Big step: Pre-school starts this week
This week Sonny Jim is going to start pre-school.
He’s almost two and a half, it’s only for two mornings a week and it’ll do my rather shy little lad the world of good.
But, however I dress it up, for me it’s a big HUGE (I’m channelling Julia Roberts here) thing.
It’s my boy’s first real steps of independence. Of venturing out into the world without mummy (or daddy) there to hold his hand. It basically marks the end of his babyhood.
And although I think he’s so ready for it – I’m not sure I am.
In this respect, I don’t think it makes any difference what age your little one first starts nursery/pre-school/school – it’s still a wrench.
WFH reality – when the only place the toddler will sleep is on top of you
Sonny Jim has been proper under the weather this week. Snuffling and spluttering and not exactly sleeping.
It’s coincided with my husband doing his back in.
And to be honest, I’m not sure who has felt the most sorry for themselves. The little dude has even – between sneezes – started doing a bit of an impression of his daddy’s back-related groans.
But anyway. When your toddler is poorly, in the winter, you kind of end up housebound. You can’t really take them to playgroups and share the germs around. It’s not fair to take them to their usual classes or soft play when their nose will. Not. Stop. Running. And when it keeps on raining you can’t even take them for a walk. Or to the park. Continue reading
A proper toddler: Sonny Jim
Sonny Jim is still a good few months off the terrible twos yet, but it seems he’s starting early.
A tantrum in a café when I wouldn’t let him lay on the floor to watch the ceiling fan (honestly, the boy loves anything that spins) got me thinking that you know you’re a mama to a toddler when…
1 You think nothing of sticking a half-eaten banana in your coat pocket. And you only remember it’s there when you go to put another in.
2 The cold leftovers of your little one’s dinner? You totally eat them.
3 While you spent the first months of your tot’s life sterilising EVERYTHING, now you’re all about the five (make that 30) second rule. Continue reading
Nee-naws: My Sonny Jim in one of his terrific me&i T-shirts
When I was about 18, Ann Summers parties were a big thing. Cocktails and smutty chatter were the main thrust of the night. I actually know a girl who bought THREE rampant rabbits.
Fast-forward a decade, a few of us had our own mortgaged places, a few were married, a few even had a baby or two, and Jamie Oliver bashes were the way to spend an evening, a glass of wine in hand. I once spent an RIDIKULOUS amount of money on a squirrel-shaped nutcracker – that broke the first time I attempted to crack a nut with it.
Now a mama to the most darling of little lads, I think I truly realised that I’d entered another era when I threw my own me&i party. It was a lunchtime affair. With tea and coffee and cakes. And babies crawling around our feet. And the most LOVELY clothes for little ones (and, er, mums.) Continue reading
Summers as they were: Me (complete with a broken arm) with my little brothers and sister
MOTHERHOOD definitely does something funny to your brain.
When I was little our family holiday was always a week, spent in a caravan, somewhere along England’s south coast (apart from the one year we ventured to Wales, stayed in a chalet and it rained the entire time.)
They were lovely holidays – fun-filled and drama free – but I grew to hate the caravans. The fact the beds were so small that if you rolled over you rolled out. That unless it was baking hot (in which case you couldn’t get cool) then you were always a bit chilly – and everything just seemed, well, a bit damp. Continue reading
Up on his feet: Sonny Jim is now a toddling toddler
I think we can all agree on the fact that Einstein was a pretty clever chap.
But, did you know he was slow to talk? In fact, he reportedly didn’t start speaking until he was four. FOUR.
I bet he had his mum fretting.
Sonny Jim has just started walking. He’s one and a bit and in his little gang of baby buddies, he’s pretty much the last to get up on his feet.
He also took his sweet time in starting to crawl. Has no interest in potty training. Calls pretty much everything he sees “Bob”. And utterly refuses to wave or clap on cue.
None of this bothers me in the slightest. Continue reading
Prosecco and a newborn: And I deserved every sip
This week, so-called “slummy mummies” have come in for a bit of a lambasting.
Authors of books such as Hurrah for Gin and the Unmumsy Mum (who I adore) have been decried by a national newspaper for sharing their exploits of feeding their toddlers frozen fish fingers, swigging gin from baby cups and potty mouthed ranting about their kids online.
Which, as a mama and coming hot on the heels of mental health awareness week, rather makes my blood boil.
Being a mum is hard. Don’t get me wrong, I ADORE being a mother. Sonny Jim is truly all my oh-so-long awaited dreams come true. But I’m not superwoman – try as I may. Continue reading