We bought the dog I'm afraid

Judge me at your leisure. We caved, gave in to insurmountable pressure, looked into those large brown eyes and said the immortal word: Yes. Oh dear, the look in Isla's eyes the moment we agreed to get her a puppy said it all (cue sing song voice) once you've said it you can't take it ba-ack tralla tralla tra, we didn't take it back, we took her instead to choose a puppy.
Now, don't get me wrong, this was a well thought out decision. I knew in advance that all the work would fall to me and all the playing/stroking/feeding to Isla (for the first week at least until the novelty wore off and then my job description would absorb the playing/stroking/feeding bit. I have acres of time you see to devote to a boistrous puppy. Acres.) Anyway, Husband and I had thought and thought, discussed, discussed some more and came up with two lines: How hard can it be really? and Other people do it, so I'm sure we can. I should have heard the warning drone in my ear. I had said those lines before, about five years ago. Right before deciding to come off the pill.
The problem is that those lines work, you can convince yourself of anything with them. Nobody likes to think that they can't do something lots and lots of people are doing (and with apparent ease - ah the illusion) and nobody ever, ever reckons on something so cute being hard work. I mean children/dogs just play at your feet don't they? As long as they have a loving home and food to eat you can't go wrong. (Anyone saying this to you from now on, please direct them to this blog). It was a fait accompli really, you can't combine big brown eyes and a challenge to do better than others and not cave. A puppy it was.
Regular readers will know that Isla has had this puppy in her head for a while, she's even promised Barbie a matching one, with a matching name: Patch. That's right, Patch. So, given that she wanted to call the puppy Patch we looked for a breed that commonly has some sort of patch. Any sort would do, a freckle would suffice, anything to save our embarrassment in the park of a dog called Patch without a patch.
When we arrived to see the puppy he was, thankfully, covered in patches, he couldn't move for them, there are at least a hundred marks that could decently be called a patch. Excellent, onward we go. Isla loved him immediately, picking him up and playing chase. It was a touching scene, worth all the worry and decision making. Do you want to take Patch home? Asked Husband smiling. Isla looked alarmed at Patch, then at Husband and informed him in no uncertain terms that Patch was so last season (she even tossed her hair at him! How, why, where did she learn to do that? She's so darn good at it. Perhaps she'd teach me?) His name she announced (more hair tossing, I'm considering chopping it off in her sleep), is Twizzle. Twizzle. Great. Thanks. Cheers Isla. No one would ever feel embarrassed calling out Twizzle in a loud across-the-park voice. In fact I know at least four other dogs called Twizzle, Twizzle is so last year let alone last season. It didn't wash I'm afraid, something to do with the way I toss my hair seems to give away the fact that I haven't a clue as to last decade let alone last year.
The only way around it, Husband and I agreed, is to actually teach Twizzle to twizzle. We could summon him across the park accompanied by a light waltz from the ipod. He could twizzle towards us much like those dogs at Crufts who dance with their owners. We'd look great, exemplary pet owners and parents - fresh air, exercise and classical music for our brood. A little effeminate though was Husband's worry. More effeminate than naming your dog Twizzle and shouting it across the park? Quite. We'll see you at the park. And let this blog be a lesson to you all about giving a nearly-four-year-old too much power. It's too late for us now, but save yourselves.

(The seemingly endless list of) Things I have said to my husband today

• What's that look for?
• I saw it
• You can pretend as much as you like but I saw you pull that face
• It's just cabbage
• I haven't given you much
• Isla's eaten all hers
• Well done
• What do you mean I sound like your mother?
• No, I want to know what you meant
• What was that?
• It wasn't nothing
• You said something under your breath and I want to know what
• I do not nag
• I care about you that's all
• Ice cream doesn't say I care
• No it doesn't
• I don't nag I explain
• If you want to live like a pig you can
• That's a good pig impression well done
• You grunt away I'm not listening
• Please stop grunting in my ear
• Ask Isla not to grunt
• Now look what you've taught her
• No you aren't a good influence
• No you aren't, you've just taught her to grunt at mummy
• It is not clever it's rude
• Can you put your tie in the wardrobe?
• You just flung that in
• Why do you think I got you that tie hanger?
• It was not a rubbish present
• Nintendo DS's don't keep your ties tidy
• Are you alright?
• It's just you've spent most of the morning in the toilet
• With the sports section
• There's some prunes in the cupboard if you need them
• No, no I was just saying
• Well, it was a long time
• I managed all the clearing and washing up in the time, that's all
• I just wondered if all was working as it should
• I saved you the drying up

Losing it

My friend from preschool came up to me this morning, and before you laugh, yes, I have a friend, we've bonded over finding the whole talking outside the school thing quite challenging. So in true friendship fashion we sit each morning in our respective (warm) cars and ignore each other and everyone else until we absolutely have to get out. Only then do we chance a quick smile and chat as we usher in our children.
Anyway, she looked worried. Just this morning, she confided through the corner of her mouth, she'd lost it with her boys. Shouted. Screamed. And get this she whispered, thrown all their toys out of the window. The fear was palpable, the light sweat on her forehead belying the cool exterior of the mummy-out-and-about.
Fair enough this was good going for before 9am, but really, toys out the window? That's nothing! I've torn heads off Barbies, thrown perfectly good princess tippy toe shoes in the bin, thrown toys out of the car window (there's a lot of throwing it feels really good), made an Easter egg sandwich and thrown (yes) it onto the table shouting 'there's you bloody dinner, happy now?' And before you phone social services, I don't know any mother that hasn't done similar things.
It's just what happens, it doesn't do the children any harm (well none that they can't see a therapist about later on), in fact, we tell ourselves, it's good for them to see that mummy has a line (a good line in throwing especially).
I was listening to an awful, pompous man on radio four the other day (and I know that's probably what I get for listening to radio four), and he was chatting to a woman who was worried about losing it with her sons, apparently she shouts at them, shouts. OK, I was waiting for the next bit but there wasn't one. Shouts? That's nothing! I've.. (see earlier list). Anyway the point of this bit is that the pompous I've-never-stayed-at-home-on-my-own-with-the-children-day-after-day-while-other-people-get-to-be-citizens-of-the-world man asked her is if she would ever lose it public, say in Boots? No, she replied, well then he said, you can control it. Sorry? The taste of chalk and cheese stuck painfully in my throat. Boots? But there are so many more options available in Boots. Shelves and shelves of things to accidentally sweep to the floor (I've managed a whole aisle), shopkeepers to smile at as you drag your child away from the teletubby bubble bath into the corner for a good shouting at. In fact you can feel like a good mummy in Boots (and it doesn't have to be Boots either, I've done it lots of times in Thorntons). Look, you are saying as you raise you voice without embarrassment, I'm a zero tolerance mummy, I stand up to my children and lay down the Law. Hoorah for me, you won't be seeing me on Super Nanny, (though you're hoping that they didn't see last Summer's episode that you starred in, and have obviously failed at miserably hence the Boots/Thorntons tantrum). You see, when you're out in public it's not other people that stop you losing it and carrying out bizarre and, let's face it, pretty stupid punishments (it took me ages to glue Barbie's head back on, and Easter egg sandwiches have had to become part of the weekly menu), it's that other people mean company, freedom, space. A good disciplining can be admired, taken note of, I'll try that shouting-in-the-corner-thing myself you can hear people thinking, I'd look really good doing that. At home there is nobody around to admire your handiwork, and nowhere else to go but bizarre. Four walls leave you with no option , when you've tried everything else, sometimes you have to lose it, let it go, take it out on Barbie (you never liked her anyway), do whatever it takes to lose control without actually losing control. It's the only way. And if you don't agree then you don't have children.
My brother in law, Alec, has been staying with us for the last few days and I haven't lost it once. Not because I'm being polite, we know each other far too well, but because I've had some company. I don't mean to insult Isla and Jack here, they're lovely company, but it's been nice to have some that I didn't also have to feed/wipe/bath/nappy (although it's been close, he's not that domesticated). He's been someone to chat to (at), he's played with the children while I 'got on with things' (oh how blissful to actually get on with it all), he's held the baby to stop him crying instead of me holding him in one arm, pushing the dummy in with the other and stirring the sauce with my toes. He's even read stories, made mud pies, tickled, played 'you can't catch me' for two hours and generally entertained in the manner of Koko the Klown all day. It's been great, everyone should have a visitor that isn't child-jaded (it took him going to South Korea for a year but still). It has, in a nutshell, been blissful. And it's going to carry on for sometime, I've hidden his passport.

The Ball Commitee

Isla has begun what can only be described as a daily bulletin regarding her birthday. The bulletin takes two forms; What I Want To Do and What I Would Like For My Presents (note the plural).
What she would like to do for her birthday party has progressed from the relatively simple (in hindsight) 'dress like a princess' to a full on Princess Ball 'like Cinderella has'. She chaired the first meeting of the Ball Committee last night, elected herself as Chair, me as Secretary and Husband as Treasurer, sounds about right, long live democracy. Apparently her vision for the ball is all the girls in long floaty Princess dresses, party food and a princess bouncy castle- which sounds expensive to me, I have yet to Google it but I can just feel it can't you?
Upon discussing the risk assessment that she had undertaken and presented to us regarding her party, Husband and I unveiled a major flaw. It turns out Isla is expecting a host of appropriately dressed and behaved princes to waltz the princesses around the ballroom (read: garden). Excellent. No problem. Eight princes-who-can-waltz aged about four, even Google can't help on this one.
The obvious answer is to invite all the boys from pre-school, but not only are 'all boys banned' (what on Earth does she think a prince is?) but I doubt that they are as enthusiastic about waltzing as Isla is (she practises every evening with daddy), I just can't imagine any of them in a tuxedo executing the perfect bow to Isla and whisking her off for a dance at all. So we're a bit stuck on this one. Husband thinks we should hire eight small people (I’m not sure how to put that politically correctly) to be the princes but that sounds even more expensive than the princess bouncy castle. Even so, after writing this I'm off to Google 'small people' just to check it out as an option.
What she would like as her presents centres around one central theme: a dog called Patch. Not only have we got to find her and buy her a dog it's got to have a Patch to justify the name. We're going to feel really silly calling out to 'Patch' in the park only to have a blemish free Labrador rush up to greet us. Very silly. Anyway, all the other presents have to do with Patch; a bed for Patch, a bowl for Patch, a lead for Patch and clothes for Patch. Yes, that's right, clothes. Apparently Patch is a girl and likes to dress like Barbie. Fab. A patch-free dog called Patch who dresses like a hooker. Can't wait.
We've explained, of course, that a dog isn't really a possibility at the moment citing any argument we could think of. But, being Isla, she has a counter one every time, she even announced at the Ball Committee that an extra to the agenda had been added and we now have 'Patch update' before retiring to vote (Isla's vote counts twice). We thought we'd finally gotten it through to her by explaining that the garden was far too small for a dog, and we'd get one when we had a bigger garden. But I came into the kitchen yesterday to find her Googling Estate Agents on the laptop. I'm looking forward to the Committee Meeting tonight, she's going to tell us where we'll be living next week.

The God of small socks

I have 29 odd, small socks in my laundry basket. I've just counted (it's a slow day). Why? Why? Where are they? Who has taken them? Is there somewhere, in a parallel universe, another laundry basket with all the matching pairs in? I want to stage a protest outside Mothercare, Gap, Next and anywhere else they sell baby socks. Stop selling them, they don't work! I'd like to meet anyone, anyone! who has ever held onto a matching pair of baby socks (and it's cheating if you bought lots of pairs of the same socks). No matter what you do, however carefully you apply said socks in the morning, by the evening one of them will be gone. And that's the weird thing, it's only ever one of them. I'd understand it more if it was the pair: obviously someone is stalking me secretly and stealing the socks from Jack's feet when I'm not looking. But one? No, that doesn't make sense. Who would stalk me to steal only one sock, only a crazy person and the only one I know is my mother. But she hates socks, so it can't be her.
I have tried to observe at close quaters the transition from socked foot to un-socked foot that occurs through the day but to no avail, yes, sometimes I catch a live one just about to drop and deftly return it to it's correct positioning but the euphoria is short lived. However vigilant I am the sock always manages to exploit a weak moment (usually involving chocolate) and escape with admirable speed and skill.
I do know that Jack has especially wriggly feet, in A&E (ER to my American readers) yesterday (oh so much you don't know, more of that another time) the nurse tried valiantly to take his blood pressure with one of those things that attach to your finger. Only with babies they put it on their toes. Jack kept the non monitored foot very, very still but wriggled his monitored foot with gusto, not what you want when trying to accurately record data. I held his foot, he wriggled only the toes, I held his toes except for the monitored one, he wriggled the monitored one. Fab, we had a quick guess at what his blood pressure might be and reached the conclusion that he was fine. Anyone who could wriggle their feet with that much vigour can't be particularly damaged. (Or can they? Cue the dark of night, lying awake, and the thought that wriggly toes might be the first sign of brain damage doesn't do much for insomnia. I also worried about a future of arthritic toes, it was a busy night).
Anyway, while I acknowledge Jack's excessive toe wriggles I don't accept it as an explanation for the phenomenon, simply because Isla's toes were literally comatose (sorry) in comparison, and she reached the heady heights of losing two-socks-a-day (not matching ones, she was my first child and I stupidly replaced the missing one with a new matching pair, my mother has never recovered). So the parallel universe theory still stands I'm afraid. And before you think you can come up with another, less other worldy, explanation, hear my final argument: you never, ever see single socks while out and about. Think about it, how many times have you come home and noticed the baby has lost a sock again? Answer: Lots. But, how many times have you been out and found single socks? Answer: Almost never (never in my case). So that proves it, there must be some big, black hole that suctions up any baby sock the minute it's wrested free from a tiny foot. It's the only logical conclusion. Can you think of a better one? Me neither.
I have a solution though, I've tried and it works: every new pair of socks you buy, sew a long piece of string (or wool, it's your choice) between them, therefore attaching them to each other. Genius. Then, when dressing baby, put one sock on and thread the other sock up through the trousers (or skirt, it's so much easier with a skirt, who cares if people call Jack she?) and down to the other foot. Place the second sock on this foot. Do you see? It's fool proof, if ever a sock drops off it's attached to the other one, and, if the child's in trousers, trapped in the clothing. Let's say one did get lost (it's unlikely but not impossible) it will never just be one, the second will have to go with it, this renders the odd-sock-laundry-hamper useless, and is beginning to save my sanity. It's perfect. The only place to go with the idea now it to apply it to my husband's socks, although I'm not sure how well he'll take the string intrusion.

Valentines day

I have just spoken to my sister who lives abroad. She and her husband have only been married a year, and they have no children. She has sent her husband 'O' out so that she can prepare the house for Valentine's night. The house is filled with balloons, she's cooking a special meal, been for a wax, put marshmallows to toast next to the barbeque (it's hot where they live, and I don't mean just the weather), she's baked heart shaped shortbread, iced in pink with silver balls for decoration, crikey she's even bought him an egg that when watered spells out a love message. With her cooking skills (she heats soup and that is that) I'd like to say that all the fuss is to detract from the food but it's not. This is what young, free couples do for valentines day. It's de riguer, expected, love is lavished at every oppourtunity. I'm so pleased for them. Delighted in fact. Delighted.


Husband and I have had a lovely valentine's. We both forgot to write our cards last night so there was a slightly awkward stand off this morning as we both tried to second guess whether the other was bluffing to save feelings, then we agreed to give them this evening. Husband then sent Isla into the kitchen with some supermarket, yellow 'roses' that he'd bought home last night then forgotten and left to die in the car. It was a special moment.


I myself had forgotten to take Husband's request for a special dinner. I made a rare call to his work, I don't call more than once a day for fear of damaging his chances of promotion due to his clingy can't-make-a-decision-on-her-own wife (how little they know). He requested spaghetti bolognese. Fair enough it's a treat to have carbs in the evening but other than that even Isla could have come up with something more adventurous. So spaghetti bolognese it was. Just as I was saying goodbye there was a pause, here it is I thought, happy valentine's day sweetheart. Husband shuffled around as I held the handset close to my ear, not wanting to miss the moment. Hey, he said, want to listen to your valentine's day card? It played I got you babe. Into my ear. I couldn't wait to see the flashing lights that he promised came with it as soon as you opened the flap. Couldn't wait.


Valentines day used to be filled, in teenage years, with that special sort of angst of the will I/won't I get one variety. Mornings at school would be filled with the refrain of did you get one? One? Oh five I used to reply breezily even though the post reached my house after I'd set off for school. This lie was only ever regretted when I did actually receive one, a good one that is, not one from your mother (or even worse your dad), but nobody ever, ever thought to enquire the day after, hence the lie. Later in your twenties it was either one from your current 'partner' (oh how grown up we thought we were) or none at all. Grown-up men don't do valentines, there's nobody around to remind them of the date.


So that brings me back to my sister. She has all the ingredients; a long term partner/husband, recent wedding, time, money that doesn't have to be spent on Barbies and above all, inclination. It's very hard to get all romantic on a Thursday night, whatever the card companies tell you. Jack's been playing up all day and threw up on my new boots, a wax nowadays is simply what Husband does to the car (lovingly of course) and champagne is the colour of the new curtains in the sitting room. There's not much inclination to make Thursday special, not when Friday is looming. If either of us suggested an early night we'd be delighted, an extra hour of sleep. Explain in any way a 'special night' to a toddler and you might as well say 'please play up as much as possible and shout if we ignore you'. It never fails.


So here we are, valentine's night. Spurs are playing, Husband is watching, and I am blogging. But I have to say at this point that where today is concerned I subscribe to one of my mother's more lucid pieces of advice: horrible, cheating men (and women) can fill the house with flowers, cook a special dinner, wine and dine you, speak the volumes of love all night. But it's the rest of the year that counts. Anyone can make tonight special, it's how you behave every day, every night that counts. And if that's how we're judging it, I'll take a million yellow supermarket roses and I got you babe can go on our ipod, whatever, because, as much as I can't stop thinking of my sister and her evening (within limits), ours is just as good, just different.

Role play

These are the roles I have played today

• scary monster
• negotiation marvel
• strict mummy
• embarrassed mummy
• giving in mummy
• shouty mummy
• tearful mummy
• irritable mummy
• sorry mummy
• environmental hygeinist
• duck nutrition supplier
• narrator
• translator
• chef (read: cook)
• fashion advisor
• washer woman
• taxi driver
• care assitant
• general advisor (superior quality)
• decision maker
• time keeper (inferior quality)
• funny, attractive, sexy, just-like-I-was-when-you-met-me, wife
• tie selector
• peace keeper (United Nations Level)
• enthusiastic, involved parent
• craftswoman (toilet rolls a speciality)
• accountant
• worry placator
• bargain maker...
• ..and breaker
• helpful sister
• the grandaughter that always calls
• fantasist
• tongue biter
• patience keeper (failed)
• flower arranger
• telephonist
• secretary
• mother decipherer
• elegant, witty dinner companion
• party planner
• calm, serene, in control person

Forward planning

It's about that time of year that we begin to plan Isla's birthday party. It was news to us, she isn't four until May, but we were informed via her daily bulletin of how old I am and when I will be four that her party was imminent. She's planned most of the details herself, who will be coming, what she will wear and what she would like for a present. Obviously princess is the word that appears most upon her list of anything to do with the party. Only princesses are to be invited, she will dress, most appropriately, as a princess, she would like a princess castle for her present, and I mean a proper castle i.e large, for the garden and able to house at least the eight princesses coming for the princess tea. It's going to cost a fortune.

Thank goodness Jack is too young to understand parties. For Isla's first birthday we invited twenty five (yes that's two-five) adults and any child we could think of under five. We had a barbeque, I handmade all the burgers (with different herby/spicy fillings), all the kebabs, concocted marvellous pasta salads (both wheat and gluten free varieties), bought oddbins' entire wine stock and threw her the party of a lifetime. Oh how we slaved, our daughter's first year was to be marked with aplomb, everyone should remember it, not least Isla, the apple of our eye, our raison d'etre. It was a roaring success. Apart from for Isla who spent the entire day sat on the path eating my car keys. She remembers nothing. If we ever ask her about it or show her the photos her only question is to the tune of why I had dressed her so hideously.

So whether it's the memories (or lack of in Isla's case) of all the hard work we put into Isla's first birthday and how thankless the task was, or it's just that second child syndrome that people keep telling us about, we're not planning much for Jack's first birthday. Not that we aren't as proud of him or love him any less, it's just that we'd like May to end without having to remortgage the house. Again. Luckily his birthday is four days after Isla's so we can tag it onto hers. I haven't broached this with Isla yet, I've run out of courage to be honest. I know for a fact that boys are not allowed to be princesses (according to the Royal Charter of Princesses tacked to Isla's bedroom door), so the only way would be to introduce a sort of prince theme. I could dress Jack and his only invited friends Luca and Bradley (because I like their mummies) as pirates. I'm sure they wouldn't mind an eye patch, and rubber swords are ever so chewable. They'd look quite the team sitting together chewing away, not a clue as to the special occasion that they are part of.

Then again, he doesn't actually know its his birthday does he? Who's to say either way? We could just skate over the whole event, let him sit at Isla's birthday in normal clothes (hurrah) with a piece of toast (it's all he eats anyway). He'll never know! Even when he's older he won't find out, haven't we proven already that no matter how much effort you put into your child's first birthday it is, for them, a truly forgettable experience. We could take lots of pictures of him in his 'party outfit' (dungarees) and tell him they were the height of birthday fashion in those days and that toast was the thing to serve. Best of all it'll cost nothing. Nothing! Ahhh that's the kind of party I want, a free non existent one. If only we'd thought of that four years ago.

One day

One day I will have a small car again. One that only fits me and the occasional passenger and is clean, shiny and hand print free at all times.
One day I will go with my husband on a second honeymoon (for two), wake with the sun high in the sky, get ridiculously and dizzyingly drunk at lunch time and go straight to bed until the next morning.
One day my house will stay the way I left it, not mysteriously mess up the minute I turn my back.
One day I will pop out to the shops - and I mean pop - and be finished in five minutes. I may even treat myself to a basket rather than a trolley-for-three and queue up giddily in the baskets only aisle.
One day I will go to all the shops in my village and buy elegant things for dinner, stopping to chat or for a coffee at leisure. I will be able to fit myself (because there is only myself and no pram) into every tiny specialist shop, smug and happy that I'm 'buying locally'.
One day I will have a cup of tea during nap time without the tension that someone may wake at any minute and ruin the moment. In fact I may even have a set cup-of-tea-time that I adhere to religiously just because I can.
One day my children will refer to me as That Mad Old Bat or The Parental Guidance rather than Mummy Can I Have and I will be pleased at my eccentricities and lack of responsibility.
One day I will actually go on a 'date night' (ha ha ha, did anyone really believe they would ever get to do that?) with my husband without the little knot of tension that everything's alright at home.
One day my kitchen will be my own, the high chair, mini chair-and-table set and play mat will be gone and I will dance a waltz with my husband around our own elegant dining table in all the space.
One day my day will end when I want it to, possibly as late as 11pm, rather than at 3pm when I start thinking about school pick up and tea.
One day evenings will be for relaxing, possibly a glass of wine or even the cinema, not getting-ready-for-the-morning, ironing, sandwiches and signing notes.
One day I will sleep all night long without nightmares/coughs/toilets/monsters to wake me.

But
One day the house will be ever so quiet, I will be able to whisper to myself and hear the echo.
One day strangers won't smile at me on the street, pause and say; isn't she/he lovely, envious of my status, my life, my treasures.
One day I won't get up to two smiling faces, ever so pleased that I'm awake and ready to play.
One day the worry will be further away and thus more scary and less controllable.
One day my tea break will be interrupted by the phone ringing, and it will be one of the children and I shall be very very glad.
One day my heart won't burst with pride every morning just for the existence of another human being.
One day the feeling of a tiny hand slipping into mine, skipping and pulling at it while I go, will be a distant, precious memory hard to grasp and pin down.
One day tiny clothes and underwear that is so cute your heart skips will be missing from my washing line, my ironing pile.
One day I will wish for little cold feet and snuffly noses to creep into bed with me. I may even wake in the night thinking they have only to find it was a dream.
One day I won't be a hero, a queen, the focus and meaning in my children's lives. Just an ordinary person living invisibly.
One day life will be for filling, but not necessarily fulfilling, not in the same way anyway.

Until grandchildren.

The smug mummy cook book

If I had begun this blog three years ago and had posted a list entitled 'books I am planning to write' (regular readers will know that there is at least one blog called this) then the Smug Mummy Cook Book will have been up there with the best of them. Of course it wouldn't have actually been called that but you get the gist. Three years ago Isla was eight months old and an only child. I was a lot younger (both chronologically, nervously and wrinkle wise), and full of all the idealistic, fantabulous ways that I was going to bring up my children. Oh yes, I had a list, a long one stating all the thing I was never going to do (derived mainly from my fuzzy and uncomprehending childhood memories) and all the things I was definitely going to do (derived from a mish mash of - deep breath - people I admired, parents who had seemed cool at school (even though their child is now in borstal), You Are What You Eat magazine, Super Nanny magazine, made up rules that felt 'right', books including; The way of the Spiritual Child, Get
Out Of My Class Stupid!, The Demon Headmaster, The Fat Ladies Club and of course the What to Expect... books - you've got to get them hitting those milestones.)

To my credit I have, four years later, kept some of them; I have never ever taught Isla or Jack to swear in Punjabi, they hardly ever sleep in our bed except to get off to sleep and in the morning and I'm very strict about it being after 5am, meal times are strictly observed in timing with the Teletubbies, if pudding is eaten first then a promise must be made to eat all of their dinner after, shouting at them, while not strictly banned as I thought it would be, occurs in a timely monthly cycle so they know when to expect it. Wonderful, I'm very very pleased with myself.

Anyway, the cook book. You see the thing I didn't get was the whole hooha surrounding weaning. All the books, magazines, well meaning checkout girls/great-grannies/child nutrition cookery course leaders stressed time and time again about the importance of a varied diet and introducing vegetables first (except for great granny who assured me a lump of coal and a satsuma would be sufficient). I knew that! What I didn't know was how easy it was. The whole fussy eater thing was a big fat myth, propagated by super nanny to sell more magazines. My kids ate it all - garlic split peas? No problem, sprout and liver puree? Bring it on! Not finishing your sliced hamster in door knob sauce? Pass it over! Anything! I was a mummy extraordinaire, to be paraded, heralded, applauded, stuffed and hung above the high chair, well done me. This is the way to do it mums! I wanted to shout, come on, get with the programme! (Oprah had just started showing on freeview), you go girl! (sorry it's really catching). The whole weaning/getting them to eat healthy food was a breeze. Give them no option, put the plate in front of them and spoon it in. No nonsense was the way ahead. Weaning? Job done (Gordon Ramsey was also showing).
I had great plans for that cook book, if only I had the time/energy to put it together. I was going to make a mint. Then Isla turned three. Overnight she went from someone with the future potential to join Overeaters Anonymous, to Super Picker: the Girl With The Appetite of a Sparrow (showing on More 4 at some point). There was nothing, nothing that she liked except ice cream and crisps. Why? Why me? I'd done so well, worked so hard. I'd never outwardly boasted, no that would be crass ,but when friends brought their children over for tea it would often just happen to be roasted sweet potato with a morrell coulis, Isla's favourite (she ate all the other children's so there was no waste really, and they filled up on the guava fruit compote).
So that's it, Isla won't eat anything. Meal times are fraught with bribes, tears, threats of no Teletubbies/ice cream/future. I've tried crying myself, lecturing about osteoporosis, genetic counselling (diabetes is rife in our family) and good old fashioned tying her up and force feeding, but to no avail. Pride comes before a fall as they say and I'm truly humbled, sorry Other Mothers I was far too sure of myself. Never again.
So there it is, no cook book, I should have found the time to do it earlier but I was far too confident it would happen organically. I've learned my lesson, from now on I'm going to seize the day, write it down as it happens, if only I can have one last stab at being really really good at something to do with children. Having said that, Isla does like raw broccoli (dipped in ice cream but still). Hmm maybe those royalties aren't lost after all, Broccoli's a Breeze has a nice cook book ring to it don't you think? I'd best get started, Oprah's choosing her next book club book.