I Eat My Kids Easter Eggs

Hey did you know that its Easter next week? Yeah. For reals. It is Easter next week. How did that happen? I still have a box of Christmas decorations sitting on the landing waiting to go up in the loft.

I've committed a terrible sin against my son this year and asked people to steer clear of buying him too much chocolate. Not because I don't believe in chocolate for kids. I believe in it as a genius bribe and distraction technique. But because at Easter there is always such an excess of chocolate, family, nursery, friends - everyone's pelting chocolate eggs in his direction and he only ends up eating some of it, over that Easter weekend. And then do you know what happens? I eat it, well the good bits anyway. Yes, I eat his decent chocolate from the Easter Bunny (and from Santa as well). I know, I'm a terrible Mother. He's only two, he can't count past four, he's doesn't realise some are missing.

I also eat the cakes from his party bags, he never remembers.

So my plan this year is to stage an Easter Egg hunt for him using Aldi's FREE Activity Egg Hunt Printable which you can find here. It contains pre-written clues and blank ones so you can make up your own. Plus some handy arrows and START and FINISH signs. I'm going to pick up some plastic coloured eggs and fill them with different treats, some will have little chocolates like the Mini Beanie Eggs from Aldi and some will contain Thomas Mini's or Peppa Pig stickers.

Hopefully he wont get too much chocolate from the other Easter Bunny's in his life, I don't think my waist line could take it.

*This post was sponsored by Aldi but its all true inc. the Christmas decorations and what a terrible fat mother I am*

Why I'm Redefining Having It All

This post was originally featured on Littles Magazine.

The concept of having it all, is in my opinion a strange one. It's the idea that the woman, the Mother should strive to have an excellent career and a contented family life and that these things should exist in harmonious balance with one another. It's the idea that this is what all women want or at least should want, because its now (apparently) all available to us.

Ugh. How patronising.

I'm a full time working mother of one, with a husband who also works full time and co-parents with me in equal measures. Whilst I am not particularly qualified or financially well off, I would go as far as to call my vocation a career because it is specialised and I've been working on it for a long time.
Sounds like I've got it sorted doesn't it? Well some days I do, some days we get up, we get ready, I've made lunches the night before and everyone has clean underwear. Some days the toddler fully co-operates, he actually brushes his teeth and he lets us dress him without kicking Daddy in the balls. He's excited to see his Nanny or his friend Lily at nursery and he's bowling out the door with a huge grin on his face. On these days I've straightened my hair, I'm on time, I'm wearing that dress with the little brown belt and there are no ladders in my tights. These are the days that I, by definition look like I 'have it all'.

When Your Toddler Holds You Hostage In Superdrug

Sometimes I forget that I'm still a first time parent. I feel like I've been a Mum for a while, its not all shiny and new and I should just know the answers by now. I mean you get all that when you have a new born, that feeling of not knowing what you're doing, not knowing how to hold them without their head falling off. Unsure of the normal temperature, the normal colour of poo, the normal amount of crying. You're supposed to not know when they are new and you are new at being a parent, its expected, its accepted. Its ok to hold your hands up and say 'Sorry I'm new at this, I don't really know what I'm doing!'. 
Trouble is, I'm not really sure I can do that now my first baby is a new toddler. I mean I'm more confident with my parenting skills than I was in those first few months, his needs are easier to read, mostly because they are being screamed at me from across the supermarket. I can assess the right temperature because I've realised that its either just too fucking hot or too fucking cold, it doesn't matter if you're nine months old or ninety. I don't worry about the colour of poo, I no longer phone my Mum about it. Two and half years in, I've seen it all or at least please God, I hope I have. Its been on my hands, in my hair, on the carpet, there's nothing in the poo department that can worry me now. We've kept him alive and reasonably well behaved, we used to congratulate ourselves on what a 'good baby' he was.

Then three weeks ago, he held me hostage in Superdrug.

Mothering The Shit Out Of Life

Towards the end of last year I got pretty bogged down with all the things I had to do, the things I did do and things that were never going to get done. My mind became increasingly cluttered and stressed and over burdened by the demands of work, housework, my son, my husband and everything else that goes with it. There was always hoovering to do, always emails to respond to, always a dinner to cook. I was becoming increasingly frustrated with myself and my inability to get everything done. Everyone elses houses are always tidy, why was ours never ever tidy? We're never even here for fucks sake. At one point I was actually getting up in the middle of the night to hang up washing so it would dry in time. I would voluntarily opt out on reading my son a bedtime story, so that I could get dinner started so we wouldn't be eating at 9 o'clock again. I was giving a little of myself to everything, meaning nothing got my full attention, nothing truly ever got done or finished and well, I was fucking failing at everything.

When Your Toddler Goes Feral

My son, ninety five percent of the time is a really loving and empathetic child. He loves a cuddle, a big snotty kiss goodbye, a snuggle up on the sofa. He's kind to his animals, he'll kiss you better when you stumble over his train track, he'll share his biscuits when asked. He is by nature, a kind soul.
However, every now and then - every 5% of the time my son goes fucking feral. Maybe he's just too good, reaches his limit and needs to go bat shit crazy to release his inner demons, I don't know.
Case in point, last week when upon Nursery pick up my husband was summoned to sign an Incident Form, because our darling boy had held his best friend in a headlock and wouldn't let go.
Not only did he hold this kid down like Hulk Hogan high on Meth, he then refused to apologise and kept shuffling out of the 'quiet corner' where he been put to consider what he'd done.

Me vs Pinterest: The Lemon Puff Chronicles

I've written before about my inability to Pinterest - yes it's a verb!

I bloody love that app, it's so addictive- any vague thing I have an idea about, I can instantly obtain a far better one with the swipe of a finger. I don't even have to try and be creative I just tap away and steal someone else's idea. Fucking fabulous right? Trouble is I'm shit at it. Really shit. I do not have the talent, the patience or the utensils required to create anything remotely close to the gorgeous images I see on my screen. However, I will not be beaten. Pinterest will not beat me. I can tweet, I can instagram, I can fucking facebook my ass off and I will Pinterest if it kills me.

So I have set myself a challenge, to attempt one or two Pinterest Ideas each month. You need to keep an eye on these posts because one of two things are going happen. Either I am going to create fantastic dinners, cakes and crafts, which you will marvel at and be falling over yourself to get home and try. Or I am going to fuck this up so bad, there will be fires and hissy fits that will make you piss yourself laughing. Either way, you as the reader win. Me (and my poor family) will probably not win, we will probably get food poisoning and a divorce but hey life's all about the experiences right?

Goodbye Little Nursery

Today is Finley’s last day at little nursery because next week he’s moving up to the Toddler Unit.
And to be honest this really sucks because the toddler unit is across the other side of the village, so to him it’s like a whole new nursery in a whole new place. It also means that he won’t be with my sister anymore and I have to fully trust the care of my baby to people I don’t really know.
I’m finding this transition difficult and Finley is finding it fucking horrendous. I know this because he throws a shit fit every time he steps foot in the place.

Well he doesn’t actually set foot there at all because he’s already sprung half way up my leg like a spider monkey, sobbing “no,no, ‘uddle Mummy, ‘uddle Mummy”.