It’s all about the Taytos

Two and a half years ago I made a vow to myself. I swore I would never, ever, under any circumstances, take my daughter on a plane without back-up ever again. But last week I broke that promise, the recollection of that hellish ordeal when she was just 18 months old slightly improved by the passing of time and the kind of memory that saw me go into the kitchen earlier, pour a cup of milk then return to the living room without it. That, and the fact I had no choice. If I wanted to take her to Ireland, as I had been promising for ages, then I would simply have to man up and get on another flight with her by myself. And to my complete and utter disbelief, it was actually a success. No tears, no screaming, no tantrums….and Poppy was pretty well behaved too.

It wasn’t just the flight I was nervous about. It was Poppy’s first time  over in Ireland meeting my boyfriend’s family. And she wasn’t just meeting them – we were staying with them too. For four days. I’m generally nervous taking her to meet people she doesn’t know in environments she’s not familiar with because I just don’t know how she’ll settle and how she’ll react to certain people and certain situations. Basically, she’s unpredictable. There’s no rhyme or reason when it comes to who she likes and who she would rather hide behind my leg from. But thankfully she took to her new Irish family like I took to the Tayto crisps. And I *think* her behaviour was acceptable enough for us to be invited back…

And while Poppy got her fix of lollipops and ice cream and met “the real Mr Tayto” at Tayto Park (yep, they do love their crisps enough to have a whole theme park dedicated to the brand), me and my boyfriend got two nights out and lie-ins every morning. And I got a suitcase full of Taytos and Superquinn sausages to take home with me. Poppy said it was the best weekend ever, and who am I to argue?

PS – this blog post has been sponsored by Tayto.

Winning and losing

Today has been a day of winning and losing.

Poppy got up at 6.15am (losing). She came into my bed for a cuddle (winning) She went off to play for a bit while I nodded off again (winning). Had a shower in peace (winning). Came out of shower to find her ransacking my things in my bedroom (losing). Went into living room to find the milk bottle on top of her beanbag but couldn’t see any spillage despite her looking very guilty (winning). Went into kitchen to find the spillage (losing). Did a big pile of washing as it was a sunny day and wanted to get it all dried outside (winning). There was no space left for my washing in the communal garden as all my elderly neighbours had the same idea and they get up even earlier than Poppy (losing). Was genuinely annoyed by this scenario (losing all self-respect). Went to supermarket and the only drama was the brief misplacing of a set of bunny ears (winning). Poppy told me she was in a good mood and was going to behave all day (winning). Got home in time for my friend’s arrival (winning). Friend’s arrival with her two kids plus Poppy thrown into the equation meant my flat was trashed (losing). Went to the beach (winning). Poppy behaved like a brat for the first hour and wouldn’t play nicely with her friends and cried about wanting to go home (losing). Poppy got a new lease of life then didn’t want to go home when it was time to (losing). Drank my third cup of coffee (winning). When it was time for our visitors to leave, Poppy declared she’d had a nice day (winning). Noticed that the coffee that had been spilled earlier had actually stained my cream carpet, despite my efforts with the Vanish (losing). Handyman came to re-seal the bath and did it with special anti-mould silicone (winning). Was so excited that it looks like I’ve had a new bath fitted I texted a picture of it to my boyfriend (most definitely losing). Dinner was eaten up completely (winning). I resorted to eating my Fruit Corner in the kitchen in secret after my child told me I wasn’t allowed one (losing). I then ate a mint in case she smelled said Fruit Corner on my breath (losing beyond belief). Got her to bed before 7pm (winning). As a result, will be woken up again tomorrow by 6.15am (losing).

During a brief moment of winning.

Out of the mouths of babes

I love listening to my daughter chat to her friends. Kids are funny when they don’t think anyone else is listening. I distinctly remember one of her first conversations with her little friend Conor (some might say boyfriend, she likes the Irish lads too). The pair of them were in a play tent outside in Conor’s garden, the safe haven of the den protecting them from the adults. The conversation went something like this:

Conor: “Why have you got wellies on Poppy?”

Poppy: “Because I wanted to. Why have you got shoes on Conor?”

Conor: “Because I wanted to.”

Deep.

The other day she had a friend round to play.I guess this was her first proper play date when the friend was there by herself without parental supervision. My motives were purely selfish for inviting her little friend round – if Emma was there, then I would get a break from playing doctors or the game that I’m not allowed to win. Ever. Oh, and I knew Poppy would enjoy it too.

When I heard what the girls were talking about, I realised Poppy had moved on a fair bit since that footwear conversation with Conor a couple of years ago. I was amazed, saddened, inspired and proud all at the same time. The conversation went something like this:

Emma: “Where’s your daddy, Poppy?”

Poppy: “My daddy doesn’t live with us. He has his own house.”

Emma: “Oh right.”

And that was it. Two four-year-olds just totally nailed the issue of the breakdown of a marriage in those couple of sentences. Matter of fact and mature, unquestioning and accepting.

It’s funny the resilience Poppy can show at times – she’s lived in three different homes since she was born, four if you include her dad’s house – yet if I give her the wrong colour of spoon to eat her breakfast with or we run out of avocado, she goes ape shit.

Feeling super smug, I made them both a healthy smoothie like the super mum I am, before Emma’s nana came to collect her.

And then Poppy wiped the smile right off my face. The conversation went something like this:

Poppy: “I used to have a nana, but she died.”

Emma’s nana: “Oh that’s a shame.”

Poppy: “She got too old. She had white hair just like yours.”

Emma’s nana looked like the Grim Reaper had just entered the room. I looked at the floor, hoping it might open and swallow me right up.

Day clubbing

My boyfriend was up from London this weekend, so I got us on the guest list for one of my favourite Edinburgh clubs, La Belle Angele. It was the launch of a new bi-monthly event, and with tickets s…

Source: Day clubbing

Not a PJ day

Yesterday I did something quite unusual for a freelance writer. I got dressed. Now that it takes me less than 20 seconds to get to “the office”, I find myself more often than not rollin…

Source: Not a PJ day

“What’s it like to be fat mummy?”

My daughter likes to ask questions. Lots of questions. Sometimes she doesn’t even wait for the answer to a question before she’s quick fired another one right at you. Only this morning, as we walked along the prom to her nursery, she wanted to know all about King Arthur and his connection to Arthur’s Seat. And about the sword in the stone. And why the sword was in the stone. And why only he could pull it out…..

I’ve always supported her inquisitive nature – there’s no-one who asks questions more than I do – and I always try to be honest with the answers I give her. But the worst questions are the ones where she’s asking about someone’s appearance right in front of them. Those are the ones I struggle to answer. I have different ways of ‘dealing’ with these situations she so frequently places me in. Sometimes I go for the ‘pretending not to hear her’ option. This just makes things worse, however, as she asks me again and again and again, getting louder each time. She caught me off guard with this last week when a friendly woman started to chatting to us outside our house. “Is that a lady or a boy?” asks Poppy. Shocked and mortified, I didn’t answer, so she asked me a further two times until I managed to sheepishly say “it’s a lady, of course.” To which she replied: “Oh, she sounds like a boy.” She wasn’t wrong, to be fair – that’s what a 20-a-day habit does for you.

Sometimes I go for distraction techniques. I dread our weekly visit to the swimming pool as she seems to take great delight in commenting on people in their swimwear. “Why has that lady got big wobbly legs?”, “why is that man all hairy?”….you get the picture. I honestly sometimes dread getting out the shower in front of her in case she has some wonderful comment or other to make about my body.

Sometimes I try to preempt who she’s going to comment on and think of an answer before the question even leaves her lips so we can quickly move on. On the bus last week, I knew she was going to be excited about one lady’s cornrows (“can I have my hair like that mummy?”) and that she would want to know why the man sitting next to us had his hand in a bandage.

Sometimes I simply say: “I don’t know.”

Last night, as I read her Hansel and Gretel before bed, and the witch was fattening the young boy up ready to devour him as a tasty feast, she asked me: “what’s it like to be fat mummy?”

Sometimes, I’m just speechless.

 

 

About

I’m a freelance journalist based in Edinburgh and mum to the wonderful and wacky Poppy. We live together, just the two of us, beside the sea. We argue, we wind each other up, we have adventur…

Source: About

Never let the facts get in the way of a good story

If I had a pound for every time someone said that to me, I’d be lying on a beach in the Bahamas sipping on a mojito right now. Along with “ooh you’re a journalist, better watch what I say, I don’t want to read about myself in the paper tomorrow”, it’s one of the most annoying things anyone can say about my line of work. Because the frustrating truth is that facts so often get in the way of a good story.

I’ve been working on an idea on and off for a couple of weeks now, putting in a lot of effort to get reluctant and sceptical people to speak to me and building a bond of trust. I know there’s a good story to be told….but I also know that anecdotal evidence is just not going to cut it when it comes to pitching this one to newsdesks, and the figures just aren’t there to support it. Not because it’s not true, but simply because the figures don’t exist in the way a news editor will want them to. That all sounds a bit cryptic, but I’m not going to give the story away as I’m not quite at the giving up stage just yet.

On the plus side, it’s International Women’s Day….

Until tomorrow…

I am the ultimate procrastinator. I procrastinate about procrastinating. In fact, this blog was created through sheer procrastination.

While I have managed to survive 33 years of life putting everything off until tomorrow, I’m finding this…let’s call it a trait…rather debilitating when it comes to working for myself. Having only just left the security of a ‘proper’ job a few months ago, I’m still very much an infant in the freelancing world. Give me a deadline and I meet it every time, but giving me time is a whole different ball game.

Today, with my daughter still at her dad’s, I was all geared up to start ticking things off my incredibly long to-do list. Of course, I kicked off the day with pointless procrastination – why wouldn’t I suddenly have the urge to listen to a 45-minute recording from a tarot card reading last July? – and the rest of Monday followed suit. I did, however, manage to clear my inbox by making lovely little folders to file my emails in appropriately so I could deal with them at a later date. And I sent an invoice for a job I did last week, which kinda counts as work for this week, right?

Then I couldn’t resist the urge to go outside any longer. The sun was beating in through my living room window and all I wanted to do was go down the beach. With encouragement from another freelancing pal – who took procrastination to a whole new level by giving blood to avoid a job she was supposed to be doing – I plonked myself down in the sand, drowned out the world with my earphones, and told myself everything else could wait until tomorrow.

I didn’t get much work done, but I had a bloody nice day.

Feeling Loved…

So yesterday was Mother’s Day.When I was little, I’m sure it used to mean something, but now it just feels like yet another day where mums take to Facebook/Pinterest/Instagram/Twitter to brag about how fantastic their kids are and how amazing they themselves are to have given birth to such thoughtful offspring (“just look at these gorgeous flowers” – feeling loved).

I’m not a big fan of ‘days’. I mean, Monday to Sunday I’m totally fine with, but Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, International Kiss A Duck Day…it’s just not my thing. No offence to anyone who “celebrates” such occasions – each to their own and all that. But if you receive a bunch of flowers on Valentine’s Day from your beloved, why not just thank him there and then? Do you really need to do it via the medium of social media when he’s sitting less than 3ft away from you? And wishing your “gorgeous mum” a happy Mother’s Day on Facebook when she doesn’t even own a computer is just bordering on the ridiculous….

My own Mother’s Day was nothing particularly out of the ordinary, and it certainly wasn’t one straight from the pages of Pinterest. It started off with me being woken up extra early by an excited child who presented me with a present and card she’d been hiding in her den for a week. She kindly opened both on my behalf then told me she was keeping the gift (a ‘best mum’ teddy). She then offered to make me breakfast in bed, an offer quickly rescinded when she remembered she’s only just turned 4 and incapable of cooking a fry-up. She suggested she get me a yoghurt from the fridge instead. After a few hours together, which included playing a game several times that I’m not allowed to win EVER, I drove her to her dad’s because it was his ‘turn’ to have her. I went to Tesco and then Asda (because it would be impossible for one supermarket to have everything I needed, wouldn’t it?) during the height of Sunday traffic hell. When I got home I followed through with my moment-of-madness decision to clean all the carpets (quickly regretted) then I went for a run in the sleet. 

Mother’s Day isn’t always just about hearts and flowers, but doesn’t mean I had a bad day. In fact, I had quite a good day. Sometimes a bit of peace and quiet and being able to go to the toilet by yourself is the best gift a mum can get.

Look everyone…my amazing daughter who clearly went to the shops to buy this all by herself – feeling loved!