"

"What makes you the best person to be a mother to these two little girls?"

After many years of infertility and an agonising year long adoption approval process, Ann and her husband are waiting to be 'matched' with their children. They have been sent a single page document with a photo of two smiling girls and a smattering of facts. A photo which, if they are matched, will grace their mantle and jostle with others. A summary of life which, if they are matched, they vow to fill with happiness and laughter. But first this interview; an interrogation of parenting knowledge; an interview for a job they will hold for the rest of their lives.

I am humbled by their dedication and in awe of the task ahead of them. For I know that I couldn't answer those questions; I know that, in common with most parents, my husband and I muddle through life with our babies, making mistakes and expressing regret on a daily basis. No-one holds me to account for my decisions or challenges my rationale. I know, in my heart, that I am the best person to be a mother to my children, but could I justify why? Not a chance.

Ann and her husband didn't get the job. Two parents-in-waiting, filled with a love that has nowhere to go. And somewhere two little girls, blissfully unaware of the wranglings of bureaucracy, remain in care waiting to be wanted.

Not for the first time, I hug my children a little closer and count my blessings. All four of them.

Too much information

My phone beeps to tell me I have a text message. It's from a good friend expecting a baby,

"4cm. Epidural in place"

Shortly afterwards, another,

"7cm. Head engaged!"

I feel rather unclean, as though I've been privy to something I shouldn't. I mean, we're close, but we're not that close. Not gynaelogically close. Think about it; you call your husband and they answer (loudly), "I'M ON THE TRAIN". What pops into your head? You can picture it, can't you? As soon as he answers the phone you have a mental image of him wedged between two suits, trying to open the Evening Standard.

Then there are those who inform you they're "on the loo" or "in the bath" when you call or text. You might try not to imagine your best friend naked in the bath, but once that seed has been sown, its impossible to avoid it taking root.

Mobile technology makes it possible for to contact friends and colleagues wherever we are, and it cannot help but lead to a temptation to 'over-share'. Facebook and Twitter expose the minutae of our lives, texts and e-mails are pinged without regard for time or proximity. Blackberries vibrate day and night, blurring the lines between work and home.

Do I want to know that my friend is 7cm dilated? If I'm honest, not really. I have her due date circled in my diary, a unisex stork card duly waiting in my kitchen drawer, already stamped and addressed. I'm happy to wait for the announcement card decreeing name and birth weight.

I think back to my own experiences in labour, and marvel at the presence of mind it must take to dig out one's mobile phone and detail each stage of the birth. It was all I could do to remember my own name in labour, let alone begin a correspondance.

When the third text arrives, I am informed that my friend is "9cm. Waters bulging". And I send up a silent prayer of thanks that I never upgraded to a camera phone.

Descent into madness

I can admit it now. Now that my babies fill every part of me with love, and their cries pierce my heart. Now that they are a year old, and the past is firmly in a box tied with ribbon at the back of my mind. I can admit that I didn't love them.

Labour exhausted me; a twenty four hour battle which bore no resemblance to the four hour panic that had been my first experience. Two healthy girls lay in a cot next to me. I just wanted the world to go away and let me sleep. I knew how grateful I should be; barely sixteen months earlier I had been in the same room alone, my newborn boys whipped away to Special Care with frightening urgency. This was the moment I had longed for, so why did I feel nothing?

The midwife eased me into a wheelchair to go up to the ward and placed a baby in a crook of each of my arms. And that was the moment it really began; the descent into a madness I never knew existed, and would be trapped in for the next six months. They were the wrong twins - my twins were the boys born sixteen months earlier, fought for and cared for until suddenly two became one. I recoiled into the chair, looking up at my husband with a look of panic in my face and tears rolling silently down my face. He knew. He understood. He felt it too.

Those early weeks are a merciful blur as I waded through the treacle of inertia that was the onset of post-natal depression. It seems extraordinary, looking back, that I didn't realise from the outset what was wrong. I was consumed with an all-pervading numbness and felt nothing for anyone or anything. I was neither sad nor happy, never cried nor laughed. I dressed myself and the children, paraded the buggy through town with hair and make-up in place, visited toddler groups and friends, gave no hint of the increasing sense of despair I felt inside. I felt as though I was floating above myself; participating in life yet at the same time totally detached from it.

The fog in which I was operating grew thicker and harder to negotiate. I became incapable of completing the simplest of tasks, once finding myself still clutching my toothbrush at lunchtime; the tap still running upstairs. I had wandered out of the bathroom mid-brushing, and simply forgotten what I had been doing. One morning I called my husband from the car, parked on the drive-way with the children in their seats, unable to remember how to switch on the ignition. Sentences trailed into silence and I would forget the names of friends I'd known for years. Decisions pushed me over the brink of panic; I became unable to select from a menu or speak to shop assistants. I was losing my mind. And I was losing my way.

Far worse than my indecision and inertia was how I felt towards my new babies. Or more accurately, the way I didn't feel. Oh, I'd have rescued them from a burning building, but I didn't love them. I didn't feel a connection with them in the way I knew I should; in the way I felt with my other children. Buried beneath the thick layer of confusion, I knew this was wrong, and I was consumed with guilt. Another woman would have loved them, nurtured them, been a better mother to them. I dragged myself out to baby groups and sat watching the new mums with their newborns; kissing them and chatting to them. I tried to copy their behaviour, to kick-start the bonding process, but my babies were strangers to me and I felt like a fraud. I stopped going. People would stop me in the street, my triple buggy a source of wonder and curiousity. To a man, they would comment on the wonder of twins - their remarks cut through me like a knife, re-inforcing the twinship bond that my boy would never again experience. I couldn't see what I had, only what I'd lost. I'd hear how well I was coping with three so young, how amazing I was and how lucky. The words made me sick; I was falling apart inside and no-one could see.

During my difficult and risky second pregnancy I had taken to marking the days off the calendar, inching my way towards each milestone of comparative safety; 24 weeks, 28, 32... I had continued this practice out of habit and one day found myself standing before the calendar, hand poised above the page. Why was I doing this? Why was I marking off the days? What on earth was there to look forward to? Life stretched out before me, bleak and uninviting. I was trapped in a life I didn't recognise and could see no escape.

I can admit all this now. Now that life is good again and the madness at bay. I can hold my babies close and breathe silent remorse into my cuddles for the temporary absence of their mother. She is back now, and she loves them more than they will ever know.

Photo credit: Eric Setiawan

Chunky child vomit

This week, over at Bambino Goodies, the harsh realities of my post-natal body are stripped bare. It's not a pretty sight...

The children are ill. All three have hideous gastric bugs and it is only a matter of time before we adults succumb. Yesterday I arrived home from work and swept the pygmies into my outstretched arms, just as both babies spewed eight ounces of milk and a chicken and spinach supper over me. "Yuk!" said the Toddler. Well, quite. Gone are the days of sweet milky up-chucks, to be gently wiped away with a muslin, or frankly quite often not noticed to begin with. The babies have graduated to full-blown chunky child vomit, with a charming ability to 'twin-sync' their offerings, providing double the fun.

Today has been a constant stream of vomiting children, laundry loads, and scrubbed floors. Brows have been mopped, temperatures taken and Calpol administered. Tempers have frayed, tears have been shed, and a hideous day had by all.

At least, so the Nanny and the Husband tell me. Fortunately for me I have been in London being Extremely Busy and Important. And having lunch on expenses.

A bit of 'me' time

Last Mother’s Day I was in hospital, wincing every time I sat down and smiling weakly at the garage-bought card produced by my husband on behalf of my newborn twins and their sixteen-month old brother. I thought back to Mother’s Days of old, when my sisters and I would proudly present our mother with breakfast in bed, flowers and chocolates, and wait on her hand and foot till we went to bed. In the run up to the big event, gifts and cards were lovingly crafted at school, Brownies, and in our bedrooms with ‘DON’T COME IN!’ posted on the door. Back in my hospital room, one of the babies began squeaking for a feed. I rolled gingerly over and the ‘Mum, you’re the greatest!’ card fluttered to the floor and slipped under the bed. Mother’s Day was over.
Twelve months later and I don’t recognise the woman in the mirror. The bags under my eyes are more Primark than Prada, and my ‘cleanse, tone, moisturise’ routine has been replaced with a hasty scrub before bed with a Pampers wet-wipe. Several months ago I attempted a visit to the hairdresser with the triple buggy in tow. My tea was barely touched when a chorus of objections was raised from within the pram, shortly followed by a similar chorus from the blue-rinse brigade reading TV Quick under the dryers. Meanwhile the toddler was sitting quietly beneath the reception desk, smearing the contents of a tub of purloined hair-gel across the carpet. I left the salon with a half-cut fringe and the threat of a baby ASBO. Pre-baby I was a regular in the gym, pounding the treadmill with my headphones tuned to MTV, and priding myself on my toned tummy. Now the only circuits I do are between tea shops and coffee mornings, pushing the buggy in tune to whichever CBeebies theme is lodged in my head that particular day. My erst-while favourite body part is zipped into submission in the sort of high-waisted jeans favoured only by The Golden Girls and Simon Cowell, and the only exercises I do are sporadic pelvic floors, when I’m prompted to do so by a risky cough.

I used to fantasise about George Clooney, a hot tub and a pot of chocolate mousse (not necessarily in that order, or indeed separately). Now I dream of being alone; totally alone with the sound of silence floating over me like a duvet. Even as I write this, the pygmies are swarming round my feet, their game of Lego towers abandoned in favour of climbing up Mummy’s legs and pressing random keys on the laptop. Frequently they manage to change the settings on the computer, leaving me with keystrokes in Arabic, or a screen set at right angles. Over the months my trio has learned to work together to press ‘control alt delete’ so many times the laptop now rivals me for inertia.

It would seem that almost 94% of mothers would like to have more time to pamper themselves (http://www.mamababybliss.com/). I’m guessing the other six percent didn’t have time to answer; they were too busy trying to escape their own children so they could have a wee without curious on-lookers. With three children and a buggy the size of a baby elephant, going to the loo in public places is a logistical nightmare, and my under-used pelvic floor is once again put under strain till we get home. Caught short one day I headed for Starbucks’ disabled loo, the Mecca for mums with double buggies, and wedged the buggy in the corner as I sank back in relief onto the seat. To my horror, the toddler, on parole from his own seat, made straight for the door and the ‘easy to use’ disabled lock... Acres of freshly mopped tiles stretched between the door, my two year-old’s hand on the lock, and me; legs akimbo, desperately trying to hurry through the gallons of wee I had been holding in round the shops. The toddler looked back at me with an impish gleam in his eye, and turned the lock. With an effort worthy of an Olympic team-member I squeezed my poor beleagured nethers and launched myself at the opening gap, knickers round my ankles, just catching side of a startled couple with a tray of lattes and muffins before I crashed against the door, slamming it shut.

I once read an article about new mums recreating the ‘spa experience’ in the comfort of their own home. To my mind there is nothing remotely ‘comfortable’ about a house strewn with laundry, toys and rancid muslins, but each to their own. The article listed every day items the reader could use to create their home spa without expensive beauty creams and potions; avocado, yoghurt, lavender bath oil, relaxing music playing... It sounded blissful and as the children napped I raced round the house with a washing basket, throwing in objects that roughly approximated those on the list. Ten minutes later, having forgotten to put the water on, I lay in a luke-warm bath generously laced with Mr Matey, a dubious concoction of sweet potato and humous on my face, and PG Tips staining my eye-lids. My iPod having met an unfortunate end in the toilet some weeks earlier, Row Row Row Your Boat was playing from my son’s Fisher Price tape recorder. It was hardly Champneys.

Last night, with Mother’s Day looming, I rang my own mother to bemoan my lack of ‘me’ time. I shared my fond memories of the breakfasts in bed of days gone by, and hoped out loud that this year I’d be encouraged to languish upstairs with a cup of tea and a copy of Hello. “But it wasn’t like that at all, darling” she exclaimed. “Once the three of you had slopped tea up the stairs and over the bedroom carpet, and I’d pretended to eat my hard-boiled egg and soggy soldiers, you’d disappear into the ether, leaving me to clear up the mess you’d made in the kitchen and scrape the glue and glitter off the walls, from your home-made cards”.

So it seems that Mother’s Day, like pain-free labour and Gina Ford babies, is a myth. Like the mysterious content of chain-letters, generations of women across the world have perpetuated the fiction that, once every year, those with children will be allowed at least one day off. Such honesty from my mother was a bitter blow to my naive anticipation of March 23rd, and I slumped onto the floor as the children, with the determination of ferreting terriers, made a bee-line for my lap.

“Mummy”, said my toddler, “I love you THIS much”, stretching his arms wider than the world.

Who needs flowers, anyway?

Photo credit: Melanie Kramer

This post was written in response to a competition posted by Melissa at Home Office Mum . If you don't know Melissa, you absolutely have to go and say hello, not least because she will shortly be leaving her family behind to sail across the ocean in the ultimate challenge to prove there is more to life than laundry...

That's not my Mummy

Dear Usborne Books,

My children are all keen readers of the 'That's not my...' series of books. We have 'That's not my pirate', 'That's not my reindeer', 'That's not my bear', and 'That's not my lion'. I recommend them to all my friends with small children, and often buy them as gifts for my children's friends.

Browsing your website today I couldn't help but feel that, despite the enormous number of 'That's not my...' books, you have missed a few which would surely be very popular with parents. 'That's not my credit card bill (surely)', for example, or 'That's not my child (having a tantrum in the supermarket aisles)'.

With this in mind I have taken the liberty of writing a 'That's not my...' book for your range. I'm sure you will agree that it fits with the style of your existing titles, and is sure to be a best-seller. I look forward to receiving my royalty cheque.

Yours sincerely,

Emily Carlisle

That's not my Mummy

by Emily Carlisle

That's not my Mummy, her tummy is too flat.

That's not my Mummy, her hair is too clean.

That's not my Mummy, her clothes are too fashionable.

That's not my Mummy, her fridge contains too much food, all of which is in-date and organic.

That's not my Mummy, her legs are too smooth and her eye-brows don't join in the middle.

That's not my Mummy, her career is actually going somewhere.

That's not my Mummy, her heels are at least four inches, yet she walks smoothly without tripping.

That's not my Mummy, her skincare routine is too thorough, and she actually knows what toner is for.

THAT'S my Mummy! Her expression is so harassed and bordering on hysteria. Hmm, on second thoughts, actually I'll take one of the others.