We’ll see…

So, it would seem I’m having a baby. If you listen to Poppy, that is. She has got it into her head that she is going to “get a baby sister”. She has been talking about it a ridiculous amount recently, randomly dropping it into conversation when I least expect it. Approaching the airport terminal the other week, she casually asked me where babies come from as I was busy wrestling with two suitcases whilst trying to hold her hand to avoid us getting hit by taxis (though after that question, getting hit by a taxi was an appealing option…) And at soft play on Monday, when I spotted a hole in her already-too-short leggings, I told her it was time they went in the bin. She was horrified at the suggestion. “But mummy, why can’t you knit the hole so we can give the leggings to my baby sister?” Ummmm…..

I have to accept slight responsibility for her getting the wrong end of the stick. After one particularly long day, our dinner time conversation turned to the subject of her getting a baby sister. I tried to explain that that was not going to happen. “But why mummy? I want one!” I told her that I’m very happy with the child I have, and that just because she wants a sister, it doesn’t mean that I want another baby, and that I am quite content with just being her mummy and no-one else’s. But of course, that was not accepted as an explanation. And so she went on…and on…and on. And I made the fatal error…

“We’ll see”, I finally replied.

“Great!” said she. “I’m getting a baby sister! Can I tell daddy?”

“No!” I shouted, horrified at the thought of her sharing my phantom pregnancy with my ex.

I managed to scrape her off the ceiling for long enough to reiterate my earlier points about her not getting a baby sister….and I thought it was sinking in… until my boyfriend called. As I was just about to pick up, Poppy shouted out “Can I tell him about our new baby…?” Decline call….

It wasn’t until recently that I realised the full extent of my mistake when I innocently uttered the words “we’ll see” just to get her to shut up. Following another occasion where I gave her the same reply in response to her asking for something else she was never going to get, she turned to her friend and said: “When mummy says that, it always means yes.”

 

Good girls go to London

I was 15 the first time I went to London. I remember the feeling of excitement being slightly eclipsed by the feeling of fear. I was a country bumpkin from Dumfries, and suddenly I was let loose in this enormous, terrifying city where nobody looked you in the eye or stopped to give you directions, and where everyone was clearly out to snatch your bag. In contrast, Poppy’s first venture to the big smoke took place at the weekend. I envied her four-year-old excitement that wasn’t in any way marred by the thought of coming face to face with a modern day Fagin. On our flight from Edinburgh to Stanstead (yep, I took to the skies again with her) I told her all about the underground train system. Her reply – completely verbatim – was “wow, my life is going to change forever”.

As we walked along the South Bank, she was in awe of the street performers (“is that a statue or a real person”?), the River Thames which may or may not contain sharks and stingrays and the London Eye (“can we go on it? Can we go on it NOW?”). It was just one big catalogue of new experiences.

We opted for a boat ride to Greenwich, where we were staying with my boyfriend’s friends. She seemed slightly underwhelmed by the experience – I think she would have liked it to go faster – and seemed aggrieved that we weren’t getting soaked by the dirty Thames water like the poor sods sitting opposite us.

Her mind was set on our plans for the next day as soon as she laid eyes on “the pirate ship” on our arrival into Greenwich Pier. To be fair, The Cutty Sark has been on my own London to-do list for some time, so I was much happier to oblige her with this request than I was with the London Eye.

Our sightseeing continued with a trip to see the Queen, which fortuitously coincided with the Changing the Guard ceremony. I’m not quite sure which one of us got the biggest kick out of that…ok, it was definitely me.

And no trip to London is complete without a visit to Hamleys, especially if you’re four years old (though I definitely went there when I was 15….) She was practically drooling, not sure which way to turn, what to look at, what to play with, what to buy…But as with any good female shopper, an hour after entering the store and scouring every single level, she went back to the first item she looked at. In this instance, it was a Paddington Bear teddy.

I think this weekend may well have been the first where we went the whole time without any tantrums whatsoever (besides a brief tearful moment when she needed the toilet and I couldn’t produce one out of nowhere) so that in itself made it a successful trip. It certainly felt like a turning point, so maybe she wasn’t wrong when she said her life would change forever….it certainly felt like mine did a little bit.

 

Mummy do it…

I am in possession of magic powers, it would seem. Apparently the way I pour a glass of milk, or pass a hairband or assist in putting on a coat is far superior to any mere mortal. I can’t believe I went all these years without knowing about my supremacy, only finding out around about the time my daughter started speaking. What a coincidence!

Ever since she was able to string the words together, it has always been “mummy do it” – though now she is more eloquent in her sentence construction, I am pleased to report. I go through phases where the “mummy do it” mentality annoys the hell out of me. For example,when we go to stay with friends or relatives, I like to have a bit of a break from having to do every single thing by myself all day long. I just want someone else to be capable enough in Poppy’s eyes to fetch her some raspberries from time to time. And I really wish that other people could just pour the goddamn glass of milk as well as I can. Why can’t they? What is wrong with people???

But then other times, I secretly like it. Because I know she does it because she has the genuine belief that I am amazing. She looks at me like no other person ever has or ever will. I am the single most important person in her life. She just wants me to be there with her, to acknowledge her, to play with her. It’s as simple as that. And I know that these days won’t last forever.

So the next time she refuses to accept help from anyone other than me, I need to try and remind myself of that. Or alternatively I could just go and lock myself in the bathroom for a while because that girl is not going to allow herself to starve for anybody. Not even me.

How could this face ever annoy me…?

 

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.

“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.

 

 

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!