Becoming Mrs Jones

Camping

2011-08-10T21:00:00.008+01:00

We've been back a week [make that two since I started writing this] - I've just about thawed out.

We did survive and we did get to sleep.

I put up the tent with a bit (read a lot) of help. Mr Jones arrived after the tent was safely up - I'm thinking this was a good thing - it was stressful, divorce proceedings may have been entered into.

I ripped my skinny jeans in the process and spent an entire evening with my bum hanging out until Mr Jones arrived with another pair. Fetching. ALso probably a sign that I'm not skinny enough to wear skinny jeans??

The boy went to sleep without the aid of a blackout blind and total silence and with just a little bit of singing from me. He slept until 6.20am on Saturday morning - pretty impressive given that Mr Jones and I got a maximum of 4 hours sleep due to a combination of bone chilling temperatures, noise and an errant airbed that pinged one of us off the edge everytime the other one moved.

We managed not to get grumpy until Sunday morning - when it really was unbearably cold and wet and the boy was beyond grouchy and I was sick of my clothes living in a damp pile on the floor. If I ever go camping again I'm going to take one of those collapsable clothes rails from argos - or am I missing the point? It's only one step on from the toaster we took this time - what? there was electricity why not take a toaster? Some folk in the tent next-door-but-one had a 32" flat screen tv and Wii - you think I'm joking, but I seriously am not. (Really what is the point in going camping if you take your TV?)

I'm sure everyone else thought we were perfectly awful, but I was rather proud of us for surviving the weekend. We clearly are not campers. I think I'd find any holiday where you're required to build your own house before you start a mite stressful. Perhaps I'm more suited to one of those yurt things on the south downs with the cast iron beds and the en suite bathrooms. Or actually if I'm honest I'm just terribly boring and would actually like to stay in my lovely house and hang out in the garden. I wish I got it, I really do.

That said, we did enjoy time with friends and it was lovely to see how much our littlies have grown and how comfortable they all are with each other.

Aside from the knowledge that we aren't the camping kind, we learned that the boy hates wellies, but loves rain storms. He is fascinated by cars and has a penchant for brake dust (carcinogenic - no?). He doesn't like having a bath in the shower and still loves kissing Miss Scarlett.

We'd probably do it again at a push - but only for a weekend.

PS there are pictures but writing this has taken me two weeks - the pictures might take longer.

Quick question

2011-08-04T21:11:00.002+01:00

Does anyone have a car that has properties similar to those demonstrated by Mary Poppins' carpet bag? I thought camping was supposed to be footloose and fancy free? Thus far I have filled the hall with "essential stuff" and I haven't even packed any clothes.

Believe it or not

2011-08-02T19:33:00.003+01:00

We're going camping at the weekend - yes you read that right - I, Mrs Jones, of Stamford, her of hair dryers, four walls, feather duvets and Dualit toasters will be sleeping (or not) under canvas for a whole weekend.

If that wasn't enough we'll be joined in this escapade by no less than seven - SEVEN - one year olds - small boy included. We are going to a campsite somewhere in Derbyshire. It has wifi and hot showers - this is all I know. I'm thinking ingnorance is bliss.

We have borrowed a tent and a whole load of other stuff. I am preparing myself for 48hours of sleeplessness - tents it seems don't have blackout blinds. I will be relying on fresh air to knock out the boy come 7pm on Friday night. Thinking positive and humming kum bay ya.

I think the reason that I dislike camping so much is because I feel I should really love it. I like being outside, I like nature and trees, I like looking at the stars and watching the sunrise, I love the smell of bacon frying on a cool crisp morning and eating fish and chips in the chill dusk.

But the thing is all of that is a lot more fun if you know you can snuggle up on a comfy mattress under your duvet with your memory foam pillow and loo within barefoot walking distance. Being periodically pinged off of an airbed while cocooned in a sleeping bag with straight jacket tendancies doesn't have much romantic appeal. Add in dampness (why is camping always so damp??) and all I can see is horror.

But then maybe this time will be different and I'll finally get it? I am seriously hoping for good weather. I shall struggle to be jolly in a wet tent. I may take some bunting to make myself feel at home.

No big deal

2011-07-07T19:04:00.005+01:00

Sometimes you wait for what seems like forever for something to happen. You expect there to be a build up, an inkling that it's going to begin but then it's just there, smacking you in the stomach at 8.10am and making you cry.

This morning, at 8.10, the boy stood up and walked across the sitting room. Steps, five of them, all by himself, with no encouragement whatsoever.

I jumped up and down and clapped and cheered and tried to stop the tears rolling down my cheeks. He bent down, put his hands on the floor and turned to look at me with a face that said "Alright love, calm yourself down." Disdain, from a 1 year old.

You can come back now

2011-07-06T18:55:00.004+01:00

After six weeks of following me around, taking afternoon naps and occasionally doing a bit of DIY, Mr Jones has returned to the world of work. He left on Monday for the other side of the country and won't be home until Saturday. We miss him.

At times during his six weeks off I asked what on earth we are going to do when we retire? Being in each other's pockets 24/7 was not as idyllic as it sounds, especially with a small boy in tow. But now he's gone again and while I like the fact that when I tidy the house stays that way for at least two hours longer than usual, it is a bit lonely without him.

The small boy misses him too. Yesterday I got out the photo albums I made him for his birthday - full of pictures of his first year. We got to a picture of him and daddy in the bath and he pointed at it and looked at me quizzically. I turned the page and he turned it back again and again. When we were finally allowed to move on we got to a page full of picture of him and his daddy and he just burst into tears, which quickly turned into sobs. He was looking at me and pointing at the pictures with the most forlorn expression. In the end I had to put the pictures away and take him out for a walk to calm him down.

Now we are counting the sleeps until daddy comes home - only three more left. We can't wait for cuddles.

Today I decided to pretend that I'm seven again...

2011-07-05T14:26:00.003+01:00

so I fell over, twisted my ankle and grazed my knee. I wasn't really pretending to be seven - I'm just a clumsy cow.

I now have a very sore ankle and a gross looking knee. Weirdly I'm quite looking forward to having a scab. I haven't had a scab in a looooong time. This is probably a good thing - I don't think you're supposed to have scabs at 31.

Perhaps it's a mum thing - to remind me just how painful it is to graze your knee for the inevitability of all sorts of minor injuries once the boy decides to finally get up and run.

I've never had nice knees and as they've spent the past six months or so crawling around on hard floors they don't look much worse with a scab as an accessory. In fact it tones in quite well with the bruises on my shins and by friday the leg hair that I haven't had a chance to deal with will have thatched over it nicely anyway.

A birthday in pictures - taken by Stu

2011-06-29T21:38:00.015+01:00

1. "Mummy - I got a trike"

2. The small boy chatting through his own naming ceremony

3. Making everyone cry. I made the bunting - with marvellous step by step instructions here

4. That cake, with that icing - made by Auntie Rach - he can have a kids cake next year when he gives a fig. You can get the recipe here.

5. Blowing out the candle

6. Mr Jones trying to lead the boy to the dark side....

7. The boy showing Daddy that babies don't do chocolate - they like strawberries

8. With Pops in the rain

9. Teddy at the after party

10. A little something to say thanks for coming

11. Having some down time watching the rain

This time last year

2011-06-28T19:45:00.003+01:00

It was as hot as it was yesterday and we had all the windows open trying to keep our tiny new born baby cool. This year we've has all the windows open trying to keep our so-big-can't-believe-how-much-he's-grown boy cool. This time last year I spent a lot of time sleeping on the sofa (when I say a lot I mean a lot of 40 minute chunks). The boy slept (didn't sleep) in his pram/moses basket in the sitting room. We went to bed at midnight in the hopes that the nighttime wouldn't last as long. In case you're thinking of trying it - it doesn't work. Next week last year I started to go to bed at 5 mins past Rufus in a desperate attempt to get that hallowed and restorative four hours.

I can't believe that was all a year ago. We watched a lot of tennis - I think I saw every game - c-sections are a good excuse to be sofa bound in front of Wimbledon. This year I think I've seen half a match so far and that wasn't live. This year is much more fun and a whole lot less scary - unless there is a tantrum in the offing. Oddly tantrums happen less when the boy and I are alone. Perhaps he'll be an actor if his career in interior design doesn't work out - have I told you about his upholstery fabric fetish? He gets that from me *so proud*

Terrible twos my a*&^!

2011-06-25T21:09:00.003+01:00

Some almighty wobblers have been thrown in this house of late. There have been arm flailing, foot stomping, back arching, fist shaking, lie on the floor, scream, shout and cry trantrums issuing forth from that angelic (looking) little boy.

For all his gorgeousness I sometimes wonder if there isn't something just a little bit hellish living inside him. I was rather proud of myself for teaching him to sign to me that he was "all done" with his dinner, or a particular game - until last Tuesday - when he spent the entire day waving his arms in front of him everytime I got within three feet - "I'm all done with you Mummy!"

He has taken to swiping things off of bedside tables in a bid of frustration, throwing remote controls, hairbrushes and toys and getting stoppy if we don't get him a banana fast enough.

This morning I had the audacity to try and take his sleeping bag off as he made a break for the edge of our bed - the tantrum that ensued was so violent that only Buble could calm him down. We googled in despair. Apparently it's quite common - the "terrible twos" it seems are a bit of a misnomer - they don't necessarily start at two, nor do they cease on the morning of their third birthday. I'm hoping that we're just getting it all out of the way early.

Trying to reason with a one year old is nigh on impossible, distraction rarely seems to work and cuddles make him worse. Daddy it seems is flavour of the month - Mummy is akin to ear wax. I've tried all sorts to regain his affection only to be met with a palm in the face - "talk to the hand Mummy". Mr Jones has recommended practicing general disdain mixed with a tiny smidge of contempt - maybe the small boy is like a cat and is irresistibly drawn to people who'd really rather be doing something else. We'll see - I hope I get my cuddles back soon.

Those granola bar/ flap jack thingies

2011-06-21T20:57:00.005+01:00

You know the ones, the ones that were in the boys party goodie bag - it seems they were a bit of a hit. The recipe has been asked for. I will oblige - but do forgive me if they don't turn out quite the same because it's one of those a bit of this a bit of that recipes and it's different every time I make it. But the good news is it's always yummy and the boy always eats it.

You will need:
80g butter
140g maple syrup (if your baby is over one you could use honey. If you're being old school you could use golden syrup and sugar - but I went with maple syrup because I can convince myself that it's "natural, healthy sugar")
130g porridge oats (Sometimes a bit more if you've been heavy handed with the syrup)
35g dried dates soaked in boiled water for 5 minutes and then blitzed with enough water to form a sludgy, gooey paste
About 80g of dried fruit chopped up - try apricots, prunes, dates, raisins, cranberries, dried apple - whatever is in the cupboard.
A few tablespoons of a mixture of pumpkin and sunflower seeds
25g dessicated coconut

Melt the butter in a saucepan with the maple syrup, mix in the date paste. Mix up all the dry ingredients and stir into the saucepan. Try not to eat too much of it. Press into a baking tray (no need to grease it) and bake for 15 minutes at 180 or until golden on top. It will still be soft when you take it out of the oven but it will firm up as it cools. Once cool cut into bars making sure to break off lots of crumbly bits to eat yourself.

The big ONE

2011-06-20T20:52:00.003+01:00

We made it - hurrah - the boy is one and has been since Saturday. We had a party with all the gorgeous people we know and a few thunder storms thrown in for good measure. It was supposed to be an afternoon tea garden party and instead it was more of a barn raising - but we still ate scones - and a rather marvellous cake made by my sister girl. I will post pictures once my lovely photographer has sent them to me - you're a star Stu.

We decided to make his birthday his naming day too. I wrote the ceremony myself because I wanted it to be personal. I managed to get most of the way through it before the tears started. First birthdays are tricky for Mummies there's the happiness that you've managed to grow your baby for a whole year and your excitement/consternation that your once tiny, helpless little new born is now a big toddler boy with a very independent streak - mixed in with the hideous memories of what exactly you were doing at precisely that time a year ago. I had to give myself several stern talkings too in the morning but by the end of the ceremony I'd lost it. Thank you to every who cried with me. And for those of you who missed it - and to save it for posterity here it is.....

Rufus Anthony Jones – Naming Ceremony – 18th June 2011

It might seem strange to be having a naming ceremony for a little boy who has been wearing his name for a whole year now. But it takes a while for you to own a name and for you to make a mark, however small, on the world. So for us it seemed fitting to wait until Rufus’ first birthday to formally welcome him into our lives.

A name is very important. It distinguishes us from others and gives us a sense of belonging in our family and community. Rufus – your name has been chosen with love and we hope it affords you a long and happy life. It means red head – and while some may fear that association, we feel that you have the strength of character to carry it off.

You have grown into your name in this past year – just as you have grown into our hearts. A Victorian writer called Elizabeth Stone once said that Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. And that is completely true. I never thought that I would be so fascinated by another person, that I could spend hours watching you sleep, eat and play. You have bought an enormous amount of love and happiness into our lives and have truly stolen both of our hearts.

Because of you our lives have changed forever – we are now a family and we are proud to be your parents. We cannot wait to help you grow up and to see what sort of way you make in the world.

It’s not just you who will be on this journey – we will grow as parents too. Someone once said that - As much as we watch to see what our children do with their lives, they are watching us to see what we do with ours. I can't tell my children to reach for the sun. All I can do is reach for it myself.

We don’t take our responsibility as parents lightly, we know we have the most important job to do in bringing you up and we hope that you will bear with us while we find our way. For our part...

We promise to always be here for you, to listen when you talk and to guide you through life’s joys and hardships.

We promise to respect and support your choices and nurture your dreams. We will share with you our talents and strengths and guide you away from our weaknesses.

Most importantly we promise to love you forever.

So far Rufus’ life has been all about our little family of three – but now he is one it’s time for him to start taking his first steps into the world. So we have asked you all here today to help us set him off on that journey. Everyone here will have some impact on the sort of person Rufus ultimately becomes. We all share the responsibility of shaping him into a person and we’d like to ask all of you to pass on your love, knowledge and wisdom to him as he grows up.

We have asked that some of our friends take a special role in Rufus’ life – as “guide parents” if you will. Our old friends Sharon and Darren and Catherine and Adam because of the wonderful job they are doing with their own children (we’re hoping to steal a few tips) and Paul – under the careful and sobering guidance of Jo because we know that one day you’ll be fantastic parents too.

We’d like to ask the six of you to make one simple promise to Rufus – and that is to always be there for him in those moments when we as his parents aren’t able to help and guide him. [When he’s trashed the house, dropped an Emma Bridgewater Mug or broken the X-box]

Finally we would like to say a few thank yous. First off to our families for the love and unfailing support you have given us over the past year. And to our NCT friends and other baby folk for getting us through the screaming, the daddy blues, the tantrums and for sharing our highs and lows – we hope we’ll all be together for many years to come.

And I would like to say a special thank you to two people – firstly to Tim – for growing into a great Daddy and being by my side even through the gruesome bits. And finally to my mum – I would never have been able to enjoy this amazing year as much as I have without your help. About this time a year ago you were walking me to my epidural and through the gas and air haze I remember asking you how the hell you did this twice. You said to me “I promise you that it will all be worth it once you have that baby in your arms” – now I don’t say this very often, but you were totally right.

So I’d like everyone to raise their glasses and toast Rufus Anthony Jones – may you live a long and happy life. To Rufus

So there we go - the little boy is one - I really can't believe it has been a year since we brought him home (the Jeremy cat still hasn't come to terms with it). It has been amazing and I feel so lucky to have been with him every singe day - I shall miss him terribly from my office desk - although I will admit I'm quite excited at the prospect of going to the loo in relative peace.

Nearly there

2011-06-13T21:12:00.003+01:00

The boy is nearly one. We're having a party. It's turning in to quite a big one. It's supposed to be in the garden. The weather isn't looking too great. Come Saturday 60 people including 15 children may well be crammed into one newly converted barn (hear the beads of sweat forming on my mother's brow). But fingers crossed the weather will play ball and we can play in the garden.

The boy is a bit confused - he can't decide whether to walk or crawl. He's decided he likes Mr Jones more than me - apart from when he wakes up in the night when apparently only mummy will do. I think money must be changing hands somewhere. Today he took two tiny steps away from me and to his Daddy - of course. Jolly exciting.

Mr Jones has a new job, he is currently on garden leave - I'd like it noted that he hasn't so much as picked up a trowel or touched the lawn mower. He has however cleaned out the shed, helped me decorate the sitting room and built me some shelves. I go back to work next week - Mr Jones still has three weeks off - grr.

We have a new garden - it's across town and is full of trees - and nettles and ivy - but one day it will be beautiful and the perfect place for small boys ang girls to play. There are ponies in the next field. On Saturday we took our tools down there to clear some mess - then we sat in the sun and drank champagne instead - ooooh get us.

Sometimes I wonder if it's possible to be too happy? Then the ever present pessimist in me thinks that at some point something horrid will happen to take it all away. I hope not. It's marvellous to be very happy.

Surprisingly sweet muffins

2011-06-08T14:41:00.005+01:00

Sugar is evil in the world of small people - although I am gradually coming around to the fact that at some point he is going to have to have sugar. In fact I know that my mother has already fed him a hefty portion of Victoria Sponge - her line of defense at my raised eye brows was: "what? I gave him a piece without any jam."

So, naughty grannies aside I do try to limit the small ones sugar intake and these muffins satisfy his sweet tooth without one single grain. They look a bit dubious and I wouldn't say they were particulary cake like - but they will even do for grown ups on days when the freezer is lacking Ben and Jerrys and a yogurt just won't do. The recipe is from the Baby Led Weaning Cookbook.

Preheat the oven to 180/350/Gas 4 and line a muffin tin with cases.

Mix together two eggs, 100ml sunflower oil, and a teaspoon of vanilla. Sift 225g wholemeal self raising flour into another bowl and add 2 medium carrots grated, 2 dessert apples peeled and grated, 100g dates (If you can only get dried ones - which is all I can get usually soak them first), 50g desiccated coconut, 50g finely chopped pecans or walnuts and half a teaspoon each of ground cinnamon and nutmeg. Stir briefly, then make a well in the centra and add the egg mixture - fold lightly (it'll be quite lumpy). Spoon into the muffin tin and bake for 15-25 minutes until golden and springy.

When cooled feed to small boys and any visiting small girls. They freeze well too. Marvllously good if you're worried about your child's iron intake and they refuse to eat meat or eggs because their egg content is beautifully disguised. Plus the carrots and apples add vitamin c for built in iron absorption - what's not to love?

Back to work in two weeks. Such is my fear of being trapped in an office again that I have already offered Ben Fogle my services in the Hebrides. Sod work, I'm moving us all to a crofters cottage with a couple of sheep, a log burner and Boden by carrier pigeon.

An ode to the Blackberry

2011-05-31T21:00:00.004+01:00

The beloved Blackberry is no more - it came to a sticky end amid a hefty dose of Ariel Stain Removal Gel (which consequently does a marvellous job on whites - especially those that have been worn by small boys who like, dirt, blueberries, bananas, raspberries and cheesy, tomatoey things). It does not however do a very good job of Blackberries. I think perhaps running it under the tap wasn't the most sensible of things either, but hey ho. It made a jolly good attempt at working again after a couple of days in the airing cupboard, but alas the screen was all cloudy and it kept trying to call people when I was trying to look at twitter.

So now I have one of those swish new android jobbies. I'm not cool enough for an i-phone so I have the cheap-o eqivalent. It's all rather marvellous. Mr Jones is a bit jealous. I don't have a clue how to use it. It rang earlier and despite great effort I was completely unable to answer it, much to the amusement/chargrin of all the other people in the hospital waiting room. (I'd taken the boy for a routine eye check up - all fine - in fact he could see things I couldn't). Still I'm sure I'll learn how it works in due course - in the meantime I shall perhaps be a bit slow at replying to texts and who knows whether I'll be able to answer if you call me - but I will try.

Apparently the local tote is running a book on how long it will take the boy to smash the lovely shiney screen - odds at 3/1 for the end of the week.

I know, I know

2011-05-19T19:54:00.004+01:00

Yes, it's been a while, I have no excuse bar a very long to-do list and sheer idleness brought about by sunshine and the impending return to office drudgery. Thank you for your emails enquiring as to my existence.

Since my last post we have - been on holiday (Blakeney don't you know, in the most marvellous house, I wanted to stay but the fridge was a bit small), cooked a lot of things (I'll post recipes soon), been brave about the boy going to the childminders, stopped breast feeding, had colds, coughs, bugs and all sorts of yuckiness, got two teeth, watched a gorgeous wedding, fallen back in love with a prince, done approximately 8,0000 loads of washing (I've found a 30 minute cycle - it's been a revelation - small things) and discovered Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Frozen Yogurt - same calories as a yogurt but sooooooo much nicer. I get quite nasty if there isn't some in the freezer.

So there you haven't missed much.

In other news Mr Jones has decided that we need another room on the house - so we're converting the loft. All very exciting - until you go up there, see all of the crap and start to panic about where exactly we are going to house the remnants of a wedding, my beloved hoard of Christmas decor (the stuffed mousse might be back in one day!), various boxes of old school stuff, half of our old house and all the suitcases? There was talk of a skip - I begun to feel a touch faint. Still, until someone works out where the stairs are going to go I can forget about it.

Who knows when I may post again - perhaps this will break the deadlock?? If you can't bear to wait you can always follow me on twitter

Croque Monsieur - warning - possible inflammatory content

2011-03-30T21:30:00.004+01:00

If you are French, or have a fear of people fiddling with the classics then you may want to look away now....

This is my version of a Croque Monsieur - I wanted to get a bit of cordon bleu into the small boy. But a traditional Croque is somewhat lacking in vegetables so I tweaked it with the addition of some baby pasta sauce - that mothership of a sauce packed with any veg from the fridge blitzed with a tin of chopped tomatoes. In essence it's just a posh toastie, or perhaps a peasant version of a calzone?? To Rufus it's just yum.

Take two slices of bread - in France they'd probably be white. Butter one side. On the unbuttered side of one of your pieces of bread spread your baby pasta sauce, layer over some ham and then top with white/cheese sauce left over from making a lasagne/canneloni/cauliflower cheese. Squish the other piece of bread (butter side up) on top. Fry in a dry frying pan until lovely and crisp and toasty. Cut into chunks and listen to your baby go mmmmmmmmmm, mmmmmmmmmmm, mmmmmmmmmm until it's all gone. (I cut off the crusts - I pretend this is for Rufus, but really it's just because I want to eat them - I want my hair to be curly).

Some say....

2011-03-30T21:18:00.001+01:00

he is turning ginger???

Nine months old

2011-03-30T20:17:00.005+01:00

He's been nine months old for a few weeks now - but first there was the sick and then the snot and the sore throats. Then the crawling turned to standing, then cruising and now stomping up and down the landing with his little wooden trolley full of bricks, knocking over cats and anything else that happens to get in the way.

So I haven't really had much time for blogging. Plus the sun has been shining and there has been veg to plant and grass to cut as well as the perpetual round of washing. I thank the sun for shining and sparing me from the continuous drone of the tumble dryer.

I have started to have nightmares about dropping him off at the childminder and then not being able to find my way back. I wake up in the night in a cold sweat because I've dreamt that he's been fed sweets or didn't get his mid morning snack or that he hasn't had his nap on time. And I am painfully aware that my days of 24/7 Rufus are gradually disappearing - and it makes me sad.

Getting back to work will be strange, I can't say I've really missed it. I haven't felt like a chunk of me has been missing without it. Rufus has neatly slipped into the gap and has provided me with more than enough of a challenge to keep me busy.

Yes, somedays I do think it would be nice to lie in bed with Mr Jones without having to hold onto the back of an errant boys babygro, or go for a walk on my own, or even have the luxury of shutting the bathroom door when I go to the loo, but other than that I don't really miss life before Rufus. That said I am looking forward to the wonder of a "lunchbreak" three days a week and lockable loos, of course. But I will miss him. Two and a half months left.....

I miss my boy

2011-03-16T16:44:00.003Z

I have been poorly sick. The sort of poorly sick that means you spend a lot of time sweating and shivering on the bathroom floor in equal proportions. Unfortunately the sickness had nothing whatsoever to do with gin. It may have had something to do with mackerel, or perhaps to do with time spent crawling around on floors that need a good dettoling. It has not been fun. I'm still not quite right.

My little boy was whisked away from the vomiting by his daddy and today by his Nana. I have seen him for a sum total of about an hour in the past two days. I miss him terribly. He is coming home soon. I promise not to breathe on him. I don't want him to be poorly too.

I'm sure this seperation has been good for my control freak tendancies. However it has not been in the least bit fun. Two days off from mummying duties and I've spent most of it in the toilet. And no before you ask - I am NOT pregnant again.

Pancake day

2011-03-07T20:16:00.003Z

It's tomorrow - or today - depending on when you read this. I do love a good pancake. My nine year old self use to have them for breakfast everyday - about seven of them. I cooked them myself in an old cast iron pan. Mum was having none of that faffing every morning and has never understood why I couldn't just have toast or cereal like any normal child. But then - I've never been normal.

When I was about seven months pregnant I had pancakes for breakfast with sugar and lemon, I could just about keep them down. Master Jones loves a good pancake. He is most partial to the fluffy American version a la Jamie Oliver - see the recipe here, I can't be bothered to copy it today. We have them for breakfast every weekend, with bananas on them usually.

Because Rufus still isn't a fan of meat - no teeth still - which makes it hard to chew - I have to think of other ways to get iron into him. Eggs are a great source, as is green leafy veg. So I whipped up a batch of pancakes (the traditional English style ones - if you need a recipe I hear Delia's is good. I have been making my own version since I was nine - I don't measure anything so I'd be a useless source of pancake recipe)

Pancakes neatly stacked I sauted an onion and a little crushed garlic with a smidgen of grated nutmeg. Then I shoved several large handfuls of spinach into in the frying pan and let it wilt down. Then I chopped it very, very, very finely with a knife.

DO NOT under any circumstance miss the chopping step. I have first hand experience of long stringy bits of spinach. They get caught in the back of your throat when you're out for dinner with Mr Jones and his dad is a very nice Italian restaurant on Regents Park Road. You make loud, attention grabbing, gagging noises, gulp water in vain, and then end up ramming your entire hand down your gullet to remove the offending article while your boyfriend's dad looks on in utter horror at the sweaty retching mess that was moments before the "on her best behaviour and trying to make a good impression" girlfriend of his only son. Mortifying is not the word - no one should have to go through it. Moral of the tale - never order spinach based recipes on important occasions (or in my case - ever) and always, always finely chop it when you're cooking.

Anyway - chop up the spinach and squeeze out any extra juice. You can do this in a colander with the back of a wooden spoon. Then mix together with a tub of ricotta cheese and season with pepper (and salt if you're a grown up).

Spread a a good slathering over your pancakes and roll each one up into a tube. I offered Rufus these at this point and they were rejected outright. So in a "you will have iron in your diet" strop - I poured some homemade pasta sauce (crammed with additional blitzed up veg) into the base of a dish, stuck in the spinach and ricotta filled pancakes, poured over some more pasta sauce (you could use a jarred one) and finally some cheese sauce, then grated cheese on the top and baked it at 180 for 30 minutes. Et voila - Spinach and ricotta pancake bake - just in time for panacke day. He couldn't eat it fast enough and now looks like Popeye.

Spring is springing

2011-03-02T20:37:00.004Z

The greyness of the sky is starting to get to me - I feel the need for blue and that yellow thing that radiates heat and that is apparently called the sun. I'm sure it was out last week but that seems like a loooooooong time ago. I'm convinced my vitamin D stores are well and truly depleted and even the big freckle that is always on my nose seems to be looking a touch wan.

As if to save me from a phenomenal bout of SAD and to give me enough hope to get through the day - the garden is sprouting things. There are green shoots amid the dead bits, buds on the trees and blubs poking up through soil (along with a whole heap of weeds, but I'm glossing over that). Call me impatient bu I cannot wait for warmer weather, for flip flops, a baby who just wears a nappy (and select items from Mini Boden), and tomatoes that actually taste of something.

In other news Mr Jones came back for a sleepless night and has gone again for a bit of hotel room induced peace - to say I am jealous is an understatement - but then he does have to work as well.

The boy spent an hour and a half awake last night - chatting - not crying, not crawling around in his cot - just chatting. I changed his nappy, I shhhhhh'd, I tutted and tossed and turned and swore and screamed (silently into my pillow). At 4am I gave in and fed him and he went straight back to sleep. This has happened a fair bit of late.

In desperation I have reintroduced the mid morning feed that I axed two weeks ago in a bid to see if he'll sleep through again. The Health Visitor (who isn't worried, no not in the slightest) mentioned that when babies start crawling their sleep patterns go awry - so it could be that. The first problem is that her solution was controlled crying - but how do you do controlled crying when your baby isn't crying?? The second problem is that he started to crawl at the same time as we dropped with mid morning milk feed - and two days later the sleep issues happened - so we don't know the cause. He is eating his solids well and has never demanded the feed back but when I offered it to him this morning he was all for it.

So now I have mother guilt - for messing around with his routine, for taking the feed away in the first place, for possibly starving him for the past two weeks, for not being able to help him to sleep at the night, for swearing and screaming into my pillow, for eating a Galaxy Ripple (you might think this is unconnected but I blame sleep deprivation for my weak will - I don't even like Galaxy I'm a Cadbury's girl - so the guilt is doubled).

I guess in the morning we'll know - if he sleep through then I stand up to be judged for depriving my son of calories (while feeding myself unnecessary bars of chocolate). If he doesn't sleep through then I may need a large gin to wash down a multipack of finger of fudges or a family sized bar of Green and Blacks - do they do family sized bars?

In awe of single parents

2011-03-01T09:51:00.003Z

Mr Jones has been stolen by work again - he's in Wales or something. Kent gets him next - lucky Kent. He's been gone for 24 hours. I am very tired. I'm still feeling a mite sick and achey and the wee boy is still practicising his crawling skills in the small hours of the morning, which is not conducive to sleep. He has also decided that 6.30am is the new half past seven so my restorative 12 minute piping hot shower was reduced to a tepid and functional four minute blast this morning.

The toast was substandard, the porridge a bit runny. I had to empty the dishwasher myself while doing everything I usually do at the same time. Last night when I put the boy in the bath he looked at me with a face that said - "er you're not my daddy - your hair is too long and ginger".

Of course if I was on top form this would all be easier - but it would still be hard. I don't know how people do this bringing up of children on their own. There must be some form of inner adrenalin hidden down deep behind the stuff you already have to hoik out as a twosome just to get through a sleep deprived day. So single parents everywhere I salute you - you must be truly superhuman.

Sweet potato veggie cake thingys

2011-02-24T21:12:00.003Z

He wasn't so much a fan of these - but I liked them. Chop up a pepper, courgette and an onion into similar sized chunks, drizzle with olive oil and roast until soft and sweet. Chop up with a knife into a chunky paste and then mix with left over sweet potato mash and a good handful of cheese. You can add an egg if you like to bind them a bit more, but I'd run out so I didn't bother. Shape into mini burgers and fry in a little olive oil until golden.

I think the reason he isn't a fan is that they are quite soft and therefore are a bit tricky to pick up - even when sliced into fingers - maybe next time I'll make them into little croquettes and roll them in breadcrumbs - in fact you do that - ignore the pattie/cake/burger idea. Meanwhile I'll have to try and coax him into eating the 500 I have left in the freezer.

Today I feel old....

2011-02-24T13:50:00.004Z

I'd say about 80. My joints ache, my fingers feel creaky and there's a twinge in my left wrist. I can't blame it on the weather - the sun is shining for the first time in a week. My hypochondriac self googled it and I am now self diagnosed with post partum arthritis - apparently it goes away on it's own. In a nod to my aged self I'm going to do some gardening while the small one sleeps - tonight you might find me in a rocking chair with a rug over my knee. (Yes Mr Jones - I know that's how you find me most evenings - shhhh!)

Share and share alike

2011-02-23T10:02:00.004Z

I am feeling uninspired kitchen wise today - can you help? What should I give the small boy for his dinner? Tried and tested recipes very welcome - especially those that are good for small people with no teeth. Do leave comments on the actual blog or on facebook - whatever suits you. I await with bated breath, wearing a pinny, with a wooden spoon in my hand....

Soup

2011-02-22T14:05:00.004Z

It took me a while to come around to the idea that Rufus might actually eat soup. I wasn't about to give him a spoon and let him loose with a bowl on his own - I am not that stupid (most of the time). But then it occurred to me that I could dunk bits of bread into it for him and he could feed himself those, while I snuck the odd spoonful into his mouth while none of the baby led weaning police were looking. It worked quite well. He ate the whole bowlful. We started with butternut squash and have moved onto chicken.

Butternut squash soup - fry up a sliced onion, a sliced leek and a crushed garlic clove in olive oil. Peel and chunk up half a butternut squash, throw in a roughly chopped sweet potato if you happen to have peeled too many for sweet potato chips the night before like I had. Allow to soften for a bit and then add some homemade chicken stock and leave to bubble. Get distracted, then sprint back into the kitchen some 40 minutes later to discover that your soup is nicely reduced and just needs to be whizzed up in a blender - perfect.

Chicken soup - roast a chicken, eat all the best bits and then bung the rest in a large stock pot. Chop an onion into quarters, don't bother peeling it, do the same with a leek and a couple of carrots - add them all to the pot with a bay leaf, some thyme and parsley and some peppercorns. Cover with cold water and bring to the boil. Turn down to a simmer and leave to bubble for at least an hour and a half with the lid half on. Leave to cool (I left it over night). Strain off the liquid into another pan. Pick the meat off the chicken and drop into your stock along with the now very tender bits of carrot (you can slip the skins off now quite easily) and the insides of the onions. Blitz this up with a blender until smooth and creamy.

In another pan gently sweat down some sliced leeks, garlic and finely diced carrot in some butter and olive oil. When soft add a table spoon of plain flour and stir. After a minute or so add in the blitzed up chickeny stock and heat through until slightly thickened. You can toss in some peas too if you like. I tend to bag this up into portion sized batches and then put the peas in when I reheat it. I was suprised at how lovely this is - I'd say it could rival heinz and pee all over the New Covent Garden chicken soup that I ate a lot of when I was pregnant.

Eight months old

2011-02-22T13:36:00.006Z

You may have noticed a lack of blogging of late. The boy has started crawling, in his own special way - commando style, on his tummy - I think he does this in an effort to draw my attention to the blatant fact that the hall floor needs mopping. I've pointed out to him on several occasions that I'm well aware that the tiles need a scrub, I just don't have time to do it. (Yes I know I could be doing it now - but then I wouldn't be able to whinge to you about the fact that I have to keep washing his t-shirts).

Anyway I now spend a lot of time wrestling him away from electricty cables, modems,oven doors, hot water pipes, cat food, the fire poker and the cat. You'd think the cat could fend for herself, but no, she keeps going back for more in the hopes that she might get a mummy cuddle if he damges her. To be fair, that is exactly what happens, so she's actually quite clever.

All of this is better than the separation anxiety which for a good two weeks, had me rooted to the spot, any spot, as long as it wasn't more than arms distance away from him. My sanity was truly challenged. I experienced a huge dose of mother-guilt when I screamed at him to "shut up" for the first time one Wednesday night when that groany, whingy noise hadn't let up for about three hours. Mr Jones looked slightly stunned and I burst into tears and apologised profusely. I still feel guilty about it.

Teeth still remain elusive and I've started to become slightly obsessed about it. What if they come through all weird and wonky, or he ends up being one of those kids with HUGE gums and funny pointy teeth? I have actually lost sleep over this - does that make me mad?

Bathtime currently equals poo time - much to the disgust of Mr Jones. He's becoming quite adept at poop-a-scooping. Funny, we've always flatly refused to have a dog to avoid the necessity of picking up its poo, it never occured to us that we might have to poop-a-scoop after our own child. Nappies are one thing, but fishing it out of the bath is quite another. Rubber duck, plastic boat, blue whale, brown turd.... lovely.

How gorgeous?

2011-02-15T09:30:00.011Z

Rufus made these for his Granny's birthday - he had some help of course - but aren't they lovely?

I have lived in fear of paint-a-pot places because my mind is more creative than my dexterity allows for. I imagine beautiful creations but somehow can't quite get my hands to make them. Probably because I'm far too impatient and struggle to take instruction.

However at Original Ceramics you can merely describe what's in your head and the lovely Justine will create it for you. Marvellous.

She doesn't even mind if your baby fills his nappy in her studio, and then doesn't judge you when he pees on himself (and her very lovely Cath Kidston changing mat) while you're changing him and you admit that you don't have a change of clothes for him so he's going to have to sit in his wee soaked jumper and vest until you get home. (Yes it did happen, and yes I was mortified!)

Things on toast

2011-02-11T21:39:00.001Z

There are no pictures - we all know what toast looks like. The small boy is a fan of toast. He has wholegrain, we don't do white bread in this house, unless it's a baguette or perhaps a bit of sour dough. Anyway this week we've been creating toast toppers. We thought we'd share some favourites:

Sardines (I was surprised how quickly this was wolfed down) - simply mash a few bits of tinned sardine - in olive oil not brine or tomato sauce - with some finely chopped fresh tomatoes and a few basil leaves. Fabulous source of omega three fatty acids for creating genius children who can win scholarships to expensive local schools. And packed with calcium (although I did remove the scary looking back bone from the fishes - I couldn't face watching him eat spine)

Mashed avocado with a little chilli sauce and a spritz of lime. So gucamole then! More essential fats for brain building.

Salmon spread - a tin of salmon mixed with a tub of ricotta cheese, lemon zest and juice to taste, a grind of pepper and a spoonful of natural yogurt to cut the richness. It's gloriously pink and terribly stinky. I've frozen a load - hopefully it will be alright.

Houmous made from a tin of chickpeas whizzed up with two or three tablespoons of tahini - which incidentally you can buy in waitrose - after three shops I finally found it, it's in the pasta aisle on the bottom shelf on the left hand side underneath the curry sauces (lord knows why?!). A clove of garlic, a squeeze of lemon, a good slug of olive oil and some water - and a bit more olive oil and a bit more tahini. It's crying out for salt at this point, but of course I didn't add any.

Next week I think we'll try whizzed up roasted med veg - aubergines, peppers, red onions and courgettes drizzled with olive oil and roasted until sweet and yummy. Perhaps with a few basil leaves added in for good measure.

Oooh and we could do leek and cannelini bean mash - fry finely slices leeks in olive oil with garlic until soft and sticky. Drain and rinse a tin of cannelini beans and add to the pan. Fry to heat through then mash to combine and spread on any willing receptacle. When I was a lonely girl in London I used to make huge mounds of this and top it with a piece of cod that had been baked in the oven en papilotte (a posh way of saying in a tin foil/baking paper parcel) with some pesto - it's yum- bu Mr Jones finds it "too much". An extra drizzle of olive oil at the end never goes amiss.

Sometimes I worry that he eats too much bread, but it does seem to be a great way to get other things down him. He has become fickle about bananas - seems he's not a fan unless they are boardering on over ripe, just how I hate them.

Parenting tip #1

2011-02-10T14:11:00.005Z

Far be it from me to be telling people how to bring up their children - but I'm not adverse to passing on some of what I have learned. This week I have discovered that it is not entirely possible to put on a nappy backwards.

By backwards I mean when your son has decided to turn himself over on his changing mat and stick his poo covered bottom and nether regions up in the air in an effort to crawl away from you - (please note - he cannot yet crawl). Everytime you try to turn him the right way round he laughs his ass off, evidently well aware of the fact that you are risking being covered in poo with every movement.

To help matters further he has discovered how to clench his bum cheeks making the removal of poo even more difficult. After putting the changing mat on the floor and distracting him with a hairbrush I managed to get him cleaned up. But alas the hairbrush didn't supply sufficient entertainment for re-nappying. With his bum back in my face I tried in vain to get him back into a nappy. You'd think it would be relatively simple to do it upside down, but somehow the sticky bits always end up sticking to the wrong bits and everything ends up wonky. In the end I let him crawl about until he bored of the game. He only pee'd on the carpet once before I could get the nappy back on - and what's a little wee between friends?

NB - since starting to write this post this performance has been repeated several times - I would like to make an amendment - it's is not impossible to put a nappy on backwards, it is however a skill that requires practice and an act that requires you to let go of any nappy perfectionism that you might be harbouring (I do like the tapes to line up).

Mini omelettes

2011-02-02T14:21:00.005Z

These are perfect for the supremely lazy - you can make a batch and keep them in the fridge for a few days. They're great cold too. When they first come out of the oven they are all puffy and golden. Then, rather depressingly, they sink down to a flatter more omeletty shape as they cool. But thankfully this has no effect whatsoever on their flavour.

Ideal for babies, but if you don't have one and are the sort of person who likes to "give" parties and serve canapes alongside a carefully chosen cocktail or two (I used to try and give sophisticated parties like this - but Mr Jones and his friends always managed to turn them into drunken melees in which someone invariably ended up pegged to the washing line) - anyway - if you do like to hold a classy do then these would actually make simple canapes. You could even get all fancy and top with smoked salmon and creme fraiche and snip up a few chives - that would be ever so Nigella.

Anyway - grease a bun tin and pre-heat the oven to 180 (I pretty much cook everything at 180). A two egg mix will make you five or six mini omelettes - a four egg mix will obviously do double that - and all the maths inbetween I'll leave you to work out.

So whisk up your eggs and then stir in your filling. These were made with chopped up spinach which had been lightly wilted in a pan with some fried onion and garlic and a bit of grated nutmeg. Then I added some grated cheese.

But you can do anything - lightly sauted cougette and garlic with feta. Broccoli and cheddar, or broccoli and salmon, tomato and cheese, mushroom and parmesan, leek and cheddar.......

Mix your filling with your egg and then spoon into the waiting bun tin. Bake in the oven for 10 minutes or so or until puffed and golden. Leave to cool in the tin for a few minutes before carefully removing with a palate knife. They do stick a bit - at least in my tin they do. Butter seems to work better than olive oil for greasing for these.

Rufus had them for lunch. I sang this song to aid his digestion. If you're having a swanky cocktail party I might suggest a different soundtrack. I would like it noted that I DID NOT do the actions.

10 years ago today....

2011-02-01T14:29:00.004Z

Mr Jones and I first became a couple. Well at this point actually we were still in denial that we were indeed a couple, but it didn't take us long to realise that we were more than just friends really. Ten years ago we were just starting to live the drama - now we're thankful for a more peaceful life.

I don't think back then we quite realised that there would be a house, two cats, a wedding or a baby - but then we were 21 and all we cared about was who was buying the next round (in Tim's case) and whether anyone had taken out the last copy of The Brontes by Juliette Barker from the library (in mine). [Note - I now have my own copy of this book - you'll be delighted to know that fact I'm sure.]

But here we are, after an eventful 10 years together. Through the happy times, testing times and downright sad times we've always managed to find time for a hug and a kiss goodnight. Yes I might nag and we may well drive each other up the wall sometimes, but that doesn't mean we don't love each other. So you'll forgive me for being soppy, but I love you Mr Jones, I can't imagine my life without you in it. I promise to love you forever, be with you always and never let you go.

It is a truth universally acknowledged....

2011-01-31T10:11:00.005Z

that if you are married to a man, even if he is a good man, you do struggle somewhat not to nag.

Mr Jones is a very good man. of course, otherwise I wouldn't have married him. He makes breakfast for me and Rufus every morning, he puts the bins out and unloads the dishwasher, he gives Rufus a bath every night, he goes to work all day, occasionally he'll even run the hoover round - and for all of this I am very, very grateful and appreciative.

But there are times when I have to dig my nails into my palms, cross my toes, bite my tongue and resist the urge to tear out my own hair. You see, helpful as he is, very often he never quite finishes a job.

Take this morning for instance - he made his lunch and took the last yogurt from the cardboard outer carton. He removed this from the fridge, but instead of putting it in the bin, he left it on the side. Ditto the empty juice carton (which actually was an improvement to last week when it was left with barely a dribble in it in the fridge). When he cleans up after dinner he won't always wipe down the side or the top of the cooker. He'll put the bins out, but won't have emptied the various bins throughout the house. He'll load the dishwasher and put it on, but somehow fail to have noticed a stray knife, a glass or as of yesterday lunchtime - two empty tuppawear boxes and a mug sitting on the kitchen side.

All of this means that I spend my life in a constant state of "picking up". I find myself scurrying around after him collecting the left over debris and tidying it away. It basically means that every chore takes twice as much effort.

SO my question is - do I nag about this. or, do I keep on biting my tongue and continue to pick up the pieces while thinking myself lucky that he does anything at all? Am I expecting too much? Is finishing a task just beyond men, like multi-tasking? Or is it just down to training? Will I be able to train Rufus not to be a pain in his future wife's ass? (I realise this is more than one question).

Answers on a postcard please!

(PS - I do of course realise that Mr Jones will read this - I'm wondering if I should have been more subtle??)

What can only be described as a classic....

2011-01-29T09:12:00.004Z

I went to see the Health Visitor this week - it was a different one to normal. I had Rufus weighed, he was 17lb 9oz - up from 15lb 14oz just over a month ago. For the last week he has slept through the night - but then he has had a virus and been a pretty sleepy boy anyway. But still - hurrah, hurrah, hurrah.

I asked the Health Visitor what I should do about his night feed. Prior to the sleep throughs he'd been waking up between 4.30am and 6am for a feed. I was wondering if this was just habit or whether he actually really needed the food now that his weight is heading back in the right direction. She told me to press on with weaning and to try not to let him have his night feed back if he started waking up for it again.

That night he slept through, the following night he woke up at 5am. I went in and changed his nappy and tucked him back in to settle himself (he won't settle if we're holding him - he's too used to doing it himself). He proceeded to shout for the next hour with a few fits of crying and a few momentary dozes in between. Not fun.

The next night he slept through and we hoped that he'd learnt that waking up was a bit pointless. Last night however he woke up at just before 6am. So I went in and changed his nappy and put him back to bed. He started to shout, then to cry. I lie in bed squirming in agony feeling hideously guilty.

Mr Jones started chuntering about whether it was all worth it and asking how many nights we had to continue with this until we gave it up for a bad job and started feeding him again? I repeated the Health Vistor's advice and the fact that I thought he was feeding out of habit.

The crying continued. Mr Jones and I started a terse exchange. "This is ridiculous," says Mr Jones. "I didn't think there was anything wrong with the routine we had going before."

"No, love, I bet you didn't - you weren't the one getting up at 5am everyday to feed him!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Quesadillas

2011-01-25T14:11:00.004Z

Rufus loves these, I was quite surprised, I thought they might be a bit "sophisticated" for a baby palate, but no, he can't get enough. He evern ate them in John Lewis' cafe while people watching and being told not to judge others by their table manners (I fear I maybe rubbing off on him just a bit too much!)

Make up a batch of baby pasta sauce (detailed directions to come next time I make some but basically stick a whole load of finely chopped veg such as onions, carrots. courgettes, leeks and peppers in a pot and saute until soft, add garlic and tinned toms and whatever herbs you fancy and then blitz until smooth - a sneaky way to add in extra veg). Spread a tablespoonful over half of a wholewheat tortilla wrap. Grate over a whole bunch of cheese and fold in half. Pop in a dry frying pan on a medium heat and fry until the cheese melts and the wrap is on the way to crispy. Turn halfway through. I have also made these with blitzed up bolognaise to get meat into him and it went down a treat.

I cut it into fingers and top the fingers with gucamole. Just mash a quarter of an avocado in a small bowl. If you have a set of Nigella mixing bowls then the smallest one is perfect for this. I used to have a set of Nigella mixing bowls until Mr Jones broke the smallest one. But I'm not bitter about it. In case you were wondering it can't be replaced, they aren't sold individually, you have to buy a whole new set. I'd like to add that I was very brave on the fateful day - I didn't even cry. Anyway - mash your advocado in a small bowl and spritz on a little fresh lime juice. I add the merest smidgen of a dash of sweet chilli sauce to mine - but you can leave it out - and a bit of pepper.

Courgette and feta fritters

2011-01-25T13:43:00.005Z

Now these are lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely. In the summer when Mr Jones and I had courgettes coming out of our ears these were a staple part of our diet. Perfect with a crisp green salad and a hunk of crusty bread. Or with pitta breads and houmous.

If you're a baby you tend to ignore the salad (lettuce makes you gag) and just go for the fritters - which is good because they're full of vitamins and calcium and are a good introduction to cheeses other than the humble (but actually quite heavenly) cheddar.

Rufus loves them - possibly because I went through a stage when pregnant when all I could stomach was pasta with lightly fried grated courgette.

The recipe is borrowed from Nigel Slater whose books I love to read, but whom I cannot stand to watch on television.

Grate two or three large courgettes into a colander. (In the grown up version sprinkle with salt and leave to stand for 30 minutes before squeezing out the juice - in the baby version, just squeeze out as much juice as you can now). Pat dry in kitchen paper.

Finely chop an onion and fry in a little olive oil until softened and starting to turn golden brown. You can add garlic here too if you like. Add the courgettes to the pan and fry gently until everything is lightly golden. Sprinkle over a heaped tablespoon of flour and about half a slab of crumbled feta cheese (or less or more - it's up to you). Season with pepper (should be salty enough if you've salted the courgettes and if you're making for babies you don't need the salt). Whisk an egg and gradually add it to make a stickyish mixture. You might not need it all. If it seems to sloppy just add a bit more flour.

Put some oil in a frying pan on a medium heat and when it's hot drop in dollop fulls of the mixture and fry on both sides for a few minutes until lightly browned. They are very fragile so take care when frying and turning. Leave to drain on kitchen paper. Lovely hot or cold.

Savoury flapjacks

2011-01-25T10:27:00.012Z

I promised recipes - so here we go. Sorry for the delay - the boy is poorly still and I've had work to do. But now I'm done and he seems to be on the mend. We missed a get together with his bestest friends yesterday, but we dropped off some of these flapjacks so we weren't missed too much. They seem to have gone down a storm and I've had many requests for the recipe. It came from the Baby Led Weaning Cookbook - which on first glance appeared disappointing, but on second perusal appears a bit more promising.

Please note - I am no food photographer - and I'm lazy and couldn't be bothered to do a step by step - but it's fairly simple.

Preheat your oven to 180c/gas mark 4. Melt 100g butter in a saucepan. Take off the heat an add 300g porridge oats, 350g of cheese (I used cheddar) and two beaten eggs (don't forget these - I nearly did). At this point you can add in optional veggies for a lighter and slightly more nutritious flapjack. I added 300g of grated carrot, but you could do grated sweet potato, parsnip, courgette and the book even sugests red onion (but I think I'd be tempted to fry it off a bit first in olive oil to take some of the strength out of it and release the sweetness). Press the mixture into the greased tin using the back of a spoon (or your fingers, which I found easier), it should be about 1cmthick. Bake for 20 mins until golden brown. Leave to cool in the tin for five mnutes, then cut into slices and cool on a rack.

The oats in this mean that they're a bit more filling than your average flour based bake and add plenty of veggies and you have a good dose of anti-oxidant vitamins too. There's calcium from the cheese and protein from the eggs - so a pretty balanced little recipes really. And if you don't have a weaning baby on your hands they're still tasty - although if you're on a diet they're probably best avoided because all that cheese makes for a pretty hefty calorie intake.

Master Jones hasn't given an official verdict on these yet because he's been off his food for the last three days, poor little mite. But we're hoping to tempt him with one tomorrow - luckily they keep well in an air tight box.

Seven months old - it's all a bit backwards

2011-01-18T20:42:00.005Z

Seven months ago around about now Rufus was born and I was in a morphine induced haze - hurrah! Mr Jones and I just watched One Born Every Minute as if to relive the whole thing - I cried, Mr Jones mocked me (with tears in his eyes!!).

How things have changed in seven months. This week small boy has become a whole lot more mobile. He commando shuffles on his tummy - backwards - and round and round in circles. Every now and again he buries his nose into the rug and gets up onto his knees and makes crawling motions. He can sit, fairly reliably, on his own - although there have been several bumps to the head when he loses focus and dive bombs the floor. He's started reaching his arms out to me when he wants to be picked up - it breaks my heart everytime - I am quite pathetic.

After a long and slightly stressful search we have found a childminder and I have started to accept that I need to let him go. Today I got my eyebrows waxed while his Nana looked after him. No one was killed!

I know I promised recipes - and they are coming. There are many pictures on the camera, but between cooking and backwards shuffling there hasn't been much time for blogging. Plus we all have colds so the added chore of snot mopping has been a bit of a bore.

Auntie Rowena - the picture is for you - another dungarees shot - I hope you think it's "awesome" - or indeed "rather delightful" if you're feeling all English and not in the slightest bit Californian. xx

The hair

2011-01-13T20:27:00.005Z

Right I have truly had enough of my hair. Whatever I do to it looks horrendous. I was never going to be a yummy mummy - frankly I had enough trouble getting out of the house with make up on and my hair beautifully styled before I had a child let alone now I have one. (Yes I understand the irony - I write beauty features for a living - but if I'm honest life is just too short to spend half an hour applying guff to my face and blow drying my hair - but don't tell the readers).

Anyway in life BR - my hair was always just there. It was never spectacular - apart from maybe when I was about 17 when I recall it being all long and wavy and marvellously coloured - but it always looked ok. A mite fluffy at times and prone to misbehaving in humidity (that's enough from you sister - before you start telling stories about holidays and hair straighteners!!), but in general it never looked skanky.

Now it looks skanky. It's falling out in handfuls thanks to the raging post pregnancy hormones and it gets greasy in seconds. This might be due to the fact that there is a small boy hanging from it at any opportunity - but truly it is quite hideous. My forehead seems to grow bigger everyday - which is clearly down to the flat, ugly dullness of my hair. Just call me slap head.

I have hair envy. Where ever I go I see people with glossy hair, fabulously styled and I just want to grab them, grill them about what products they use and how long they spend back combing, poofing and blow drying every morning to procur themselves such a glamorous do?

The chances are they spend hours (or even minutes) that I don't have in front of the mirror making sure their hair looks great. I'd love to wash my hair every day - but I just don't have time. When it does get a wash I spend a good five minutes untangling lose hair from my fingers and then another five unclogging the shower drain and trying not to gag. Then I blast it (still sopping wet - tut tut) with a hairdryer while Mr Jones scowls at me for taking too long to get ready. If I'm lucky, and I've remembered to turn them on, I might even get to run the straighteners through it before I scrape it back into a pony tail in the hopes of preserving some of the shiny cleanliness before it's pulled, chewed and covered in whatever Rufus is having for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

I am tempted to have it all cut off. But I am terrifed that I'll end up with awful Mum hair, or something so high maintenance that I have to spend the next six months in solitary confinement until it grows back out again into something slightly managable. Something has to be done. I can't go on looking like I've been pulled through a greasy hedge backwards everyday. But what?Suggestions please......

An ode to chocolate

2011-01-07T20:01:00.003Z

Well not really, because who writes odes these days? But anyway - I can't get enough of the stuff. Green and Blacks Creamy Milk is my current drug of choice. This might not sound weird to you because after all I'm a girl and most girls like chocolate - but not this girl. In life BR (Before Rufus) I'd have the odd daliance, eat a square or two. feel sick and then vow not to eat chocolate again.

However, I have just, this very moment, eaten six squares of creamy milk. And - I could eat more. The rest of the bar is in the cupboard and it's calling me. Begging to be melted on my tongue and washed down with a chaser of super cold milk. I find this new addiction disturbing not to mention fattening. I don't feel the slightest bit sick. It's most odd.

It's also odd that I now eat two slices of toast for breakfast every morning - one with marmite and one with marmlade - I like two courses in a meal. Again - probably not odd to you (the toast bit, not the two courses). But BR I didn't really eat bread - not unless I wanted to pay for it with a twisted gut or at the very least a stomach so bloated that I used to pat it and rub it like a pregnant woman in the hopes that people would mistake my errant wind for a small child.

Maybe I'm making up for not having cravings during pregnancy, maybe I'm having them now? Maybe broken night's sleep and days spent with a very busy little boy mean I need the carbs? Somehow I think the last stone of baby weight (it used to be half a stone - but then Christmas happened) might take a while to shift. I may have to go cold turkey on the chocolate. Not sure I could go without the toast. I crave it at 2am and at 3am and sometimes I get up at 5am and make myself a slice. In the middle of the night I forget two courses and just have marmelade. Mr Jones makes the best toast - I don't know what he does - it's just perfect.

The stew

2011-01-06T21:34:00.004Z

Warning!

If you make this recipe your baby will end up looking like this

Rufus loves stew. As a rule I never used to eat them. Then it started snowing and I dug out the le creuset and felt the need for something warming. It is a Jamie Oliver recipe in truth - I find that a lot of his recipes can be adapted - just take out the salt and make the bits easy for small paws to grasp. In order not to be "done" for infringing copyright laws here is a link to Mr Oliver's website and a big plug for all of his books - they are marvellous. Other recipes will be all my own work - I promise. This is just Rufus' favourite - besides eggy bread (or French Toast if you're being all American and posh).

One quick word - I am happy to use wine in cooking for Rufus - the alcohol cooks off and that just leaves flavour. If you read the Daily Mail and would like to comment on this feel free. If you write for the Mail and would like to do an article on the state of motherhood today feel free to quote me as a lush.

Now to the stew - there is no pic for this - it looks like a stew. It tastes good. It's from the Jamie's Dinners book.

Beef Stew
• olive oil and a knob of butter for good measure
• 1 onion, peeled and chopped
• a handful of fresh sage leaves (I didn’t have sage so I used thyme instead and it worked well)
• 800g/1¾lb stewing steak or beef skirt, cut into 5cm/2 inch pieces
• sea salt and freshly ground black pepper (can leave salt out)
• flour, to dust
• 2 parsnips, peeled and quartered
• 4 carrots, peeled and halved
• ½ a butternut squash, halved, deseeded and roughly diced
• 500g/1lb 2oz small potatoes
• 2 tablespoons tomato purée
• ½ a bottle of red wine
* 285ml/½ pint beef or vegetable stock (use baby stock if you are a true salt nazi)

Preheat the oven to 160ºC/300ºF/gas 2. Put a little oil and your knob of butter into an appropriately sized pot or casserole pan. Add your onion and all the sage leaves and fry for 3 or 4 minutes. Toss the meat in a little seasoned flour, then add it to the pan with all the vegetables, the tomato purée, wine and stock, and gently stir together. Season generously with freshly ground black pepper and just a little salt. Bring to the boil, place a lid on top, then cook in the preheated oven until the meat is tender. Sometimes this takes 3 hours, sometimes 4 – it depends on what cut of meat you’re using and how fresh it is. The only way to test is to mash up a piece of meat and if it falls apart easily it’s ready. Once it’s cooked, you can turn the oven down to about 110°C/225°F/gas ¼ and just hold it there until you’re ready to eat.

I left the veg fairly chunky and Rufus just helps himself to chunks of carrot etc – I always give him bits of beef too but he tends not to pick them up so I pop little bits in his mouth if he’s in the right mood. often he chews them for a while and then spits it out because I think even meat this tender is hard to keep chewing with no teeth. It’s great re heated too. I made the whole lot and froze half and it’s fine once frozen too.

The wonderful world of food

2011-01-06T20:23:00.005Z

If you know of me at all you will no doubt be aware that I like a good meal. I do not under any circumstances understand people for whom food is mere fuel. To me food is the world's greatest pleasure. I firmly believe that I was put on this earth to eat. So it was not without excitement that I approached the whole weaning thing.

There are two schools of thought these days when it comes to introducing your baby to food. The traditional way with all the purees, Annabel Karmel books and a bit of mess; and the new fangled. hippyish, baby led weaning way - which involves no pureeing, letting your baby feed itself from a very wide range of "normal" food and a whole lot of mess.

Now, keen as I was to start Rufus on his life long journey of eating and hopefully enjoying food, I decided that despite the fact I could have started it all off at 17 weeks, the whole puree thing really wasn't up my alley. Who wants to eat pureed swede for a week with only a bit of pureed apple to spice things up? Certainly not me. Nope it was going to be baby led weaning all the way for me. So we waited until he was six months old and then went for it. (I will add that after much pressure from members of the older generation we did try purees at about 22 weeks but luckily Master Jones, clearly a gourmand from birth, was having none of it).

Anyway I had visions of myself in a pinny (indulge me in a bit of 50s housewife imagery if you will - see the perfectly coiffed hair, the impossibly slim waist, the big old American style fridge and the shiny faced children sat around a formica kitchen table) whipping up culinary master pieces for my son to scoff down with gusto. I saw the satisfied smile on my face as he's lean back at the end of each meal, let out a small, but satisfied burp and smile adoringly up at me as if to thank me for the tasty feast I'd set out before him.

I read the book - it all sounded good to me. Rufus would be eating our leftovers, nibbling morsels from my plate and would gradually introduce himself to a wide variety of foods ensure that he will never become a picky eater. So far, so marvellous.

We began tentatively with toast. It seemed a natural progression since he'd been trying to eat my breakfast for weeks. He squished it a bit, and then a bit harder until it crumbled into bits and made for the floor. A few bits got as far as being sucked - which was an improvement on the previous week when we'd given him a bit of apple to play with. He understood that it needed to go into his mouth - but hadn't quite worked out how to get it there. Instead he took him mouth to the apple and ended up bent over double gumming the apple that he held firmly in his lap - bless.

Sticks of roasted veg went down well, as did bits of poached pear and the odd slice of mango. But I couldn't help thinking that the floor was getting a better diet than he was.

The Health Visitor, she who was not concerned about his weight in the slightest, told me to go for it. To get as many calories into him as possible. She recommended that the only thing I spoon feed him should be porridge made with full fat cows milk. She sent me out for normal porridge oats, warning me off all forms of "baby food". I served this up for breakfast - the first spoonful was met with a wince, the second with a full on gag and the third with a flat refusal. Hmmmm not so good.

After a few days I worked out that he could handle chunks and chewing if they didn't come on a spoon. But anything that came his way travelling on a piece of cutlery had to be super smooth and bordering on liquid. So I sieved a banana and made up some baby porridge and it went down. I could hear the cries of the baby led weaning purists growing louder with every mouthful.

These days I can hear them tutting at every meal - because while he is utterly marvellous at feeding himself and has come on in leaps and bounds, he does tend to get bored/lazy before he's filled up his tummy. He starts off ramming food into his mouth at a pace. He usually has something in each hand and often tries to cram everything in at once. Then he gets tired and sits with his arms out to the sides twisting his hands at the wrists and making a funny groaning noise. And because he has been a skinny bean for so long and because I want him to be heading the right way on the weight charts for once I tend to help. Which I'm sure is very naughty - but I just break up piece of food into bite sized chunks and hold them in front of his face, if he opens his mouth I pop them in, if he doesn't open I don't. What is not baby led about that.

SO we are cooking without salt (a revelation for me - Miss Sodium 2010), we have resigned ourselves to the fact that the kitchen rug will at some point in the not so distant future need replacing, we have informed everyone that houmous/gucamole/toast/stew/fruit puree is indeed the new black and is all anyone with a small child will be wearing this autumn/winter - and probably spring/summer too. And of course we are in constant search of new recipes to tempt him with.

While the book suggests that your baby can at six months eat whatever you're eating we're not quite sure that he could manage a fajita, or would particularly like a Mauritian prawn curry, or steak and cannelini beans. Nor do we want to live on stew, pasta bake or homemade fish goujons. Plus Mr Jones and I are back on a healthy eating mission - and Master Jones needs full fat, not low fat - so I've ended up doing a fair bit of extra cooking - but at least it's not purees.

I love cooking for him and it's fun coming up with new baby friendly recipes. He doesn't love them all - meat usually brings forth a rage and broccoli isn't a big hit unless it's carefully disguised. I do like to share a good recipe, so the ones that are a success I shall post here - along with step by step pics if I have time.

The best news is that it's working - the little man is putting on chunk sharpish and I love blowing raspberries on his little pot belly.

Christmas with the Jones'

2010-12-23T20:12:00.006Z

The presents are wrapped, the cards have been posted, the cupboards are full of festive goodies and Rufus is thoroughly sick of shopping.

We're having Christmas at home - our little family of three. We'll sing carols (tunelessly) round the tree, eat a lot, walk a bit and make it a Christmas to remember - even if the little bean will have forgotten it all by boxing day. For us it's a dream come true

So to all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year - we hope you get all you wish for in 2011.

Gorgeous

2010-12-22T20:33:00.003Z

Half birthday

2010-12-22T11:06:00.004Z

Last Saturday - the 18th December 2010 - Rufus Anthony Jones was six months old exactly. I can't believe that in just six months we have gone from this

to this

It's amazing - he's a proper little boy now. He eats grown up meals - he loves a good stew. My kitchen floor loves it less, but doesn't get much of a choice about the amount it's "fed" every day. I'm thinking of starting a company that rents out Labradors to families with weaning babies. The cats don't do bits of chimbled pasta or beef that has been sucked dry - most unhelpful.

A friend asked me the other day if I miss my previous life? And I don't really think I do. Occasionally I'd love to sleep for eight hours without interruption and the other day I was walking through town and it seemed that everyone else on the street was a couple, meandering round the shops holding hands. I do miss that, just Me and Mr Jones time. Sometimes I miss it so much that I want to cry just a little bit.

But I wouldn't give him back, not for the world. I love watching him change. I never thought I'd be fascinated by the way that someone else holds a carrot. I certainly would never have walked around Waitrose singing, blowing raspberries and whooping just to make someone else smile. I'll do anything to elicit that laugh. The second his little delicious giggle escapes his mouth I do what ever it is that has brought it forth over and over again, even if it's throwing him in the air until my arms ache, or making popping noises until my lips are chaffed. It's like an addiction - I really can't get enough.

Sometimes I worry that my brain will turn to mush. That all I'll be good for is singing endless renditions of Old Macdonald or the Wheels on the Bus. Sometimes I miss the thrill of working to a deadline or running a shoot (and I certainly miss the freebies!). But most of the time I just love being a mummy. It's hard work, it's 24/7, but it is the single most satisfying thing I have ever done in my life.

When people ask what I do I don't miss saying "I'm a journalist", I love saying "I'm Rufus' mum". I wasn't sure how I'd feel about that, but I'm just so proud of him. If someone else pushes his buggy and people stop and coo I feel like grabbing the handle and saying "yes he's gorgeous isn't he, he's mine". Selfish I know - but he really is the most amazing thing I've ever achieved. I look at him every day and think - "wow I made him" and it stuns me everytime.

I've met the six months mark with a mixture of happiness and sorrow. I feel like the countdown is on. That every day now brings us closer to the day that I'll have to go back to work. The day that I'll have to hand him over and trust someone else to look after him (only for three days a week!) and it fills me with fear. It's not so much Rufus that I'm worried about, I'm sure after the initial wrench he'll be fine. He'll make new friends and learn new things and hopefully at the end of the day he'll be excited to see me. I don't think he'll miss out at all. But I know I will - I don't want to will him to grow up too fast, but at the same time I don't want to miss his first step or his first word. I want to be there for everything because it's such a privilege to watch him grow up.

And of course - if I'm truly honest - the control freak in me just doesn't want to let go. If I'm at work someone might feed him a jam sandwich made with plastic bread and marg (argh the horror) or let him sit in front of Cbeebies (or Top Gear!!!) for hours on end. At some point I'm going to have to let go - I'm just not sure I can do it right now. So I shall continue to dream of a gentle mooch around town with Mr Jones and a night in a soft fluffy hotel bed where I'll sleep for 12 hours in a gin induced stupor without worrying that something has happened to my little man overnight. I'm sure I'll get there one day - won't I?

Ps - I took Rufus to see the health visitor last Friday. He weighed in at 15lb 14oz - three weeks ago he was 14lb 9oz - it seems a bit of homecooking was all he needed to pile on a few pounds. The health visitor - remember she wasn't concerned, no not concerned at all - looked visibly relieved. In fact she was so happy she almost gave me a hug.

A month in pictures - weeks 21-25

2010-12-14T13:34:00.010Z

It's nearly Christmas, weaning has begun - between shopping, wrapping, cooking and feeding I have no time - so here is a brief synopsis of the past four weeks - in pictures - with few words - how unlike me. (Have you ever noticed that I use a lot of these - it seems I don't like commas!)

Rufus went to Southwold - a place of many happy childhood, teenage and grown up memories for me, and for him too in years to come I hope. He had fun, had many cuddles with Granny, Pops and Aunty Rach. We both came home with a cold - but we survived.

He started solids. Baby led weaning is messy. Purees make him gag unless they are very runny. He'd rather just eat sticks of roasted sweet potato and carrot, tuck into homemade stew (he even ate a bit of beef) and isn't adverse to pasta bake (apart from today when he threw a paddy and swept a good deal of it onto the kitchen floor - it seems today he only wants to eat pureed pear. I don't blame him - some days I just want to eat pureed pear). He seems to be producing little chunky rolls of fat on his wrists and thighs so I'm hoping when I get him weighed this week he might be heading in the right direction on the chart thingys.

Rufus went to visit the Williams' - he bought a hairband from Princess Lucy's shop. We all bought hairbands in fact - and had to wear them - even Mr Jones.

He's learnt how to roll over and he never sits still. He's seen his first snow and the other day I swear he made a noise that sounded like "Rufus" - but it was probably just a fluke! He has swum under water on his own, which is impressive and terrifying in equal measure, but don't tell him I scared, I'm very good at perma smiles to hide horror - I do them when he's choking on quarters of apricot and when he pours water all over himself and the floor and when he rubs pasta bake into his ears. And when he poos on my hand - but that is another story....

20 weeks old - oh the mess

2010-12-08T18:18:00.005Z

At university I was sometimes known as Monica. People used to ruffle the rug in my room just to wind me up - and in the second year my cleaning rota was constantly scorned and the bathroom left in a disgusting state until I gave in a cleaned it even if it wasn't my week. While 10 years with Mr Jones has forced me to relax on the OCD cleaning you may well recall that in the latter stages of my pregnancy I spent about 22 hours a day attached to the hoover or mop.

These days I'm lucky if I manage to get the hoover out once a week. I have vacuum withdrawal symptoms. I feel like I need some kind of support group. "My name is Rebecca Jones and I'm a former clean freak who now lives in a slovenly pit". I just don't have time for cleaning - Rufus thinks it's a waste of his day. I tidy, frequently, and the washing machine is constantly on - but my house is no where near as clean as I'd like it to be.

Mr Jones has a different level of acceptable cleanliness. He once exploded a hole punch over his bedroom floor at the beginning of term and by Easter the paper confetti was still adorning the carpet. The living room floor in his shared house was home to a scalextric track, which wove it's way around plates of furry mould encrusted food remants and empty pizza boxes. The bathroom was so disgusting that I used to go home to pee.

I am happy to report that over the last 10 years his standards have been raised to a whole new level - but his tolerance of filth still hovers somewhere way below mine.

That is why, when Mr Jones suggested that while Rufus and I were away on holiday he might give the house a good going over, that I knew things had gotten bad, really bad. So it's not just me that can see the marks on the kitchen cabinets, or the dust on the book shelves? Are other people aware of the cat hair on the stairs and the footprints on the windowsill? Is someone else irritated by the baby handprints on every mirror in the house and are the watermarks on the shower screen glaring at anyone who use our bathroom?

My dad recently found a old book on good housekeeping and childcare. Among the many choice passages, this manual for all exceptional wives and mothers, suggested that the house should be an arena of calm cleanliness when your beloved husband walks through the door after a long day at work. After a day cleaning the house and taking care of the children I should neaten myself up, apply a bit of lipstick and plaster a smile on my face to greet him in the hallway. The children should be clean and angelic, playing quietly, or better still, already tucked up in bed..... it goes on - and on and on.

So what does Mr Jones see when he walks through the door? A picture of 1950s domesticity with a nipped in waist, perfectly coiffed hair and a neatly swaddled baby - does he heck. I'm usually on the floor, my bottom hanging out of pair of mud spattered jeans, my hair wild from a trek across some field or other. The living room is generally scattered with toys, the dinner is usually half prepared, there are bits on the floor, cobwebs on the ceiling and the baby is most certainly not bathed and ready for bed (that's Mr Jones' job).

I would love to be the perfect housewife - but somehow I just can't seem to manage it. I feel guilty if I leave Rufus to play on the floor while I hoover - and his naptimes are too precious to disturb with a roaring vacuum. I've tried to make like Mary Poppins and turn cleaning into a game, but a five month old doesn't really get it. So I sit in the evenings, worn out after a day of play, and listen to the dust bunnies scuttling under the sofa and watch the cobwebs idly weave themselves across each room. Inside I cry just a tiny bit for my lovely tidy pre baby house.

I love the days I get to run the hoover round and file away the paper work. But on the ones in between I remind myself of a little poem sent to me by a good friend:

When my children look back on today,
I hope they see a mother who had time to play,

There will be years for cleaning and cooking,
But children grow up when you're not looking.

So, settle down cobwebs, and dust go to sleep,
I'm cuddling my baby, and babies don't keep.

I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind......

2010-12-05T18:03:00.006Z

.....that I put down in words
how wonderful life is
now you're in the world

We're currently singing this song. It's rather apt I'd say - sleepless nights aside. I loved the original, but this might be better.

It's been a while - we've been busy - I promise to update you all with the events of the last month this week.

Why I'm glad I'm not Kate Middleton....

2010-11-24T19:59:00.006Z

So, if you know me, you'll know that in a previous existence I would never have written that title. You see I've always wanted to be a princess. I've wanted to be a princess since forever. When I was a very small girl I walked around the ruins of a Welsh castle telling anyone who would listen that "I am the princess, and this is my castle" and that they were all my doting subjects. I wanted to ride horses, because princesses rode horses. I wanted to be a bridesmaid because they wear dresses like princesses and get to marry the prince. I wanted to be a princess because they live in castles, have long hair and because their daddy is the King.

When I was a teenager I went through a rebellious stage (clearly I didn't because I pretty much always towed the line - but bear with me). I went through a rebellious phase when I wore sneakers, listened to Britpop and denounced the establishmnt (for about three months) and went about telling everyone that I thought the royal family were a waste of time and money and should put to death by firing squad (is that treasonous - can I get hanged for writing that these days??). This was during the period in Prince William's life when he was all teeth and ears. Before Princess Di was killed, before he went to university and before he became the object of all my royal lust.

Let me also point out that I know that it is completely not cool to have a crush on Prince William. In fact you get more points for having a crush on Harry and he has ginger hair and his "royalness" is still very much in question. But I hold my hands up. I have often dreamt of marrying Prince William and being a princess. (I might add that I always factored in Mr Jones as the illicit love interest in these dreams - princesses always get to have affairs - anyone who has read anything about the Tudor court knows that. Mr Jones would have been the Robert Dudley to my Elizabeth the first - before her teeth went black and fell out).

When he started going out with Kate Middleton I got a bit Daily Mail about it all. I liked to check out what she was up too in a slightly stalkerish manner. Not because I hated her - but because I was in awe. Fabulous figure, bit of a clothes horse, intelligent, good looking - and going out with Prince William - who wouldn't be a tiny bit jealous. After a while I got a bit bored - until the split when I thought there might again be hope. But alas it wasn't to be.

So you might expect me to be just a mite peeved with all this talk of weddings - but when it comes to it I'm really not. Aside from the life of duty in the public eye - which I'd hate because quite frankly I detest the general public - the very thought of having to plan a royal wedding fills me with dread.

Every family has their black sheep - the relatives who make you cringe, who you know will just disgrace themselves by getting drunk and abusing someone, or if not that there's the lairy friend who can't be trusted in a civilised situation. You ummm and ahhh about whether you can get away with not inviting them to your wedding and generally deem that for the sake of peace you'll just put up with them and forewarn anyone who might be offended. BUT what do you do if your wedding is to be attended by the Queen and representatives of every Royal family in the world? What if the prime minister is going to be there? What is Elton John is singing you up the aisle? What if you're selling the pictures to Hello for a banker's bonus? Do you say "sod my family - I've got a new Royal one" and be forever hailed as the sell outer who thinks they're too good for their past? Or do you hope that Prince Harry digs out that fancy dress outfit or pray that Prince Phillip is allowed to voice an opinion so that it's not your disgraceful acquaintance that ends up fodder for Quentin Letts and the rest of his cronies?

Then there's the dress. People still talk and cringe about Princess Di's crumpled, puffed sleeved monstrosity with bows on - it's such a responsibilty. I was nearly consumed with stress about my dress and it was only going to be judged by 120 people - half of whom were men and couldn't give a fig - but poor old Kate has the entire female population of the globe to please. (And don't deny that you aren't interested because you know you are).

What if she wants to get married somewhere other than Westminster Abbey? What if she's always dreamt of a beach wedding or wants (God forbid) carnations and babies breath in her bouquet? What if she rather have something a bit smaller and really doesn't want it on the BBC?

In the end she's just a girl, who fell in love with a boy - who just happened to be a royal. It might seem like a dream to marry a Prince - but when your wedding turns into a national event I think it takes away a bit of the excitement and the meaning. No I'm glad I'm not Kate Middleton - I don't think I could take the responsibility - not for all the castles and tiaras in the world.

19 weeks old - Rufus is a pumpkin and mummy gets poorly

2010-11-05T16:20:00.008Z

It's cruel I know - but this will probably be the only year I get to dress him up without him wanting some kind of input. There was a halloween party - the babies got dressed up and the mummy's drank wine. By the time we got home I had almost lost my voice. By the time I went to bed it had completely gone.

Mr Jones went off to work in Kent, leaving me alone and snot filled to look after the small boy. It wasn't long before I had packed my stuff to head to my Mummy's. You're never too old to need your mummy.

Before I could escape I had to see the breast feeding woman. She was an hour and 15 minutes late - and she was lucky that Rufus decided to have an extra long nap because other wise I'd have been long gone by the time she rocked up. No apology, no nothing - rude I call it. I hate people being late.

Anyway. She came and asked me how the two hourly feeding had been going. I said I hadn't done it because the extra feeds coincided with his nap times and he was just falling asleep anyway so it was pointless. This was a lie because I hadn't actually tried it. I hate liars - but sometimes a little white lie is necessary - and being a mummy makes you do things that you usually wouldn't. She looked at me slightly sternly and I suddenly felt a bit guilty and started jibbering on about how my instinct had told me that he didn't need feeding that often - rah, rah, rah! Then I said I had a cold and was off to my mum's in a bit because Mr Jones was away and I thought it'd be nice to have a bit of a hand.

Luckily Rufus decided to wake up at this point so we could get on with it. She weighed him - he screamed and flailed about - he'd gained three ounces. Poo! I'd hoped it would have been more. In the past week he's developed some of those lovely chubby wrist bracelets - I thought they'd weigh at least an ounce each. Plus a couple of ounces for each thigh and maybe half an ounce on his chin. But no - just three. She tutted a bit and then said - "So explain again why you didn't feed him two hourly." So I started with the lies again and then said - "actually I think he's fine - he's sleeping well and feeding well and he has six feeds a day - he never cries for food and he seems perfectly happy."

"Well yes - he does seem fine. So I think it's probably best if you stop panicking about his weight gain - because it's really not that important as long as he seems fine. It's good that you're going to your mum's for support. Being a mum is hard work, you're doing a great job, so don't get worked up and try and relax. When is your husband back? Are you going to be on your own at all? Make sure you have someone to look after you and to help you because it's good to have support......"

She went on like this for about five minutes. Speaking to me as if I was on the verge of some kind of mental break down. I felt like stopping her and saying - "hang on a minute - I never asked to see you, I was told to see you. I'm not concerned about his weight, it's you lot who have been making a fuss about it. As soon as I was told that he was within the healthy range of the thrive line thingys I was fine. Yes I'm going to my mum's because I'm feeling just a tad rough and I can't really sing and play with what is left of my voice - but ordinarily I am quite able to cope - and I most certainly don't need to be patronised by you."

But of course I just smiled meekly and listened to her cringeworthy attempt at being sympathetic and supportive. I probably should have offered her a cup of tea or asked if she wanted to use the loo - but I just wanted to get rid of her. In the end I started to feed Rufus and said "Are you ok to see yourself out so I don't have to disturb him?" And off she went. Then we went to stay with Granny Sue and Pops and were thoroughly looked after and spoilt. I'm sure I gained several pounds even if Rufus didn't.

18 weeks old - one, two, three like a bird I sing

2010-11-04T10:20:00.011Z

Mr Jones thinks we should move to the Southern States of America so that Rufus grows up with an accent that will enable him to sing this song (you have to listen right to the end if you want to hear the kids singing - this will be enjoyable if you like country music - as I do - if you don't like country music you'll have to just grin and bear it. If like me you also have a thing for men in cowboy hats you may like to watch the video!). Mr Jones would probably like it noted that he isn't - in general - a country fan - he just thinks the kids at the end sound cute. I love country. I'd love to move to a Ranch and ride horses all day in a cowboy hat like I did in my previous life. I think about it a lot when all I can hear is a small boy grizzling. I could be the next Pioneer Woman and homeschool my kids and cook beef on a skillet and eat corn bread and cookies.....

Alternatively Mr Jones thinks we should move to Bristol so that Rufus will speak like the kids from Skins. Somehow I find this less appealing. Anyway I digress.

So you will remember how the Health Visitor wasn't concerned, no not concerned at all, about Rufus' weight. Well I took him back to be weighed again and he had put on a measly three ounces. "Hmmm - I'll just measure his head and length and get my thrive lines out to be sure, but I'm not concerned."

"Ok" says I not believing a word of it.

She measures his head - which is still big enough for me to be very thankful that I didn't have to push him out - and his length which is above average - something I could have told her because his three to six month babygros are all too short in the leg and he's only four and a bit months old.

She gets out her thrive lines (a piece of acetate covered in lines which apparently when laid over your baby's weight chart tells you whether or not he is thriving for his weight?!). All the while she is muttering about not being concerned, about how he is a gorgeous little boy and very alert and active and sleeping well......

She puts the acetate over Rufus' weight chart and traces a line with her finger up to where he should be on the chart for his age. The black dot on the weight chart is glaring at me in the bottom third of the page - her finger is resting in the top third. I suddenly feel a bit hot. It's cold out and I'm wearing layers and have a baby sling pinning them all to me. I feel the sweat start to trickle down my back as I watch her stare (now looking very concerned) at the chart.

Unnecessarily she points out the dots to me. "hhhhmmm I think I'll just call the doctor in to check him over, I'm not concerned because he looks well and his head is measuring fine and that's the next thing we check after slow weight gain, but just to be sure I'd like to call the doctor in - do you mind?"

Do I mind? What a ridiculous question - this woman is telling me that my baby may well be malnourished and she's asking me if I mind seeing the doctor? I reassure her that this is all quite fine - trying to ignore the sweat that is pouring down the backs of my knees while at the same time trying to wrestle Rufus back into his trousers.

The doctor appears, takes one look at him and says - "he looks fine to me." Meanwhile the health visitor has been ferreting about in her folder and pulls out another piece of acetate. "Oh" she says - "I've just realised that I'm using the wrong sheet - that's the one for babies who are gaining too much weight - see look he's fine!" She spends the next five minutes apologising to me while I begin to recover from what was possibly the beginnings of a mild cardiac episode - or less dramtically a few dark days believing that I am clearly a terrible mother who has been starving her child by feeding him from malfunctioning bosoms.

Further discussions ensue about the fact that Rufus clearly isn't actively feeding during these lovely 45 minute feeds we've been having. I am sent away with instructions to massage my boobs when I feed (delightful) and to start expressing in the evenings to make sure my milk supply is good enough. She also recommends that I see the breastfeeding counsellor for a bit more advice.

So off I go feel just slightly rattled and ever so much relieved. I begin the massaging (not easy) and I listen out to make sure he's swallowing all the time. We get fewer green poos which must have been caused by the fact that he was crashing out after he'd quenched his thirst with the foremilk. I start to feel encouraged.

I get out old Gina Ford's missives because I remember a section on increasing your milk supply. It appears that I need to express about five times a day - at specific times - while eating a small snack and drinking a glass of water. I am reminded of the panic I felt when I first read this book and it's routines - "your baby must be up and fully awake by 7am, offer 20 minutes from the first breast and 10 to 15 minutes from the second. Do not feed about 8am because you'll put him off his next feed. Eat a piece of toast and drink a pint of water no later than 8.30am......" When Mr Jones read it he sent me a text saying "errr can we send the baby back please - this sounds like a nightmare" - I was about 20 weeks pregnant at the time.

I duly start expressing per the timetable. This didn't last long. As I sat there in a roomful of other mums at 11am with my nipple being sucked in and out of a pump we all laughed at how our lives had changed. When would I ever have thought it was acceptable to get my boobs out in front of a room full of other women? And worse, when would I have ever sat there doing my best impression of a cow hooked up to an industrial strength milking machine - never! So I decided that my life was far too short. That Rufus could up my supply himself by taking more - because he clearly isn't starving because he is still gaining weight - just not as fast as he could.

On Tuesday I saw the breastfeeding counsellor. I didn't warm to her - she very kindly announced to a group of some 15 mums that she would speak to me after the weaning talk that we were all attending because she'd been informed that I was "having problems with breastfeeding" (see a mixture of sympathetic/smug looks fired in my direction from the various mothers in the room). She hardly listened to the problems I was having before barking "Feed him every two hours - that will make him gain weight and stop him biting you. I'll come and see you next Tuesday."

I leave, feeling flustered, trying to calculate in my mind how I'll get anything done if I feed him every two hours. Within about an hour I decide to ignore her. As far as I'm concerned he's fine, he's happy and alert, he's developing well, sleeping and napping well and seems to be perfectly jolly on his routine. He's never fed two hourly, not even when he was first born - so why would I go backwards? I've been keeping him awake during his feeds and the biting has lessened, we've had no green poos since I started with all the massaging and he's started to go through until 4.30/5ish at night again - so I think he's fine. It's not as if he's losing weight. Having made this decision I spend the next few days feeling very naughty. In the end I give myself a good talking to - I'm his mother and I know best. We shall see what she says next Tuesday.

PS - he's wearing his pjs in the pics because we had been through four outfits in one day - the first two were puked on and the second two were pooped on and I hadn't had chance to do anymore washing - pjs were all we had left.

17 weeks old - hello 3am (again)

2010-10-26T13:00:00.007+01:00

Hey Mama, what you doing? Are you taking pictures again? You're nearly as bad as Granny.

It doesn't matter what noises you make - I'm not going to look at the camera.

Mama, have you ever tried fingers? They're tasty.

I can push one hand right in with the other one. It means I can get my fingers all the way to the back of my throat and make myself gag!

See how slimey they are - in a minute I'm going to give you a cuddle and wipe them all over your face and neck to show you how much I love you.

What do you mean you'd rather I didn't? Love you Mama xxx

I knew writing it down was a bad idea. Rufus appears to have forgotten how to sleep until 5ish. We've been back up at 3ish instead. I hate 3ish. By then you've just about had enough sleep to survive, but not quite enough to feel like a human being. And while Rufus happily nods back off post feed, I'm wide awake and watching reruns of Frasier.

He's also learnt to bite me during feeds and delights in practicing this new skill at every opportunity. Apparently you're not supposed to react(!) for fear of scaring your baby(!!) - this is easier said that done when you have some very hard gums clamped around your nipple. There have been times when I have wanted to throw him across the room and the odd squeal and some very sharp intakes of breath have escaped me. The purple tube of nipple cream has been recovered from the depths of a draw in a vain attempt to soothe the damage. Happily having the heating on means I can stick it on the radiator to soften it up so that I can actually squeeze it out of the tube.

His first feed of the day is a bit of a struggle too - apparently there is nothing quite so exciting as my bedside lamp - despite the fact that it is sitting there, doing exactly the same thing as it was doing at exactly the same time the day before. That and the radio alarm clock can capture his attention for hours (unless I'd actually like them to so I could get one with something else - in which case he wouldn't be at all interested).

He's also been a bit distracted by my morning toast. (Weird things happen when you have babies - I have never eaten toast - but I had some straight after he was born and have eaten it everyday since. Mr Jones makes it for me every morning - one slice of marmite and one of marmelade, cut into triangle, to be eaten alternately). Anyway - young Rufus has started noticing what I put into my mouth and took advantage of my being momentarily distracted by the news to grab a slice and squidge it between his fingers. He then proceeded to lick the marmelade off of his fingers. The weaning books don't seem to mention marmelade as a first food, but I don't suppose it will kill him - it hasn't done so far anyway.

Despite all of this he is still very gorgeous.

16 weeks old - or Poo, poo and oh yes - a bit more poo

2010-10-18T20:52:00.005+01:00

You will no doubt recall poogate - which was superceded and surpassed in many ways by the nine day poo. Well the days without poo are now long gone. Since we went cold turkey we poo a lot.

Rufus was for a long time quite tricky to feed. He'd guzzle away for five or so minutes and then pull away, screaming and failing his arms about, punching my chest and tensing his whole body. He'd latch back on, do a few more sucks and then start getting cross again. I'd switch him to the other side and he'd go back to guzzling before going through the whole tantrum again. He wouldn't feed for longer than 15 minutes max which included time spent screaming and punching. He wouldn't relax until he had his dummy.

All this has changed since we got rid of the dummies. He now feeds for a good 30 to 45 minutes. He eats calmly and dozily and often nods off. I relish this time, mainly because I get to sit down. He gets that lovely milk drunk look after his feeds that he used to get when his was a tiny baby - it's gorgeous.

Along with all this feeding comes a lot of poo. Before I think he was eating just the bear minimum of food to keep himself going - which was why we were getting poos so sporadically. There just wasn't any wastage. Now his little tummy is full to bursting at every meal and he's got plenty left over after he's done a bit of growing. I have been doing a lot of washing, we've gone through a lot of wipes and the nappy bill has increased - but it must be much healthier for his insides.

I was expecting an enormous weight gain with all this feeding - but when I had him weighed he'd only put on a measley 4oz. He's even dropped from the 50th to the 25th centile for weight. The health visitor said she wasn't not concerned. She kept on saying she wasn't concerned. "I'm not concerned, no I'm not concerned about that, I'm really not concerned..." she told me that she wasn't concerned so many times that I started to wonder who she was trying to convince, me or herself? But I'm going to take him back in two weeks anyway just to see if things have improved at all. He seems happy and healthy enough - and he's certainly eating as much as I can give him - so as long as she isn't concerned......

15 weeks old - Rufus sleeps through the night (almost)

2010-10-18T20:32:00.005+01:00

Auntie Lauren got married in Hawaii. Mr Jones spent two days flying there and two days flying back to give her away. He was only there two days! It was all a bit mad and I of course spent the entire time envisioning scenes from Lost - no - not the ones of Sawyer looking all sweaty and rugged on the beach (well not all the time anyway) - but all the crashing planes, exploding helicopters and sinking boats - I didn't get as far as him being eaten by a polar bear or enveloped by the black smoke - but you get the picture - I was slightly worried about him leaving us to go half way around the world. Luckily he got home safely via LA and huevos rancheros with Mr and Mrs Allsop (thank you again for looking after him for me).

Meanwhile - back at basecamp - Rufus decided that without his dummy he might be able to sleep through the night - well pretty much through anyway. He is now in bed by 7pm with little fuss and then doesn't wake up for a feed until 4.30am at the very earliest and more generally 5-5.30am. Which is "through" enough for me at just 15 weeks old. I am beyond gleeful about this and I'm trying not to get too attached to the whole thing in case it all goes tits up - so to speak. But blimey I'm chuffed. All the hard work on bedtime routines and fighting the urge to cuddle him to sleep has been worth it - hurrah. He even managed to do it away from home at his first sleep over at Granny and Pops.

It has taken me a while to adjust to this new routine. For a while I had a bit of jet lag - I'd been living on planet Rufus with it's weird time zone of 11.30, 1.30, 3.30... wake ups for so long that actually being able to get a six or seven hour stretch of sleep in one go took a bit of getting used to. The exploding bosoms don't help matters much and I haven't quite mastered staying up past 9pm without a serious amount of entertainment to keep my eyes open. Mr Jones has required little adjustment and snores quite happily the whole night through - bless (grr!)

14 weeks old - Rufus goes cold turkey

2010-10-13T19:34:00.004+01:00

As I have said before I was a fully paid up member of the "my child is not having a dummy" club. In fact I could probably have been its president, secretary and cleaner. But it didn't take me long before I excommunicated myself just to get some peace and a couple of hours sleep.

Although it pained me to see Rufus with a dummy in his mouth it did make life easier and a whole lot quieter. That was until we hit 14 weeks, when the little mister decided that it was not at all possible for him to sleep without the dummy in his mouth. For three nights Mr Jones and I were woken up every hour and a half to put the dummy back in. The first night we decided it was just a bit of post holiday unsettledness (I think I may have made that word up), on night two we thought he'd sort himself out and by night three we decide he was just taking the proverbial.

At 5.30am I lay in bed with Rufus screaming next to me - we'd been up every hour and a half through the night and everyone - including him - was knackered. He spat the dummy out again. I snatched it up and hurled it across our bedroom floor.

"Put the rest of them in the wheelie bin," I snapped at Mr Jones. "I've had enough - we're going cold turkey"

In the darkness I could see Mr Jones looking at me (well actually I couldn't because it was dark - but I could imagine the look on his face). "Are you sure?"

We'd discussed getting rid of the dummy before and chickened out because the thought was too terrifying. He needed it to stay calm, he needed it in the car, when he went to sleep, when he was in his pram, when he wanted to sleep in the sling.... it just seemed like too big a task.

"Yes I'm sure -that's it - it's more of a problem than it's worth. I'll deal with him."

I'd read about dummy dependence on a few forums the day before. I love a good forum - I'm a forum voyeur - I don't post - I just spy seedily on the sidelines, reading what everyone else has written. The vernacular confuses me (what is a DD?) and some of the advice makes me cringe in horror - but it's often good to know what other people are thinking/doing/going through.

One crazy woman spent three months getting up every hour and a half to replace her daughter's dummy and gleefully reported that by six months old the little girl could find it herself! I wasn't up for that. A lot of people had gone cold turkey in a fit of frustation and found that after a few days it was as if the dummy had never exisisted. No one had problems longer than a week - so we decided to go for it.

By 6.30am I'd managed to get him to sleep on the sofa with me sans dummy. There was a lot of screaming and much cuddling. I sternly talked to myself - "There is no going back on this now - if you give him a dummy after making him cry himself to sleep once then you've put him through that distress for absolutely nothing and you've got yourself back to square one. No, this is it, you're doing it and you'll just have to steal yourself to his crying."

At 7.30am I was frozen so I carried him upstairs and laid him in our bed - he didn't stir once and slept until 8.30am.

His first nap took some effort but within 20 minutes he was asleep. The same at his lunchtime nap. And in the afternoon he fell asleep in the sling on our walk with no fuss at all.

That night it took an hour for him to settle. We've tried really hard to always put him down awake in the hopes of teaching him to settle himself to sleep and I decided not to undo all of our hard work by cuddling him to sleep. I figured (rightly or wrongly - you be the judge of my evilness) that if he was going to cry about not having a dummy he might as well cry about being put down awake too - to save us all the stress of having to do it again later on.

I made up a bedtime song and sung and hummed it to him for an hour with my hand on his tummy until he finally went to sleep. At 11.30pm I did the same. At 1.30pm I fed him and he settled within 20 minutes and slept until 5.30am. Part of me wonders if the screaming was more about drowning out my tuneless singing than anything else - but it gave me something to focus on to pass the time.

Letting him cry wasn't easy - but it was actually really interesting. He makes so many different sounds - it's like a conversation. The hard distressed cry never lasts for long - a minute at the most. Then he starts making a rah, rah, rah, rah, shouting noise that sounds like he's telling you off. Then you get a few wahaaa whaaas, some hahahahahahas (not in a laughing way), then some whoooos, eeerrrrs, gheeeeeees, arghws, owwws and finally a big yawn and sleep.

The next morning he settled himself for his morning nap with just a bit of shouting. And he was a treasure all day. He was more alert, he was grabbing at toys and making an attempt to hold things. He seemed less stressed when he was feeding and he just seemed generally happier.

As the week went on he got better and better. He chatted more, slept better and ate well. And I turned into a bit of a smug mum. I was/am so chuffed that he no longer had a dummy and how well he's done without it. It might have been a coincidence and at 14 weeks he would suddenly have become more alert and relaxed anyway, but I truly think the dummy was holding him back and making him just sit there passively monging out and ignoring the world.

He is truly a little star. I'd say cold turkey is worth it - it was nowhere near the nightmare I'd imagined. And is certainly beats three months of no sleep.

13 weeks old - or Rufus goes on holiday

2010-10-05T19:32:00.006+01:00

Have you ever been to Blakeney? Rufus has. It's rather marvellous - when you arrive you immediately want to buy a house there because you feel so relaxed - then you look on Rightmove and see that the minute cottage next to the one you're renting costs THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND POUNDS - despite the fact that it basically consists of one main room, a loft bedroom and somewhere tucked away a very small bathroom. We discuss buying a lottery ticket but never get round to it.

Going on holiday with a small person takes military planning. I had five sheets of paper laid out on the kitchen worktop each containing a detailed list of things we'd need for him, us and to eat for a week away. As I packed I piled bags in the hall. Mr Jones began to bewail the fact that we decided against buying a volvo estate in favour of paying off the rest of the wedding bill (Oh how much smaller my wedding and that bill would be if I could have forseen a baby nine months after we said "I do"). There may have been some swearing as he packed the Prius.

As we headed for Norfolk Mr Jones asked:

"So what's the plan. A lie in, breakfast by the pool before retreating to a sun lounger with a good book to snooze away the hours until lunch. Then a lazy couple of courses followed by a bit more sun, an afternoon nap and a leisurely shower before heading to the bar for a pina colada and then out for a slap up meal and a few more drinks?"

"In your dreams my love," says I. "We'll be up at 7am at the very latest - most likely following a broken night sleep. I will continue to do my best impressions of a dairy cow and a performing monkey. We will walk miles and miles each day, sing silly songs, make ridiculous noises and generally live out my day to day life. The bonus being that you'll be here everyday to share the load - hurrah!"

There are no holidays when you have a baby - you just move your daily life to another house. That said - we had a marvellous time - despite the lack of 30 degree heat and sun loungers. We walked and played, cuddled and kissed, ate brownies and peanut butter blondies (I'll find a recipe and post it one day - yum), paddled in the sea, sung and laughed and Mr Jones and Rufus had some amazing bonding time and I got to read a book - whoopee.

We even got brave and hired a babysitter so that we could have a night out. This was done with no small amount of trepidation on my part. Luckily the babysitter was a trained nursery nurse so I felt confident that she probably wouldn't kill him. However the night before I had a dream that she kidnapped him. I spent a few hours mulling this over before confessing to Mr Jones.

"Don't be ridiculous - we're hiring her through the company we hired the cottage from, there are posters up all over Blakeney advertising her baby sitting services - she's very unlikely to steal him."

"But he's so lovely," I argue. "Who wouldn't want to steal him?"

"This is such a small place that even if she did steal him she'd be pretty easy to track down - people know who she is."

"A-ha - so you will admit that it's a possibility that she might steal him?"

"Er no - again you're being ridiculous."

"Well can I tell her about my dream just so she knows I'm on to her if she tries anything?"

"If you do I will disown you - he'll be fine"

Matter closed. When the babysitter arrives she's in her early 20s and when I start babbling about dummies and the fact I've not left him and the fact that he's unlikely to wake up but if he does..... she looks and me with a bewildered expression and says: "If it makes you feel better [you headcase] I used to work in a nursery - in the baby baby section - so I'm used to anything he might throw at me..."

I resist the urge to tell her that my baby is different - that he is special - that I know what it is to be a carefree childless babysitter who rifles through your kitchen cupboards and wakes up your baby for a cuddle with no regard for the fact that you've spent the last 13 weeks of his life trying to get him to sleep for any decent length of time. I don't tell her that I'm on to her - that I know she'll sit there calulating the cash that will cross her sweaty young palm when we finally stagger home three hours later full of scallops, steak, Eton mess and wine and I don't tell her that she can have absolutely no idea of the sheer weight of responsibility that is hanging on her young shoulders.

I don't tell her because I realise that it's better not to know. No one told me that at the age of 14 I was left in sole charge of many a baby who meant five-pounds-an-hour to me and the world to its parents. I couldn't appreciate at the time that those parents were placing monumental amounts of trust in me to keep their child safe while they had a much deserved night out. So while I sat on the sofa watching Eastenders and eating their crisps - I didn't for one minute think about the magnitude of what I was doing or consider the fact that when they came home to find me napping on the sofa they probably felt just a tiny bit terrified! So I repaid the favour - and I had a wonderful night out - but my God was I pleased to get home and find that everyone was still alive and that Rufus was very safe in his cot.

I was less enamoured by the fact that having gone to bed at 10.30pm I was woken up at 11.30pm by a grumpy baby who spent the next hour resisting sleep as I hung with a pounding head and a gurgling stomach over the very high sides of his travel cot trying to coerce him into a slumber. Ouch!

It was a lovely holiday. We felt like a proper little family and Rufus and I have definitely missed daddy now that he's back at work.

12 weeks old - or you're my everything.......

2010-10-04T09:19:00.005+01:00

You're a falling star, you're a getaway car
You're the line in the sand when I go to far
You're a swimming pool on an August day, you're the perfect thing to say....

We like a bit of Michael Buble in this house - the man has magical powers over small babies who are in grumpy moods. Everything is our song. We dance around the kitchen to it. Something slightly terrifying has happened to me since giving birth - I've suddenly started dancing like a mum(!) - to be more specific - like my mum. A sort of side to side bum wiggle with a flick of the hips at each side and a flex of the knees inbetween. Hmmmm. My dad always warned me that I'd turn into her - I guess it's happening. I don't really mind - she's lovely and there are definitely worse people to turn into. I'd hate to be Catherine Zeta Jones - I can't stand that woman - but that's besides the point.

So we've hit the hallowed 12 weeks and we've survived. We had the injections and Rufus slept until 4.30am. I, of couse, was awake at 1am, with exploding bosoms and my ear pressed to the monitor convinced that he had contracted meningitis from the jab and was most obviously dead. At 3am I allowed myself in to his room to check on him. He was alive and sleeping nicely - phew. The long sleep was short lived however and we were back to an 11.30 jibber and a 1.30 wake up for a feed again the next night - rats.

The last 12 weeks have surprised me in lots of ways. I'm surprised at how much I can love someone I've only just met, how every little thing he does amazes me (and bores everyone else I'm sure). I'm amazed that I can function on just three hours sleep and at how much my life has changed. I do miss an afternoon nap on the sofa on a rainy day though.

What I really love is how Rufus seems to make other people happy. Now that he faces outwards in his sling he gets a lot of attention when we go out. Old women stop us and tell me he's gorgeous (I know) and try to grab his hands and stroke his cheek (not appreciated by either of us). Stamford school girls squeal with delight and say "ahhh what a cute baby - I want one" and then scamper off talking about when they get married and have kids. The women in the bank and the post office love him - and he flirts with them. But the times I love most are when we cross the path of a grumpy looking business man - they look at his face and smile, then laugh to themselves and give me a knowing look. Some of them apologise for staring and then say wistfully - "I remember that time....they just get more naughty you know." Then they wander off with a smile - hopefully thinking of happier times and cheered up for the rest of the day - just because they happened to bump into my jolly little man.

PS - you may have noticed that the quality of the photography is vastly improved - these were taken but the lovely Ruth Jenkinson - an absolute star, marvellous friend and very talented lady.

See no evil, hear no evil - guest blogger Jeremy Jones

2010-09-15T13:33:00.004+01:00

I find myself adoptng this pose more and more often.......

11 weeks old - or Rufus goes scrumping

2010-09-12T08:28:00.004+01:00

Aunty Rachel likes riding bikes. She and Pops ride their bikes all over the place, doing crazy long distances at stupid o'clock in the morning. They just bought new racing road bikes. Last weekend Aunty Rachel rode hers into the back of a parked car and went straight through its back windscreen. Very luckily she was wearing a helmet and cycling goggles. According to those in the know this type of accident happens a lot. Poor Aunty Rach is a bit battered and bruised - she has stitches in her chin and right eyebrow, a graze on her nose, cuts on her forehead, a bruised arm and one hell of a headache. She is not a happy Aunty. So on Tuesday Rufus and I went to cheer her up.

He announced his arrival by presenting her with a poo that had been another six days in the making(!) - she thought it was hilarious. Then we went for a walk. I love this time of year - cool and crisp and sunny, hedgerows and trees full of things to pick. If you're clever you never go anywhere without a bag. With Master Jones hitched up in his sling we found ourselves in a thicket of trees, we wound through the tiny paths trying to stop his legs from being stung by stingers or snagged by brambles - difficult when he won't stop waving them around with excitement - he does love a good tree.

Then lo and behold the path opened out into a grassy little orchard. The trees were literally dripping with apples and plums. Over ripe fruits littered the ground giving off that lovely heady boozy smell a mixture of damp grass and fruit sugars fermenting. We assessed the situation - the grass is very over grown, there's an abandoned tractor in the corner, there's an enormous amount of fruit going to waste. It's clearly not public countryside - but at the same time it doesn't appear to be a money making orchard. Surely the crime is not in filling a Tesco bag with Damsons and a rucksac with apples? No the true crime is allowing all that glorious fruit go to waste.

Despite this judgement we get to picking tentatively, talking in whispers and fearing discovery. I pick with one hand, all the while trying to keep a very excited 11 week old baby quiet. I will him not to grizzle and draw attention to us. I have visions of trying to run from a farmer wielding a shot gun and a grumpy old sheepdog without falling over and crushing Rufus in the process. Luckily he decides that now would be a good time for a nap. Or perhaps he realises that some sort of minor crime is being committed and that if he's asleep he can plead innocence in the dock and get off as a mere accessory.

We stagger home under the weight of the "borrowed" fruit and decide that if we're caught we'll offer to make them a pie or a jar of jam. I used my spoils to make a damson crumble the next day. I proudly serve it to Mr Jones and then watch as he winces at the first spoonful. I taste mine - I didn't put enough sugar in the fruit - it's the kind of sharp that makes your jaw ache and your bum clench. I battle on through with the help of custard and a bit more sugar - Mr Jones eats the oaty crumbly topping and leaves the fruit. Rubbish.

In other news this week - Rufus has done a bit more rolling, has improved his sleep pattern to feeding at 1pm ish and then again at about 5.30/6am - hurrah (if only he didn't keep rousing himself at 11.30pm and 4am too - but beggars can't be choosers - we're getting there). Oh and we went to Baby Beans - which involves a lot of very twee singing and dancing that is soooooo not me. Rufus kept looking at me with one eyebrow raised as I sung silly songs to him and made him dance - "Mummy - what on earth are you doing?". Then he was sick and halfway through - despite the noise of rattles, 11 other babies, their singing mums and a very smiley instructor chirping away - he fell into a deep sleep - as if to say - "hmmmm not sure this is really for me." Bless him - we'll try again next week.

Technical glitch resolved - however the little man is now a fan of waving his arms about so getting good pics is very tricky!

10 weeks old - or Poogate

2010-09-02T14:37:00.006+01:00

When you have a baby you suddenly become obsessed with poos (well to be honest I've always been a bit obsessed with poos - I love a good chat about bowel habits - so if you think toilet humour is quite foul and get a bit squeamish around all things gut orientated it's perhaps best if you move along now to another blog - perhaps one that talks about food or other frivolities - this post will be all about poo).

Babies poo a lot - at least in the beginning - after practically every feed they present you with a full nappy. It becomes a bit tiresome after a while, although I still delight in the noise of it all, it makes me giggle. However during the earlier part of this week Master Jones seemed to have had enough of pooing. He's gone one or two or occassionally three days without one in the past but this week we got to four and then five.

It became the topic of every conversation. There were texts and emails being fired across the country enquiring after the elusive poo. The styles varied from the inquisitive - "Any poo yet?", the slightly coy (probably from someone who isn't really into toilet humour but feels they must be polite and enquire) "has he been?, to the slightly rude "Hey, is your baby still full of S*&t?" and on day six - simply - "poo?"

Yes day six! On day five I called the health visitor. "Erm it's about Rufus - you see he hasn't done a poo for five days now, he's a bit grumpy, should I be doing something."

"Right dear," says she in a slightly -'oh another neurotic first time mum' tone of voice. "Are you breast feeding? They can go up to two weeks without doing one."

"Two weeks!!!! He'll explode."

"Just feed him for England, massage his tummy when he's calm, give him warm baths to help him relax and keep him upright in a sling close to you. If he still hasn't gone after seven days take him to the doctors."

So I duly started feeding him every two hours. I tried massaging his tummy, he was not amused. He grizzled through his baths and was generally a very grumpy little man. So focused had I become on the poo that I even found myself talking to his tummy post feed asking Mr Poo to come on out and see us! Nothing seemed to work. I was beginning to wonder where exactly on earth six days worth of poo was residing in such a small being when it happened.....

I gave up feeding for England and went back to our three hourly routine. He obviously felt like he was being starved and settled in for a marathon mid-morning snack. Then I got that unmistakable waft of dirty nappy. My sister says they smell like ham, but to me they smell like a microwave two days after you've made yourself some of that delicious buttery popcorn. A kind of rancid, sweet, buttery stench that lingers.

Master Jones is the king of the stealth poo - they creep up on you unannounced and assault your nostrils. This one could offend my nose all it liked - I've never been so happy about a poo in my life. I danced a little jig of glee up the stairs.

I opened the nappy and couldn't help but feel disappointed - such as small amount of poo for such a long time. My dismay didn't last for long. All of a sudden there was poo oozing out everywhere. I tried to contain it in the nappy but it couldn't take it, this was the poo to top all poos.

The clean up operation was immense and involved half a pack of wet wipes, a quarter of a box of tissues, a towel and a bin liner. It was really a two man job. My hands were covered, Rufus seemed determined to dunk his feet in the carnage and threatened to leave poo prints on my top. But by some miracle I managed to keep both of our outfits clean - his because it was up around his neck - and mine because I was doing all of this with my body on the opposite side of the room to my arms!

Clean nappy on, I got him dressed again and popped him under his mobile to recover with a good kick. I dealt with the fall out, washed my hands and went to sit down to watch him giggle at Malcolm - the pink monkey with the black and white striped legs. But there it was again - that popcorn smell. I unpoppered his trouser leg and peeked into his nappy - more poo. This time the whole thing was full to bursting and I'd only just caught it in time. It kept on coming - I gave up with the wipes and fully sacrificed the towel that had taken a hit in the last onslaught. I waited a full five minutes, holding his feet in the air to see if there was anymore to come before I finally got him clean.

There was a time in my life when I really wouldn't have found it acceptable to be covered in someone elses poo. But not anymore. My jolly little baby was back and I'd spend everyday covered in poo for his smiles. I wonder how long it'll be before we get the next one?

PS - technical hitch still in full swing - pics to come soon.

Nine weeks old...or two steps forward one step back

2010-08-29T09:34:00.004+01:00

Master Jones has lifted his head and chest off of the floor for the very first time this week. He's getting rather good at it and does it (rather alarmingly) at the same time as making crawling gestures with his legs - hmmmm. He's also rolled over a few times - more by accident than design we think - he cries with shock each time he does it. So that would be the steps forwards.

To counterbalance all that cleverness he appears to have forgotten how to go to bed nicely and how to settle back to sleep after his first feed. This could be down to the fact that he's moved into his big boy cot - but really he's been playing in it and sleeping in his moses basket in it for weeks so the fuss really isn't necessary! We're hoping it's just a temporary glitch.

Earlier in the week he decided he just didn't like eating either - a screaming paddy ensued every time I suggested he might like to feed for more than five minutes. Perhaps he just wasn't hungry, he didn't seem particularly bothered by it all. I on the other hand felt most unloved and quite put out that my carefully manufactured meals were being shunned. The poor boobies decided that they'd just have to empty themselves he wasn't going to do it - which just added to my misery and embarrassment. Grr Babies.

Despite the hunger strike he weighed in at 12lb 5oz on Friday and the health visitor confirmed my fear that the weird eating pattern might have something to do with what looks suspiciously like a tooth under his gum!

On the upside Mr Jones has had some time off and we've had some much needed family time. He and the little grizzler have had lots of cuddles and I got to do aerobics and have my eyebrows waxed - hurrah. I didn't realise how much I missed time to myself and a good workout. I now feel like a human being and no longer look like a freckly albino (alright I know that albinos can't be freckly - but seriously my eyebrows had faded to whiter than white and had grown so much that they were trying to move in with my eyelashes - it was not pretty!)

We have a technical glitch this end in the computer has died so I will upload some pictures once it's all fixed - which I'm hoping won't be long.

One Year Ago Today....

2010-08-21T10:44:00.005+01:00

....I married Mr Jones - hurrah. And what a year it's been. I can't believe we're a family already. I never imagined a year ago today that we'd have a baby by our first anniversary. The wedding seems ages ago, but at the same time just a few moments in the past. It almost seems like a dream now (especially when it comes to fitting in that dress again!).

We certainly tested our vows. Poor Mr Jones spent the first four months of his married life looking after me, the cats and the house. Cooking me whatever weird concoction of food I thought I might fancy and then watching, patiently, while I threw it all back up again. The thought of baked beans, fish fingers and smash now makes my toes curl. But we got through it.

Then there was pregnancy insomnia, my sudden hatred of being pregnant which meant he found me inconsolably sobbing on more than one occasion. And of course the hideous labour - throughout which he held my hand and whispered words of encouragement in my ear. The relief on his face and through his tears at the end of it all spoke volumes.

And now of course we have sleepness nights and Mr Jones is struggling a bit to get to grips with fatherhood. But we're getting through it all together and despite the grumpy words at 3am and the scowls through another screaming fit (the baby - not us) we still love each other - and plan to for many years to come.

Eight weeks old

2010-08-21T10:33:00.003+01:00

He's getting big - he now weighs 11lb 14 and a half ounces. Though I'd swear he was more like two stone! It's a tricky time - he's got past the newborn "I just want to sleep all day" phase, but hasn't quite reached the "I'm happy to be put down and play on my playmat" stage as yet. So he spends the majority of the day awake and demanding to be carried about so that he can be generally nosey, which is a tad tiring. It also makes getting anything done hard (see Mrs Jones trying to mop the bathroom floor with a baby on one arm or hang out washing one handed)

He had his first lot of injections this week. Bless him - he was doing his best flirting with the doctor as she did his check up and then she repaid him by stabbing him in both thighs with giant needles. He was not a happy boy and spent the next few minutes doing his purple faced screaming cry. Suffice to say that she won't be getting his lovely smiles in the future.

We had some glorious nights of sleep - he was tucked up in bed by 7.30/8pm and managed to make it all the way through until 2am one night. He'd eaten and was back asleep by 3am and then snuggled up with me in bad at 5am (without eating) and slept until 7.15. However this was all ruined by two nights of leaky pampers - rah - which had us back to waking up at 11.30pm and then again at 3.30am for food - rubbish. We're hoping he gets back to the long sleeps again soon.

Seven Weeks Old

2010-08-19T13:37:00.005+01:00

This week was tough. Mr Jones was in Scotland and Master Jones had awful wind - of the trapped variety. We have now changed the Boomtown Rats Song to Tell me why do I hate Wednesdays?. Rufus it seems isn't a fan of Wednesdays - if he's not grumpy during the day then he will be come bedtime.

This Wednesday he was so hacked off that he decided it wasn't even worth sleeping past 11.45pm! I spent the whole night carrying him around trying to get him to go back to sleep and stop grizzling. People keep asking me how I've lost my baby weight so fast - well people if you have an 11lb baby to carry around permanently you'd lose weight fast too - jiggling burns lots of calories.

My mummy was my saviour. Sometimes only a mummy will do. She took the little monster off my hands at 5am to let me get some precious sleep. She discovered that this sleeping position is good for Rufus' with wind. Rufus loves his Granny - she likes to play - lots. Thank you mummy for being such a star.

This week he seems to have discovered his tongue and delights in poking it out at every opportunity and giving things a good lick.

Guest blogger - Miss Penny

2010-08-06T08:41:00.003+01:00

Someone cuddle me. Let me lick your ears and chew your hair. Let me wind round your legs and try to trip you down the stairs. Let me curl up on your tummy while you snooze on the sofa and let me jump in bed with you and burrow under the duvet every morning.

I used to do all this with Mummy. But I've been replaced by a monster that cries a lot and has stolen all my cuddles.

I try to help when he's being washed and changed by climbing up Mummy's jeans. When he's being fed I lick his feet and try to lick his head - he tastes funny. I've tried to lick his hands too but Mummy seems to get a bit cross about that.

I've let him stroke me (though I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose) and it made him smile. I think one day we might be friends - but right now I just want my Mummy back - her fleeting cuddles aren't enough.

Six weeks old

2010-08-04T17:16:00.003+01:00

Another busy week. Mr Jones turned 30. Rufus graduated into size two nappies and out of his newborn clothes.

We've learnt a lot. Mr Jones learnt that hangovers and babies do not, under any circumstances, mix. I've learnt that I don't like anyone else to look after Rufus and that I can't bear to be separated from him for any extended length of time.

Call me clingy. call me possessive but I just don't like handing him over. Maybe it's because I spent nine horrible months making him and vomiting all the while - or maybe it's just normal? But everytime I hand him to someone else I worry that they're going to damage him - and if they do I'd never forgive them, so in my mind it's just simpler to keep him all to myself. (Hear the Daily Mail readers tutting and the feminists of the world bewailing the introduction of another pampered Mummy's boy!)

I've also learnt that being a mother brings with it a hefty dose of guilt. I constantly feel guilty. Guilty that I can't comfort him when he cries sometimes. Guilty that I haven't quite got enough to milk to satisfy his hunger somedays. Guilty that I don't want to let anyone else have him. Guilty that I catch him with a nail. Guilty that I've given him a dummy. Guilty that he has to go in his car seat. Guilty that the poor cats are supremely neglected (bless them). Guilty that all I want to eat is sweet stuff and carbs and not fruit and veg (although frankly I blame him for that because it's clearly down to lack of sleep and a need for instant energy to get me through the day) and guilty that I might not be doing everything right.

Rufus has learnt that his legs are attached to his body and that he can kick them, he's learnt to giggle a bit and to suck his fingers (bring on the thumb sucking so I can get rid of the dummy and won't have to keep getting up to put it back in when he's trying to settle himself to sleep). He's also worked out how to have the most disturbing tantrums and turn his face purple for what seems like absolutely no reason - they're always when he's got a clean nappy, a full tummy and has been burped and cuddled. Most odd - hopefully he'll get over it soon.

He's also still gorgeous and we took so many pictures of him I couldn't choose just four. He's growing up fast and is starting to look like a proper little boy.

Five weeks old

2010-08-03T09:33:00.002+01:00

This week we managed to catch his smile - yes he is smiling even if he looks like he's about to cry. He still hasn't quite worked out how to do smiles and giggles without them turning into a bit of a grizzle. Smiling is hard work when you're five weeks old.

We went back to the hospital and thankfully the jaundice isn't sinister and should clear up of its own accord - hurrah - no liver transplants here thank you very much scary health visitor.

We're also trying cranial osteopathy. I like a good airy fairy therapy and lots of people rave about it and say it helps to calm babies down. Master Jones screamed through the first session and did an enormous poo. He grizzled and wouldn't settle all that night but the following night he slept from 7.30pm-Midnight - which was unheard of and gave us some much needed rest. He was also a complete treasure at baby massage too and let me get through most of the routine. In previous weeks he's either slept through the whole class or screamed the first time I touched him.

Mr Jones and others think it's all a prodigious waste of money but I'm willing to give it a go for a few weeks. I just like to feel like I'm doing something to help him feel less tense and stressed - and I think it's working. Plus I'm his mum and I'll do what I like!

The little porker now weighs 11lbs 5oz (after the hospital appointment we thought he weighed a whopping 11lb 7oz - but it seems the midwife wasn't very adept at converting kg to lbs). I am developing a rather large left bicep and I'm now conciously trying to carry him on the other side for fear of ending up with Nadal-esque wonky arms.

Also known as...

2010-07-30T10:11:00.002+01:00

...Sammy. We've taken to calling Rufus Sammy - just because at times he bears a startling resemblance to the Samiad from Five Children and It. If you weren't born in the early 80s this will mean nothing to you.

A brief interlude...

2010-07-29T09:31:00.003+01:00

... from babies - and back to weddings. Ours is making an appearance on the You and Your Wedding Website - click here to take a look.

Four weeks old

2010-07-24T17:20:00.004+01:00

So at the time of writing he's actually five weeks old - but I just haven't had a spare five minutes in the past week. It's been a tough one. There has been a lot of crying! Mr Jones went away and despite the very welcome and generous help of my sister it was hard work without his support - especially at night. The grunting and groaning continues and I've just decided that it's easier to let the little monkey sleep with me for that portion of the night than to make us all suffer. I'm still trying to settle him in his own bed just in the vain hope that one day he might stay there, like he does for all his other sleeps - fingers crossed.

By Wednesday I was a bit of an emotional wreck. The health visitor came. Master Jones now weighs in at 10lb 12oz - porker! When she asked how I was I fought back the tears and failed. She said lots of reassuring things and then asked - "have you ever had depression?" Blimey - I didn't think I was that bad - it was just a "moment".

Then she proceeded to put the wind well and truly up me by saying that I needed to take Rufus to the hospital for a jaundice test because he still looks a bit yellowy. (I bit my tongue and stopped myself from saying that I had pointed that out on the last visit and she'd told me he was fine!). Then she proceeded to tell me that if he was still jaundiced after he was six weeks old he'd have to have a liver transplant. Not news you want to hear when you've had two hours sleep and have a baby who has what appears to be chronic wind and keeps spitting gripe water at you.

So on Friday Mr Jones and I took Rufus to Peterborough Hospital (oh so grim). We were handed a bottle and told to "collect some urine"

"er - how?"

"You just have to hold the bottle on his willy and wait until he pees"

"Riiiight! How long is that going to take?"

"It depends - some people are here for four hours"(!)

So in the waiting room we sit. Poor Rufus is naked from the waist down on a changing mat - his nethers on display to anyone who wants to look - while Mr Jones holds the bottle on his willy and we both make water noises, blow on him and generally will him to pee.

After 30 minutes I decide that perhaps I need to put something in to get something out. But of course we need to keep the bottle on his willy to ensure we don't miss any wee that might appear. This means that I can't pick him up and feed him as usual. So I end up leaning over him while he lies on the mat - in the waiting room(!) - and dangle my boob into his mouth so that he can eat. Not the most comfortable of feeding positions nor the most glamorous. (I add this one to the list of "things I never thought I'd do" along with going to the loo in the middle of the night while hoiding my baby, and singing nursery rhymes in the street). Thankfully no one comes into the waiting room to witness this spectacle.

In the end the nurses decide to scare the pee out of him by doing his blood tests. They viciously extract blood from his little hands and he screams until his face is a horrid shade of puce. I try hard not to get angry with them for faffing about (why is there always a "I haven't done many of these before" person around when you just want the most skilled professional to get the job done without causing your baby undue trauma??!!). The fear brings forth the wee and we are free to go - until next Wednesday when we go back for the results. Fingers crossed all will be well and he won't need treatment.

In happier news he's started to smile at us properly - and he looks gorgeous - but unfortunately he doesn't smile at the camera. And today he is wearing his first little boy outift and he looks very cute - I'm sure you'll agree. And finally Boots Gripe Mixture appears to be a winner - he takes it off the spoon with out spitting it at me or choking and it has produced some very impressive burps - hurrah.

To sleep perchance to dream

2010-07-18T07:52:00.002+01:00

Getting a wee bit tired now. On the whole Rufus is pretty good - he has his days - like yesterday when we miss the window for a nap and he gets very overtired and then won't settle despite all our efforts - but that's our fault and we have to pay the price.

But we are a bit perplexed by his nighttime shenanigans. He wakes up every two-three hours (depending on the day or night should I say) to feed - nothing too unusual there given his age. However after the 1.30/2am feed he settles back to sleep fine and then all of a sudden it starts. He roars and grunts and groans and chunters so I end up getting in and out of bed to check him. The thing is he seems to be asleep. He won't have his dummy and if I get him up to feed him he'll take a few minutes and then drop off again. It's very odd - and not at all conducive to sleep.

I resorted to bringing him into bed with me - something I really didn't want to do - but it seems to work. Snuggled up next to me he doesn't seem to feel the need to grunt. The thing is that I find it hard to sleep because I'm worried about squashing him or waking him up if I move too much.

I have googled in vain - nothing official seems to explain it. There are lots of mums on chat rooms complaining that their baby is rather adept at pig impressions too - but no one seems to have an answer for it. Maybe he'll grow out of it, maybe it's because he's a bit chilly in his own bed (he's in a grobag and a sleep suit as per the instructions - but maybe he's a baby that need to be warmer?), maybe I'll learn to sleep through it (I doubt it - it's REALLT loud). SO does anyone have any advice - any tricks to make him sleep peacefully - as he does during the day when he doesn't make a sound, or any suggestions for helping me sleep through it? Help!

Three weeks old

2010-07-13T09:53:00.002+01:00

He's three weeks old and I think he's starting to recognise me. There are times when he looks at me with what amounts to pure disgust - usually when he's just woken up. And there are times when he looks like he actually might love me - or at least like me a little bit.

If you're ever planning on being a parent I would suggest never reading We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver. Mr Jones keeps reminding me that it is just a novel - but it sticks in the back of my mind and niggles at me time and again.

Everytime he gives me one of his nasty looks I wonder if he's going to turn into a Kevin and end up trying to kill Mr Jones and any future siblings he might have just to spite me - then I remember that it's just a book - and then he smiles and even if it is just because he's got wind, I think - "no you aren't evil - even if you do keep waking me in the middle of the night and insist on starting the day at 5am"

I will admit that the tiredness is kicking in. The initial post birth adrenalin has gone and the lack of sleep is taking it's toll. There have been fractious exchanges between me and Mr Jones - but we're still talking and with a bit of planning and organisation - and the realisation that sacrifices have to be made - we're getting on better.

We're learning how he works and how to make him feel better. He loves cuddles, but he also likes time on his own. Somedays he loves his bath, other days he hates it. He's a typical male and can't multi-task - breast feeding anywhere with any distractions really doesn't work.

Perhaps the best milestone achieved this week is that Rufus has his first piece of Boden! A pair of blue ticking dungerees - which won't fit him for ages - but I love them and everyone needs a bit of Johnny in their wardrobe. Plus when they arrived there just happened to be two mummy sized tops in the bag too - ooops!

Guest Blogger - Jeremy Jones

2010-07-07T10:27:00.005+01:00

There is an interloper in my house. It smells funny, makes odd noises and seems to be demanding all of the attention of my formerly doting parents.

I tried demonstrating my displeasure by disappearing for four days (well I snuck in at night to eat - I'm not about to go without food - or heaven forbid try to catch my own dinner)- but when I finally came home the creature was still in residence.

I suppose it's going to be one of those things that I just have to get used to - like the fluffy thing that appeared three years ago - I moved out for a good month that time, but alas she's still here and I will admit she's grown on me.

In an attempt to garner some attention I've taken to trying to sleep in what is known as "the cot" which is in what was my old bedroom and is now referred to as "the nursery". It seems to belong to the interloper - although appears not to be in use currently. It's been in there for months - but I've only just noticed how comfortable it is. Anyway - everytime I get myself settled mummy comes in and turfs me out. She hasn't shouted yet - I think she's worried about upsetting my equilibrium - you see I'm a sensitive soul.

Two weeks old

2010-07-04T12:52:00.004+01:00

We're two weeks in, he's still alive, and we still love each other - so I'd say it's going quite well! We're a mite tired - and the 4-5hour stretches at night seem to be a thing of the past, but he's still gorgeous. He's put on nearly a pound in a week and now has a little double chin. Bless.

We've given in to the lure of the dummy. I was always of the "my child isn't having a dummy camp" - but after several nights with an agitated baby who can only be calmed by sucking on your little finger, we gave in for his sake as much as our sanity. I'm sure my mother (and countless other people) disapproves - but we're doing what works for us and lovely Rufus.

How he arrived....

2010-06-29T15:13:00.006+01:00

Those of you of a squeamish nature might want to look away now - for here comes the story of Baby J's birth.

I'll start at the very beginning - and for those of you who like to dabble in the whole - "things that bring on labour" nonesense - here is a run down of my actions in the 24hrs before I went into labour.

On Wednesday afternoon I had a "show" - if you don't know what that is you'll need to google it because there are some things I'm just not describing. It happened at Mrs Medds house and she is very cross that I didn't tell her about it. Given that Baby J had already messed me about quite a bit I didn't get too excited - but I text Mr Jones anyway.

That evening we went to the Tobie Norris. I ate a pizza topped with green pesto, goat's cheese and parma ham and I had half a glass of rose - shock horror!

In the morning I ate a mango full fat activia yogurt with some flaked almonds and a glass of freshly squeezed orange and grapefruit juice - the same breakfast I've eaten for the past two months. I had another show.

Then I did some gardening. I pruned the roses, spread bark, thinned veg seedlings, and put down some gravel around the patio.

For lunch I had a cheese sandwich and some Walkers Sunbite Sweet Chilli crisps. Then I laid down for a nap. I started to have contractions every 20 minutes. Mr Jones was working from home. But I didn't tell him anything was happening for about four hours.

When I did let him in on the action he said: "Do you think I can still go to football tonight?"

So after a dinner of pasta and sauce Mr Jones went off to play football with strict instructions not to mention the contractions to anyone for fear of jinxing it all. I watched The Young Victoria on Sky (a fairly good film) and my contractions started coming every 15 minutes.

By the time Mr Jones came in from football I was having a relaxing bath - and not shaving my legs - again for fear of putting Baby J off. The contractions were coming every 10 minutes.

We got ready for bed and all of a sudden things sped up - the contractions were coming every four minutes and were lasting for 40 seconds. I was getting pretty uncomfortable so Mr Jones broke out the tens machine - and faffed around with it for a good 15 minutes trying to work out how it functioned. Meanwhile I clutched the end of the bed and tried not to get annoyed or point out the fact that I had on several occasions suggested he familiarise himself with it.

After an hour or so of this we called the hospital and were told to come in. I was surprised because although I was in pain, it wasn't unbearable. So off we went - both hoping that I'd be 8cm dilated and that it would all be over in a few hours.

Mum was beside herself with excitement and met us at the hospital. The midwife took one look at me and said - "I don't think you're ready yet". Grrr.

"Are you familiar with the stages of labour?" asks the midwife

"Yes" - says Mr Jones proudly. "We've been to NCT classes"

"Oh god NCT - aren't they all a bunch of hippies?"

Mr Jones launches into a defence of the NCT while I look at the "I'm preparing for brith with Natal Hypnotherapy" sticker on my birth plan and think that this probably isn't time for me to break out the essential oils and soothing birth music - this midwife clearly isn't a fan of the natural approach. (Not helpful).

I pee in a cup, have my blood pressure taken and then the cow of a midwife checks to see how dilated I am. 1cm. Grrrr.

We're sent home. So we go back to Mum and Dad's because it's closer. We get back into bed. The contractions are still coming every four minutes and are lasting between 40 seconds and a minute. I listen to my hypnosis cd on repeat and become attached to the boost button on the tens machine. I do this for the next four hours - and the pain steadily gets worse.

Then the vomiting starts. It seems pain makes me sick. Mr Jones and I retreat downstairs to watch tv and I slump over a footstall. At 5.30am I get in the bath and it helps me cope a bit with the pain. By now my whole stomach is clenching with each contractions and I'm in some serious agony. We call the hospital again. The cow of a midwife listens to me having a contraction over the phone (by this point I'm making a fair bit of noise!). "That sounds more like it - come on in" she says.

It's 7.30am and mercifully there is no traffic. I insist on having the air con on full. Mr Jones loses the feeling in his fingers.

We get to the hospital - I pee in yet another cup, have my blood pressure taken and am delighted to discover that after all these many hours of pain and vomiting I am a staggering 2cm dilated. The hospital usually don't let you stay until you're in established labour - 4-5cm dilated. But clearly I need pain relief so they relent and let me in.

As luck would have it (someone, somewhere was smiling on me at this point) the cow of a midwife was going off shift and was replaced by two much nicer midwives who were a lot more supportive. They hooked me up to the gas and air and before long I was quite literally, to put it politely, off my face. It was wonderful. I slumped over a bean bag and sucked on the mouthpiece as if my life depended on it. The pain ebbed and all was bearable.

Time at this point becomes a bit blurred. I remember bouncing on the birthball to try and get gravity to help the baby out. I remember peeing in lots of pots and having my blood pressure taken a lot. I remember the relaxing birth music and sniffing lavender essential oil. I remember being told after what seemed like another day that I was 3cm dilated.

Then I was sent for a walk - to get things moving. The gas and air was taken away and I was left to march the hospital corridoors with only the tens machine, Mum and Mr Jones for support. I managed half an hour before being violently sick and demanding to be taken back to the gas and air.

I asked for an epidural. "But I've seen your birth plan - you don't want one" says the midwife (who I'm now thinking is less nice). "Ahh yes - but I've changed my mind."

"I think we should try a few other things first,"

"Really, do you, well I actually don't - I'd like an epidural."

"What about a shot of meptid?" (a pethadine substitute)

"Will that take the pain away?"

"Well, no, but it'll make you care less,"

"Hmmm - and if I have that can I still have an epidural?"

"Errm - you'd have to wait longer for an epidural if you have the meptid - but you might not need an epdicural - it might be enough."

"No, no - I just want the epidural"

It all goes quiet and I'm left to retreat back into my gas and air haze.

Next up we try a bath. Someone else is in the birth pool - I can hear her screaming (soooo not helpful) - but apparently she's at the pushing stage. Lucky sod. When the bath is suggested I agree on the proviso that the gas and air comes with me. They get me a portable tank of the stuff.

Mr Jones gives me his hand and splashes my bump with the warm water. It helps to make things bearable. I crush his fingers with every contraction and in the few pain free moments in between each one he feeds me tiny bits of cheese roll. By this time I've been in labour for 24hours - but not in the sort of labour that counts (apparently!).

The gas and air canister is nearly empty - much to the shock of the midwives. It's no longer taking the edge off the pain. I burst into tears and start to beg. "I'm sorry, I wanted to be brave and do this all naturally, but I think I have a really crappy pain threshold. I just can't take anymore. I'm so tired. I just want the pain to go away. Please let me have an epidural."

The begging works. After another check I'm 4cm dilated and I'm finally allowed an epidural. I remember walking from the midwife led unit to the delivery ward, held up by my mum. "How did you do this twice?" I ask through tears. "I promise you it'll all be worth it when you have that baby in your arms." she says.

All along, before and throughout my pregnancy, I steadfastly told anyone who would listen that I didn't want an epidural. The whole procedure terrified me. I hated the idea of not being able to feel my legs, I hated the idea of having things injected into my spine. But I will say this - it was the single most wonderful thing in the entire world at that moment. I felt a coolness spread down my back and it was gone, every little bit of pain wiped from my body. It was blissful. And I slept. - after asking the anaesthetist to marry me - he said his wife probably wouldn't be too happy about it.

And then my contractions stopped. I think my body was just too tired to keep on going. But after a short sleep things started up again. By now I was hooked up to various monitors to keep track of my contractions and the baby. I was lying on my left side with the monitors all behind me, looking at Mr Jones and my mum. Each time I had a contraction the baby's heart rate would drop - I could hear it on the monitor - but I could also see the panic in their faces. They did well to hide it, but I could still see it. The midwife called the consultant.

I was still between 4-5cm dilated (depending on who was doing the checking!), we weren't getting anywhere fast. The consultant mentioned a c-section. Mr Jones looked at me with concern. Along with the epidural - c-sections were on my - "er - no way, I really, really don't want one of those" list.

However - in my gas and air and exhaustion addled brain I started to process all the information. A c-section - major surgery yes - but over in under an hour. No more contractions, no pushing the baby out. And IF - and it's a big IF - we're ever to have another baby that doesn't come in the box from some third world country - I could then elect to have another c-section - at 39 weeks. There would be no waiting for the baby to arrive on it's own, no sweeps, no mind games and no God Awful painful hours of labour to endure first. "Fine by me" - I say.

But the midwives want to try and get me there naturally first. "Really - truly - you want to keep this going?" I think to myself. They give me a dose of Syntocinon - an oxytocin substitute which helps to speed up contractions. It worked and I started to have three contractions every 10 minutes. But the baby didn't like it. It's heart rate kept dropping everytime my stomach started clenching.

They left it half an hour before calling in the consultant again. The next thing I know Mr Jones is getting gowned up for surgery and another anaesthetist has arrived to top up my epidural. The surgeon gives her five minutes. If it doesn't work in that time I have to have a general anaesthetic and I won't be awake when my baby is born. This is something I really don't want. The anaesthetist boost the epidural and then starts spraying my stomach with ice cold water and asking me where I can feel it. It's terrifying - if I misjudge the feeling I will either feel the surgeon cutting me open or end up being put under. Luckily I get it right.

The whole c-section is painless - I just feel my tummy being jiggled about a lot. Mr Jones can see everything and is quite shocked at the effort required to get the baby out. (See 20 stone surgeon on one side of my stomach and his assistant on the other - both pulling in opposite directions with all their weight - nice). I hear crying. There's a bit more pulling and the surgeon holds up the baby for Mr Jones to tell me the sex. "Come on" - he laughs - "It's not that difficult".

Mr Jones is just staring at the baby - "It's a boy" he says "And it has an enormous willy and really big balls!" We all laugh. Mr JOnes admits to a moment of panic because the baby looked black when it was first pulled out of my tummy - and he was conceived in Zanzibar! But a quick clean up reveals him to be white and my virtue remains intact!!

He's handed to us and we gaze at him, both in tears. He's so perfect. He's not squished and funny looking because he hasn't had to travel down the birth canal - he's just gorgeous. We spend the next 10 minutes debating which of the two boy names we should choose. We finally settle on Rufus Anthony Jones. Anthony for Mr Jones' dad who sadly isn't here to see him.

Granny Sue is given Rufus to look after while I'm stitched up, checked over and wheeled into recovery. She is beyond chuffed and even gets to put on his first nappy. I can't move from the chest down and I'm so dosed up with pain killers that I can't really move my arms either. With some help from mum and Mr Jones I manage to wriggle onto my side so that I can feed Rufua for the first time and give him a cuddle.

Unfortunately for me and Rufus the cow of a midwife is back on shift - we're left in her "care" until we're transferred to the ward. But we survived despite her lack of bedside manner - and thanks to the power of arnica capsules (I'm sure they've helped me recover faster - I had to cling onto something natural) we only had to spend two nights in the very hot and noisy ward before we escaped to the refuge of home. To start being a family.

One week old

2010-06-27T12:00:00.003+01:00

Rufus is one week old! (Well nine days actually but I didn't have time to do this on Friday). And it's been an amazing week. He's so good - we're wondering if it will last. But after eight months of sickness, making us wait and wait and then a marathon labour - perhaps he will be a good baby. So far he's sleeping for four or five hours in a stretch at night and Daddy is managing to get a good seven or eight hours sleep a night! We're hoping it'll last.

Even at two o'clock in the morning I still adore him and I can't stop looking at him. He's just so perfect.

He's Here

2010-06-23T11:53:00.003+01:00

Just a quick note to say that Baby J arrived - 10 days late - and by emergency c-section no less! But he's here and he's gorgeous and perfect and worth all the trouble he's caused. I will of course bore you all with the full details at a later date. In the meantime here is Rufus Anthony Jones - born 18th June 2010 at 7.50pm weighing 8lb 4oz to a very proud Mummy and Daddy Jones.

D-Day + 8 - oh the faffing

2010-06-16T13:01:00.002+01:00

So the attempted "sweep" didn't work - as was expected. So as instructed I called the hospital this morning to book my induction:

"Hello this is Rebecca Jones, I'd like to book an induction please."

"Err are you a midwife"

"No - but my midwife did a sweep yesterday and told me if it hadn't worked within 24hrs to call and book an induction."

"Right - hang on...."

Much muttering on the end of the phone. "I'm afraid you can't do that - the midwife has to call us."

So I call my midwife - who isn't in - the woman I leave a message with seems surprised that the midwife should have to make this call on my behalf, but says she'll get someone to call back as soon as possible.

Two hours later she calls to tell me that she's called the hosptial and that on Sunday I am to call the hospital myself at 4pm and if they have a bed free for me I can then be induced. Great.

I asked - again - if I can have another sweep on day 10 - my midwife refuses to do it and says I can try calling the hospital myself. But as we've already gathered - they only want to speak to midwives unless your baby is helpful enough to try and come on it's own.

So there we go - no hope of another sweep to kick start things naturally. And a possible induction on Sunday. Whooo hooo - this is all so much fun - anyone fancy coming for a run?

D-Day + 7

2010-06-15T14:26:00.004+01:00

So I've had my sweep to try and get labour started - well the midwife attempted it - but, without going into too much detail, it seems that things didn't want to be swept, so it's unlikely to work. The next course of action is an induction on Sunday if the baby doesn't decide to come on it's own in the mean time - something the midwife also said looked unlikely! Grr.

Looking on the bright side at least the end is in sight, on Sunday things should be on their way. But I can't help but feel a bit disappointed, ok actually, make that a lot disappointed.

For me this isn't just about getting the baby out. Yes I want to meet my baby, and I want my body back - but I was really, really hoping for a natural, intervention free birth. If I'm induced I can't have that. Both me and the baby will have to be monitored, we're unlikely to be allowed on the midwife led unit with it's lovely rooms, bean bags and birthing pool.

This might not sound like a big deal from the outside (I think even Mr Jones struggles to grasp why I'm bothered about it), the end result is the same, of course. But after a pregnancy that has been so far removed from the way I'd imagined it, I was really hoping to have the birth I'd planned for. Or at least for it to start off the way I wanted it to (who knows if I'll be ultimately begging for an epidural and throwing my natal hypnotherapy cd and selection of essential oils across the room).

I suppose this is just another lesson to add to the big old long list of lessons I've had to learn in the last nine months - with pregnancy and babies you are so not in control it's unbelievable. You can't really plan for anything to be as you'd like it to be. Which for a control freak like me is a really uncomfortable experience.

Maybe after all this I will have an Angel Baby who sleeps through the night and does everything perfectly - or maybe not.

Please everyone cross your fingers and make a wish that Baby J decides to come out of his own accord before Sunday - just so I can at least try out the bean bags.

PS to cheer everyone up and to save it for posterity - here is a picture of Mr Jones' beard. I still think he's handsome.

I'm fine thanks.....

2010-06-15T09:44:00.003+01:00

I never thought I'd get annoyed with people for asking me how I'm feeling - but I have to say that it's starting to drive me slightly up the wall. So to all of you lovely people who have sent me text messages and emails and the like in the past few days - thank you. Thank you very much for caring - but please - please, please, please, please, please forget about me for at least a week.

Please assume that all is well and that I am very fine unless I tell you otherwise. I promise to tell you the very minute I push that baby out (someone even suggested I Twitter my way through labour - but I draw the line at that!! No one wants to know the status of my cervix every three minutes - even me.)

It's very lovely knowing that so many people care, but when your entire life is based around waiting, having to deal with everyone else's expectations starts to get a bit much. I'm bored of talking about it - so do text, email or call about anything else. Whinge about your husband, tell me about your wedding plans, tell me what you ate for dinner last night or what your cat has been doing this morning - just don't ask me how I am or whether or not I've had the baby yet.

D-day + 6

2010-06-14T14:07:00.002+01:00

Dear Baby Jones,

You are now six days overdue and are still showing no sign of coming out -humph - everyone is getting impatient - especially your Grannies,

Yesterday Miss Penny - your sister cat - thought she'd bring you a present to try and encourage you to appear. It was a live pigeon and I wasn't impressed. It had a broken wing so we think it must have flown into something first, because, bless her, she lacks the wileyness required to catch a pigeon. It was 5.45am and she bought it to me while I was lying on the sofa trying to coax myself back to sleep.

I skrieked for Daddy, but he was fast asleep so I had to haul myself up, climb over both sofas (I didn't want to walk on the floor in case the bird came at me - I don't like birds) and run up the stairs. If you've ever seen a nine months pregnant person try to run upstairs and climb over sofas you'll know that it was not pretty.

Daddy picked up the bird and put it outside and we then wrestled with Penny for a good hour to stop her going out and finishing it off. She's so naughty. She spent the rest of the day in disgrace.

Despite all of this excitement you still didn't appear. So we went to Homebase and bought paint for the shed. Then we tried to tempt you out with a MacDonald's, that didn't work either. So we came home and painted the shed cream - which looks lovely.

Today I have been to see the midwife and she is coming to the house tomorrow to perform a sweep in an attempt to kick start labour. Apparently it works in around 50 per cent of cases - so fingers crossed. If that fails then you'll be induced at the weekend - so by early next week at the very latest you should be here - hurrah. Granny Sue is very pleased about this because it means she can still go on holiday to Chicago - not that I think she should stay behind even if you do come much later.

D-day + 4

2010-06-12T04:39:00.002+01:00

Dear Baby J,

You're still in there. It's 4.30am. I've been awake since 3. I'm bored of watching re-runs of Scrubs and Two and a Half Men.

Yesterday we went to the hospital. I had a headache that wouldn't shift and the midwives wanted to check for pre-eclamsia. We had to go to the delivery ward where a very attractive midwife called Sally gave us a thorough check up. She was far too young and good looking and I felt all fat and lumpy. Daddy was hoping she'd induce labour and get you out - but no such luck. The headache was just a headache. We were home by lunch.

A marathon trek around the grounds at Burghley cleared my head, but did little to encourage you out. I'm getting pretty sick of people giving me baby induction tips. None of them work. The other day a girl told me to drink hot chocolate because it bought on her first labour. She then went on to tell me that her second baby was induced. I was very tempted to suggest that like everything else perhaps the hot chocolate was just a "coincidence" and that her baby was ready to come out on its own - but I managed to be polite.

Daddy is growing a beard until you show signs of arriving. It's perhaps the most amusing beard in the world - it's all patchy and is full of gaps where the hair won't grow. He's beginning to look like a tramp.I'll take a picture of it today to show you what a state he looked before you were born.

I've started snoring! I woke myself up yesterday during an afternoon sofa snooze - I was mortified. Still it's payback for Daddy - whose snores have symphonic range and keep me awake frequently - I'm afraid you're going to have to learn to sleep through them.

Today we might paint the shed - we need to do something to pass the time.

xxx

Snake bite and slushes - a love story part 9 - the final installment

2010-06-09T10:39:00.004+01:00

So Mr Jones and I loved each other. But uni days were coming to an end. We’d both be going home and although we didn’t live very far away, we’d only see each other and weekends. And of course Miss B lived where Mr Jones did.

The only thing we ever argued about was Miss B. I hated the fact that she didn’t know that Mr Jones and I were together. But he didn’t think she could handle the truth. I begged him time and again to tell her and get it over a done with. He steadfastly refused.

Uni ended in a whirl of exams, balls and street parties. Mr Jones and I stayed until the very end, eeking out our time together. The union put on a music festival and we sat in a damp field eating weird veggie curry, drinking snake bite and black (Mr Jones) and vodka slush (me) and watched the Dum Dums play their penultimate gig. We danced to Army of Two – completely unaware that eight and a half years later we’d be dancing to it on our wedding day.

Then we went home. I got a temping job and Mr Jones planned a trip around Europe with his friends. He was leaving on a Sunday in August and I was due to spend the Saturday night with him and wave him off the next day.

I woke up early that morning and switched on my mobile phone. Text after text started to arrive. Each one was full of expletives, accusations and vitriol. They were all from Miss B.

In a panic I tried to call Mr Jones – but it was about 6am and he didn’t answer. Some how Miss B knew about me and Mr Jones. I felt sick.

I finally got hold of him about two hours later. He’d been out with his friends the night before to say goodbye before his travels – he’d had a few drinks. Miss B had been out too and had been causing her usual trouble – asking him why they weren’t together and begging him to take her back. She’d insisted that she was coming to see him the next day to say goodbye before he left for Europe.

Mr Jones went to send me a text – it said something like this:

Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Miss B might be coming over at some point, but we’ll sort it. Love you lots xxx

The thing is, I never received it. Miss B’s name was next to mine in his address book – and he sent it to her.

Of course it did not go down well. What followed was by all accounts an almighty row. Mr Jones was screamed at until he told her everything. And I was sent a score of text messages and voicemails all of which blamed me for bewitching him.

Feeling utterly terrified I made my way to Mr Jones’ house. He was still going away and I still wanted to say goodbye. We were both bombarded with texts all day long until eventually his mum made us turn off our phones.

The next morning we were woken by a knock on the bedroom door. It was Mr Jones’ mum. “Um, Miss B is downstairs and she wants to speak to you,” she said to me.

I’d just woken up, my hair was all over the place and I looked a state. “I need a shower first,” I said. “I’ll be down in a minute.” I washed my hair and got dressed and made my way to the kitchen.

There she sat dressed in jeans and a baby pink hoodie. I was wearing black – the colour of all things evil. She glared at me.

“How could you? I can’t believe you lied to me. I can’t believe you stole my boyfriend. We’re supposed to be friends,” she spat.

“I wanted to tell you from the very beginning. I don’t like lying,” I said. “I didn’t steal him, we didn’t get together until after you’d split up. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I don’t understand how you’ve done it, how have you turned him against me, just because your relationship was over it didn’t mean you had to ruin mine. I always worried that you two got on to well, but I never thought you’d do this to me…..”

“I haven’t turned him against you – you can’t help who you fall in love with. If he still loved you he’d still be with you.”

“Oh he still loves me. This is my family and you’ll never be part of it. We’re going to get married and be together forever. He doesn’t really want you he wants me,” she insisted.

“I’m not with him for his family, I love him for him, but ok, whatever you think – far be it from me to stand in the way – if he wants to go back to you that’s fine,” I said, realising that it was pointless to argue with her.

For the next 10 minutes we covered the same topics over and over again – how evil I was, the fact that Mr Jones still loved her, that I’d never take his family away from her, that they would get married one day and that I’d be left by the wayside. Mr Jones’ dad was stationed in the garden keeping an eye on us through the kitchen window in case things got nasty.

Once she’d had enough of shouting at me she sent me away and demanded that I send Mr Jones in to speak with her. I hated that she seemed to have all the power. I found Mr Jones with his mum and Miss B’s sister who had discovered her gone and followed her. She’d parked her car at the end of the drive to stop Miss B driving off in a rage. I thought this was all getting a bit too dramatic.

Mr Jones suffered a similar grilling in which he repeatedly told her that they wouldn’t be getting back together and that he loved me. Eventually she gave up. Mr Jones’ mum was dispatched to get me. Apparently Miss B wanted Mr M’s number. Reluctantly I sent him a text and asked him if it was ok if I gave it to her. He said it was. Handing that number over was one of my biggest mistakes.

You’ll remember that Mr M was rather apt at lying? He knew exactly what had happened and when between me and Mr Jones. He’d pretty much watched it all unfold. But when he spoke to Miss B that all seemed to slip his mind.

He told her that as far as he was concerned Mr Jones and I had been having an affair for months before that fateful New Year’s Eve kiss. That we’d cheated on them both time and again, making them look like fools. Of course this was what Miss B was desperate to hear – so she believed him – and to this day she still thinks that that is the truth.

Mr Jones left for Europe the next day – escaping the country for a month. I was left behind to deal with text after vitriolic text. I didn’t reply. To Miss B (and weirdly, to a lot of our "friends" and plenty of outsiders) this whole thing was my fault. Mr Jones was a seemingly innocent bystander. By some form of witch craft I had conjured him away and made him mine.

I was the adulteress who should have known better. I was the friend who had committed the ultimate betrayal. I was the other woman that you read about in books and magazines and hate because she’s ruined a relationship that to everyone on the outside seemed perfectly happy.

I will hold my hand up and say that I never thought I would betray a friend. I always thought friends would come first – but in truth, a friendship will never be a match for true love.

It is my firm belief that if your relationship is strong, and you truly love each other, you will never look anywhere else for love. It’s only when the relationship is broken and crumbling at the edges that eyes start to wander.

Miss B – if you ever read this please know that Mr Jones and I didn’t become a couple until we’d already decided that our previous relationships were over. We didn’t have an affair. I didn’t steal him and I never set out to hurt you. I can’t help that I fell in love with him and he fell in love with me.

None of our closest friends were shocked when we got together. Most people said it was about time. They’d seen for years what Mr Jones and I – and clearly Mr M and Miss B – had not seen. Two people who were meant to be together.

We’ve had our ups and downs. We lived apart for years – me in London, Mr Jones up here. I used to get mad at him for not calling me enough and he’d shout at me for being too clingy. But we knew we couldn’t be without each other.

All of this happened over nine years ago now and we’re still together and still in love. Mr Jones didn’t marry Miss B as she predicted, he married me instead. And now we’re awaiting the very imminent arrival of our first baby.

I cannot imagine my life without him in it. That New Year’s Eve kiss – although naughty – was one of the best things that has ever happened to me. If it hadn’t happened who knows where we’d be right now? I’m guessing we wouldn’t be as happy.

D-day + 1

2010-06-09T08:55:00.002+01:00

Dear Baby J,

So you weren't born yesterday - oh well nevermind. Maybe it will be today. It's still raining. The oil is still spilling and the country still has no pennies. There have been no more updates on Sam Cam's wallpaper.

I didn't go to see Sex and the City 2 at the cinema - the weather was too grotty and I didn't want to get wet waddling to the car. Instead I watched Anne of Green Gables - ahhh Gilbert Blythe. If you're a girl baby I shall teach you to fall in love with him too. If you're a boy I'll still make you watch it.

We went to Pizza Express for dinner to celebrate your due date. They're doing buy one get one free on main courses this week - yum.

Then your Auntie Lauren called to tell us that she is engaged and is getting married in Hawaii on October 4th! So that at least made your due date special. When she called, Daddy, jokingly, told her were at the hospital and she nearly stopped breathing - a baby and a rock in one day would have been too much. But being the considerate baby that you are, you decided to spare her that excitement - aren't you nice? Uncle Jon proposed using Alphabetti Spaghetti - it took him three tins to find all the letters to spell it out. We're all very excited.

Today I am going to cook a chickpea curry - a spicy one. And I'm going for reflexology to have all points that get babies out pressed. Let's hope it works. If possible, I'd like you out before Sunday so that I don't have to miss the Grand Prix - pretty please.

D- day

2010-06-08T10:20:00.002+01:00

Well I couldn't let this day pass without comment. Today is Baby J's due date - the hallowed 8th June 2010 - the day he's supposed to be born on.

If I was a midwife I think I'd tell all the pregnant women in my care that their baby was due two weeks later than it actually is - it would help to preserve their sanity.

So Baby J - if you are born today (which I doubt because I think you're staying put so that Daddy is off work during the world cup and Wimbledon) I thought I'd let you know a few things about the sort of day it is.

It's raining - hard - and the back lawn is flooded, despite the fact that three days ago it was desert dry.

BP are still letting oil spill into the ocean.

The coalition is asking us all how we think they should save the country money? I say tax the bankers bonuses, give all the lazy freeloading slackers in this country a smack and get them back to work and perhaps hold off on the "renovations" on No.11 Downing Street - the Cameron's have a perfectly nice house in Notting Hill and Sam Cam doesn't want to live in Downing Street anyway - so why should we pay for her wallpaper?

Miss Penny - your sister cat - has discovered that wet paws and the kitchen floor = slippery and seems to be enjoying crashing into the cupboards.

Mr Jeremy - your brother cat - has assumed his usual position and is asleep on the spare room bed. This afternoon he will no doubt get up and move to his armchair in the sitting room.

Mummy is trying to decide if she can be bothered to drive into town and go to the cinema to watch Sex and the City 2. The first film was rubbish - but it might be the last time she gets to go to the cinema in a looooong time.

Your Pop has hurt his knee valiantly trying to cycle 100 miles for charity - he stubbornly carried on until mile 50 in utter agony. Mummy and Daddy hope that those determination genes make it to your generation - because we'd have given up at mile 10 when it started to hurt.

I'm sure many more exciting things will happen today - but it's only 10.36am so we'll have to wait and see. Perhaps you'll even be born - here's hoping.

Black....

2010-06-05T08:43:00.004+01:00

That would be the colour of my mood at the moment - I feel awfully guilty about it, but I just can't seem to shake it. Maybe it's normal and is just another one of those pregnancy things that no one tells you about - or maybe all the emotional aspects of being pregnant, which I have so far avoided, are coming out now.

In the past eight months and three and a half weeks I haven't cried. Once. Even when I had my head in the toilet for what felt like 23 hours a day, I didn't cry. I've cried so little that my tear duct in my left eye became inflamed and sore through lack of use. But in the last two days it's had a workout.

For some reason I just feel angry and resentful. It all sounds hideously unmotherly, and if I was writing this in the Daily Mail I'd expect thousands of letters from women who think I'm perfectly horrible - so don't worry if this all grates a bit. I completely understand that what I'm about to say probably won't be understood or go down well with a lot of people.

But I want my body back, I want this baby out and it's not because I'm desperate to meet it (quite the opposite in fact - I'm quite terrified that I won't like it, or that it won't like me), but because I want to not be pregnant anymore.

If I'm truly honest with myself and with everyone else being pregnant has been a huge disappointment to me. I wanted to love it, it's all I've thought about for years - being pregnant, having a baby, being a mummy. But the reality has been a long way from the dream. I wanted to be one of those women who glow the whole way through. Who keep on going to the gym and have tonnes of energy. I wanted to eat wholesome, nurturing food that was ideal for my growing baby and I wanted to rock up to my due date in blissful happiness awaiting the arrival of my perfect baby.

But it hasn't been like that and now that I'm nearing the end I think I'm finally accepting it - and it's hard to admit that actually I've really struggled with the last nine months - and the longer the baby takes to come out the harder it's getting.

I feel resentful about all the things I've had to give up. Every Thursday when Mr Jones goes to play football I get a kick of jealousy in my gut. I miss exercise and feeling energetic. When he looks at his belly and complains that he feels unfit it takes all my will power not to scream at him. To point out the fact that my legs that were nicely toned are all wobbly again, that my bingo wings are back, that my backside is dimpled and my stomach - which while full of baby is nice and taut - before long is going to all Reubeneque and floppy.

I miss being able to eat what I want to eat - I'm sick of eating shortbread biscuits and ice cream because they're the only things that make me feel ok. I want to eat a salad and feel satisfied, I want to eat an apple without worrying that it's going to make me sick, I just want to eatlike a normal person and be able to have a glass of wine with my dinner.

I still feel incredibly lucky to be having a baby and I still love to feel it kick and wriggle - so please forgive me if I sound like I'm being ungrateful. I do feel incredibly guilty for feeling this way - which in a way makes it even harder. But I'd like to feel like I'm in control of my body and my life again. Not knowing when the baby will arrive is killing me. I'm a planner, I like things to be organised and I hate not knowing how much longer I have to wait.

And at the end of it all I'm utterly terrified that being a mum won't be what I've dreamt of either. What if I can't cope, or I don't love my baby? I'm hoping that feeling this sad now will mean that when the baby finally arrives everything will be ok.

PS I've written this not because I want everyone to tell me that it will be ok, or because I want attention or anything like that. I've written it becuase I want to be honest. I will hold up my hands and admit that in the past I've been incredibly critical of women who have whinged about being pregnant. I always thought they should think themselves bloody lucky when so many women in the world can't have children. And believe me no one is more disappointed that I'm not still "sucking it up" than me. But being pregnant is hard for some people, not everyone gets an easy ride. I hope that for you it is easier and that you never have to feel this way. Please forgive me if reading this has been upsetting for you or if you find it offensive - I wish I didn't feel this way - but I do.

Wedged

2010-06-04T12:39:00.002+01:00

I currently loathe going to Waitrose - usually I love it - but for the past nine months, not so much. Today I heaved myself and my trolley round the shop, weaving in an out of the millions (quite literally) of pensioners who seem to think that they own the place and have no regard for your knuckles or the fact that you are quite clearly heavily pregnant as they barge past you to get to the yogurts.

I waddled back to the car and loaded the boot. Then I stood back and surveyed the silver peugeot that was parked about 30 centimetres away from my drivers side door. I sucked in the bump and squeezed myself down the gap sideways to open the door. But no matter which way I tried to position my bulk it just wasn't going to fit.

I scrabbled in my handbag for a pen and couldn't find one. So I stood for several minutes coaxing my hormone addled brain to memorise the number plate before waddling back into the store. Two tannoy announcements later and an elderly couple appear at the desk:

"I can't believe this," says the old man to his wife. "I bet some idiot has run into the car, we'll have to claim on the insurance, it'll cost a fortune, I can't think what else it could be, I haven't had the lights on, you come out shopping and some cretin crashes into your car in the carpark...."

Wife makes soothing noises. Old man keeps tapping his chest over his heart as if he's about to suffer cardiac arrest at the stress of it all.

The woman at the desk points at me. "You've parked too close to her car - and as you can see she's pregnant and can't get into it."

"Oh I thought someone had crashed into it, thank God," he says, giving his heart another reassuring pat. He turns to me, "I'm ever so sorry, I didn't think - my wife had to climb over to my seat to get out of the car." I wonder how she did this - being about 75 and not looking all that flexible.

I smile calmly. "It's not a problem - I'm sure if I was my normal size I'd have been able to squeeze in, but unfortunately this doesn't squidge," I say, pointing at the bump.

Next comes a long discussion about just how we're going to move his car and get mine out (apparently it was more complicated than him just reversing out of the way so I could get in my car and drive off). I am posted to watch his front end and there is much discussion about full locks and whether his wife was watching the trolley.

Finally I am free and the old man parks back up and heads back into the store where his wife awaits him to say something along the lines of "I told you you'd parked to close didn't I...." in a nagging voice.

This all leads me to question whether or not I could get away with parking in the parent and child spaces? I clearly have a child - it's just not out yet - would that stand up in court I wonder?

Patience is a virtue....2

2010-06-02T09:42:00.002+01:00

It seems that everyone else is eagerly awaiting the arrival of Baby J. In the last coouple of days I've had numerous emails, texts and phone calls asking me if he/she has arrived yet - as if I, of all people, could have possibly had the baby and kept my mouth shut about it!

So I thought I'd share with you some statistics - 20 per cent of first babies are born before their due date. A very timely five per cent arrive dead on time. That leaves the remaining 75 per cent of heavily pregnant, very uncomfortable, hormonal women who are finding it hard to sleep, sit, walk, eat and talk nicely to people, waiting and waiting up to two weeks past that hallowed date that we've all been anticipating for the past nine and a bit months.

Now Baby J isn't due until next Tuesday - so I could still be one of the lucky "early" ones. Now I'm not a betting woman, although I do like a trip to the races in a nice frock and a good hat, but I wouldn't be putting a bet on the little monster popping out early or even on time - I don't like them odds. I'd say the safe bet is that he/she is going to be late.

So in the interest of my sanity please, please, please don't ask me if the baby has arrived yet - rest assured that after what can only be described as the longest and hardest nine months of my entire life, when he/she does come out I will be the first person shouting it from the roof tops, boring you with details, pictures and anecdotes....be prepared.

Patience is a virtue....

2010-06-01T09:38:00.004+01:00

....and one I don't possess very much of! Lots of things make me impatient. People who stand for ages in a supermarket checkout queue waiting to be served for example, only to spend five minutes ferretting about in their handbag for their purse once they get to the till - what's that about?

Or people who continue to whinge about the coalition government and bewail the fact that Gordon has gone back to the highlands. He had his chance for 13 years, he muffed it, get over it.

Or those calls I keep getting from a man in India - who I'm sure is very nice and is just doing his job - offering me an upgrade on my broadband.

But perhaps the thing testing my patience the most at the moment is Baby J's arrival. One week to go until my due date. I've been having many conversations with the little monkey - explaining that we do like to be prompt in our household and that tardiness really isn't appreciated, but it seems to be falling on deaf ears.

Perhaps the most interesting thing is how impatient Mr Jones is. He is, usually, so laid back that I sometimes worry that he'll just not bother to breathe. But he is desperate for the baby to arrive. He keeps pressing on its little bottom in my tummy and yelling "Get out!!". Everytime I have a twinge he's sure it's a contraction, while I pass it off as a stitch or backache due to overzealous gardening. I quite like this new side of him - he rarely gets excited about well anything really.

I have decided that Baby J is a boy. It was my gut reaction when I got pregnant and after a good six months of hoping the bump is a girl (not because I particularly want girls - but because girl baby clothes are soooooo much nicer) I have now decided that it is actually a little boy. I also think it's going to be about eight and a half pounds. Hopefully it won't be long before we see if I'm right.

Bread for Mr Jones and a Quilt for Baby J

2010-05-27T10:11:00.009+01:00

To say I have been pretty useless in the kitchen for the past nine months would be an understatement. First there was the fish fingers and smash stage, then the "Oh my god is that onions and garlic frying?" stage followed by the "I can't eat that it made me sick last time" couple of months. BUT given that I haven't been sick for two weeks now - yes a whole two weeks - whoooo hoooo! I have been getting myself back in the kitchen. I've even made Mr Jones' packed lunch on several occasions.

On Tuesday I made bread - homemade foccacia in fact - this was not due to some latent desire to awaken my inner baker, but actually because it's pretty tricky to find a good foccacia around here. M&S have changed their Italian Bread range and it has gone from distinctly edible to horribly bland. And Waitrose - that home of all things delicious - has been found extremely wanting in the bread department. We have the Hambleton Bakery of course - but waddling into town seemed like more effort than a bit of cursory kneading.

So to Jamie Oliver I turned. I cheated and used the Kitchenaid for the messy bit - why have a dough hook and get your hands covered in flour and yeast I say. Once the dough was suitably mixed and smooth I pummeled it myself until it became gorgeously plump. Then I left it in the airing cupboard to prove amongst the towels. After a bit more pummeling I doused the each loaf in chopped homegrown rosemary, salt and olive oil. Then it was back to the airing cupboard for a bit more proving.

A word of caution - when proving bread in your airing cupboard ensure your tray has high sides. I now have several towels scented with rosemary olive oil waiting to be washed.

After baking for 20 minutes we had warm fresh bread to eat with our homemade chicken caesar salad - sans homemade croutons - because I burnt them by leaving them in the oven while I watered the veg patch!

Also occupying me this week has been the quilt for Baby J. It's pretty much finished - not bad for a first attempt. Some of the blocks don't quite line up and the edging was a handstitching mission - but I'm pretty pleased with it, especially as I only had some patchy (no pun intended) instructions from an old book to guide me.

One day perhaps I'll be able to make beautiful quilts like this talented lady or my Godmother Sue - who sent me a beautiful one to commemorate my wedding day. I think my sewing machine skills need improving first - I seem incapable of keeping seams straight!

Baby J goes to the seaside

2010-05-25T10:05:00.007+01:00

You may remember that one of my manifesto pledges was to take Baby J to the sea. I had thought we might make it to Thornham, Brancaster or maybe Blakeney - or perhaps we might have headed for Southwold or Aldeburgh. But when I suggested this to Mr Jones he was less than enthusiastic. Quaint seaside charm, long walks and pricey shops cannot lure Mr Jones to the sea. Throw in a fair, pier, cheap donuts, fish and chips and everything else Skegness has to offer though and he's off in a shot.

He went to boarding school there for a while, before he got "asked to leave" for sneaking into a girls room (tsk), so I think he holds a soft spot for it in his heart. We went with Mr and Mrs Swift - Skeg is their hometown. We paddled in the sea, drank slushes, tucked into ice cream and donuts and ate fish and chips in the 30 degree heat (only in England would you eat fried fish for lunch on a scorching hot day). I waddled along the seafront, perspiring in a very unladylike manner, but enjoyiong every minute - everyone needs a bit of cheesy seaside once in a while.

Baby Jones was so impressed that he/she seems to have decided that a another two or more weeks inside is a good move and is making no signs of joining us anytime soon - no matter how much gardening, cleaning and jiggling I do.

Snake bite and slushes - a love story part 8

2010-05-20T15:03:00.001+01:00

Living with Mr M certainly wasn’t much fun, but I managed to avoid him as much as I could. I finally had a University social life to be proud of. No more sitting at home watching TV and playing housewife – no I was out until the early hours at nightclubs, dancing and drinking with my friends. We went to street parties, house parties and club nights. We carried small bottles of vodka in our handbags and ordered straight cokes so that we could afford more nights out. My liver, I’m sure, was begging a return to the days of Gardener’s World.

Mr Jones and I went on dates – we watched films, went out for dinner, went to the seaside and drove around in his beaten up white Astra. One night, about four months after we’d first got together, I cooked Mr Jones dinner. I can’t remember what we ate, but I do remember drinking a lot of Blossom Hill White Zinfandel. We made short work of the first two bottles and popped to Jacksons ( a very handy convenience store just down the road) for two more.

Suffice to say it all goes a bit blurry after that. We were lying on my bed talking drunken nonsense to each other. I made a joke and Mr Jones pushed me off the bed and onto the floor. I lie there laughing in a heap. “Come back up here” said Mr Jones

“No,” I slurred. “I’m staying down here with Eddie” (Eddie is my teddy bear – I’ve had him since birth and he is my most treasured possession). “Eddie loves me,” I said.

“I love you too,” said Mr Jones.

The whole world (which had been spinning rather rapidly) stopped. My brain clicked into action. “What did he just say? He just said he loves me. I can’t believe it. Say it back. NO! Don’t say it back – he’s drunk, he probably doesn’t mean it and then you’ll say it back and the words will be out and you won’t be able to take them back and then you’ll have left yourself open and vulnerable and he’ll run off and leave you. Just keep quiet…..”

I laughed and climbed back on the bed and gave him a big kiss. My heart was pounding in my chest and I felt giddy with happiness. Or perhaps it was the wine. The room started spinning again and I suddenly felt very hot and very sick. I leapt up from the bed and ran the downstairs to the bathroom where I was violently sick.

To my utter horror Mr Jones had followed me – I begged him to leave, embarrassed that he should see the girl he’d just said “I love you” too retching and vomiting. But he refused. He sat on the floor behind me, his legs around mine and rubbed my back and held back my hair while I was sick for the next hour and a half.

I woke up the next morning with a pounding head and a furry mouth. Mr Jones went to Jacksons for a curative breakfast of Chicken Super Noodles. He brought me the bowl of steaming hot noodles in bed and smoothed the hair from my forehead. I looked up at him weakly, feeling very sorry for myself.

“I meant what I said last night,” he said.

“Sorry?”

“When I said I love you last night – I meant it,” he said smiling at me.

I tried to stop the huge grin spreading across my face. “I love you too”

Manifesto update

2010-05-19T08:25:00.007+01:00

Unhampered as I am by coalition talks, I've been able to get on with bringing my manifesto to life pretty much unhindered. It's going well. Aided by the fact that (other than yesterday, when I just overdid it and clearly needed to be punished) I haven't been sick or really felt sick for a week! I know - hurrah!

Thanks to lovely mummy the kitchen cupboards have been rejigged to make way for baby equipment and the oven has been cleaned to sparkly gloriousness - so much so that I don't really want to use it.

I have planted carrots, fennel and salad in the veg patch and strawberries in pots. These will soon be joined by courgettes, tomatoes and runner beans - once the weather looks reliably nice.

I have eaten breakfast outside in the sunshine.

Yesterday I spent a small fortune on bedding plants and prettied up some pots - until I ran out of compost. Photos to come of these once they look a little more filled out and pretty.

I spent yesterday afternoon on my hands and knees (which before you all start tutting is actually a good position for a pregnant person to adopt) scrubbing the hall floor - hopefully you can see the difference from the picturs. Before scrubbing is on the left - it's more impressive in real life.

Restoring Victorian Floors - a guide - by Mrs Jones

*Find yourself a lovely Victorian tiled floor (ours was hidden under a hideous 1970s carpet. This is what it looked like before I started 18 months ago.)

*Spend a whole day on your hands and knees scrubbing it to remove 135 years of ingrained dirt (probably less than that because I'm sure the original owners were very proud of their tiles and kept them pristine)

*Attempt to protect tiles with a sealant - which fails miserably and means you have to start all over again in 18 months time when your nesting instinct has well and truly kicked in.

*Arm yourself with marigolds, scouring sponges, HG Quick Porcelain Cleaner (this stuff is truly magical - it literally seems to dissolve dirt), a bright pink gardeners kneeling pad, and a bucket of hot water.

*Spend a couple of hours scrubbing - worrying all the while at just how much pleasure you're getting from cleaning a floor.

*Mop with fresh water and leave to dry before applying traffic wax with a paint brush and buffing the floor with a floor buffer. (Feel slightly disappointed that it's not marvellously sealed and shiny after the first coat - especially as you're too tired to do anymore today)

Please note - these pictures were taken with the new camera - though clearly I have a lot to learn because they still look rubbish!

On top of this I have also been making a quilt for the baby, listening to the hypnosis for birth cd and swallowing raspberry leaf tea capsules in huge quantities to encouarge Baby J out. My ribs are experiencing some welcome relief because Baby J has started his/her descent into my pelvis. My bladder is less happy about this, especially when it's being used as a punchbag.

For the first time I think I'm actually enjoying being pregnant - I feel somewhere nearing normal, other than the huge bump - of course. But that said, I'm not enjoying it so much that I wouldn't welcome the arrival of the little one anytime now. We're pretty much ready.

Essential kit for every pregnant woman #2 .... a bib

2010-05-16T12:42:00.002+01:00

Last night we went out for a curry (unfortunately it wasn't spicy enough to bring forward the arrival of baby J - boo). We waited ages, and ages for our meal so by the time my chicken tikka and chana massala arrived I was ready to chew off Mr Jones' arm. Suffice to say I tucked right in and all was going well - until forkful number five.

I'd stacked it neatly, a small piece of chicken, a few chickpeas and their spicy tomatoey juice, a couple of grains of rice all topped off with a smidgen of minty, yoghurty sauce - it was looking good.

I moved the fork towards my mouth. Up, up, up it went, traversing the huge expanse of bump and then - thwack - the whole lot dropped off the fork and onto my top. It rolled down my mountainous stomach and onto the table cloth. I looked around in mortification, hoping that none of my fellow diners had seen it happen. Luckily I was wearing black and managed to mop up the excess with my napkin before too many people noticed.

The thing is this isn't the first time this has happened. Although it was the first time I had demonstated this lack of table manners in public. Having a bump means that you have to sit some distance from the table, which makes reaching your mouth with your food that little bit more tricky. I am constantly fishing things out of my cleveage and I worry every night when I get undressed what exactly I might find caught down my top. When I'm home alone I've given up wearing anything nice because invariably I spill something down myself at some point during the day - and quite frankly I can't keep up with the washing.

These days Mr Jones tends to comes home, survey the state of me and then asks politely I enjoyed my lunch. If I'm eating something particularly dangerous I have taken to tucking a tea towel under my chin. Perhaps I've spotted a gap in the market - attractive bibs for pregnant women - what do we think?

Cheered up

2010-05-14T09:26:00.007+01:00

I was feeling a bit grumpy this morning and getting rather impatient about the arrival of Baby J, which could still be weeks away. Boo. Then I opened my inbox and found a lovely email from someone I don't know in Austraila. Amongst other things it said this:

I was having one of those nights last night where sleep was just evading me and I happened upon your blog.

The entries about your wedding made me cry! It sounds like it was such a wonderful, beautiful ceremony, and I only hope my own can evoke such emotion in people on the other side of the world (if I am ever lucky enough to find someone who wouldn't mind keeping me around for 50 years) (and happen to blog about it).

It really cheered me up - so thank you very much for taking the time to email me and tell me what you think. And for prompting me to reminisce about our lovely wedding. By coincidence yesterday I was going through some pictures to frame and found these ones of our registry office ceremony. Despite being over in a matter of minutes it really was special and means far more to me than I ever could have imagined.

Oh how I am looking forward to being that thin again and I can't wait to get back into that dress!

Thanks again for making my day - love not so grumpy Mrs J

Snake bite and slushes - a love story part 7

2010-05-12T11:07:00.002+01:00

It’s been a while – sorry – now where were we?

Oh yes - I retrieved my phone and sent Mr Jones a text – “Mr M knows!”
I have no idea what Mr Jones thought when he read this text and I can’t actually remember what he replied. No doubt it was a suitable mix of panic, terror and guilt. The next few days are a bit of a blur. I had to contend with living it what felt like the world’s smallest house with an understandably surly Mr M and endure hundreds and hundreds of conversations in which we discussed why I’d “run off”, “cheated”, “lied”.......

One day he asked me just what it was about Mr Jones that had made me choose him. Hundreds of reasons sprung up in my mind – he makes me laugh, he understands sarcasm, he lets me out on a Friday night, he’s handsome, he has charisma, he doesn’t make me cringe when he speaks, he loves a damn good argument and is more than happy to tell me to take a running jump if he doesn’t agree with me, he’s unpredictable and he doesn’t follow me around like a lost lamb. But I didn’t think it was wise to bring up any of these things. So I just said – “He has dark hair.” Mr M was blonde.

I’ve always had a thing about dark hair. For years and years the man of my dreams was strictly based on Gilbert Blythe from Anne of Green Gables. I was completely obsessed with Jonathan Crombie who played him in the screen version. Whenever I imagined getting married the groom was always dark haired and handsome. I dreamt of him taking me in a passionate embrace and promising me the world – while knowing exactly how to calm my red headed temper and impetuousness. Had I thought about it my relationship with Mr M was doomed from the outset – fickle as it sounds there was no way I’d have settled for a blonde.

Mr M had no answer for “He has dark hair” and I congratulated myself on the swift curtailing of yet another lengthy discussion about our relationship and its evident failings.

Two days later I was sat in an umcomfortable wooden chair at our dining room table working on an essay in my pyjamas. Mr M came home and sat for a few minutes in silence staring at me while I ignored him, hoping that he might just disappear. “I went to the hairdressers today,” he said.

“Oh right”

“I asked the girl in there if I could dye my hair brown and she said it was entirely possible.”

I looked up at him to see if this was some kind of joke. But he looked deadly serious. “You’re joking right?” I asked wondering whether I could get away with laughing.

“No, I just thought that if the only reason you’re going out with Mr Jones is because he has dark hair….” he trailed off – perhaps realising just how ridiculous he sounded. I didn’t know what to say. On the one hand I wanted to laugh, but on the other I just felt pity. After everything that had happened he still wanted me back – and was willing to dye his hair to get me.

“It’s not the only reason,” I said. “I’m sorry but our relationship is over and dying your hair won’t make any difference.”

While all this was going on Mr Jones and I were having a great time both together and apart. Released from the clutches of Miss B, Mr Jones no longer had to go home every weekend and I could finally go out with my girlfriends guilt free.

When Mr Jones and I appeared in public together there were a lot of whispers. Friends took sides and I was seen as the most immoral of all of us. But I didn’t really care – I completely understood that Mr M’s closest friends would consider me a cheating harridan and would turn against me. Happily I had plenty of friends of my own and I had Mr Jones and he made me happy.

While in public Mr M maintained an appearance of complete dignity. Something which I have always been incredibly grateful for. There were no public scenes or hideous arguments. He just played the part of the cuckold with great aplomb which just made people feel more sorry for him.

Behind the doors of our house however it was a different story. He eavesdropped on my conversations, went through my things, tampered with my course work and generally made me feel watched.

Every Wednesday night he would go out to the Tower nightclub with is friends, giving me a welcome night of peace. Some days Mr Jones would come round to see me and we’d live dangerously, wrapped in each others arms, half fearing that Mr M would come back.

Other nights I’d stay at home reading novels for my course in bed. On one such night Mr M came home drunk at about 9.30pm. He came thundering up the stairs and into my bedroom. “I think I’ve let you get away with too much, I think I should have been more forceful in our relationship, perhaps then you’d still be going out with me,” he said.

“Oh right,” – I was stumped and couldn’t quite see where this conversation was going.

He started moving towards the bed and it suddenly occurred to me what he had in mind. I asked him what he thought he was doing and told him to get out of my room. He refused.

I heard someone clear their throat downstairs and realised that he’d left his mates in the lounge. I clutched my pencil in my fist and waved it in his face – “Come any closer and I’ll scream and stab this pencil in your eye,” I said.

His drunken bravado seemed to leave him and he sunk back to sit on the bed. He looked sad, but I was in no mood for soothing his ego. “Get out,” I spat. My temper was unleashed and I slung a string of names and expletives in his direction. He beat a hasty retreat to the door. A moment later they all left. I sat there shaking wishing my bedroom door had a lock on it.

I packed my hospital bag and in it I put....

2010-05-10T17:33:00.009+01:00

I've had all the bits for my hospital bag for ages - but I've been putting off actually packing it. I'm not sure why. Perhaps I was hoping that if I was totally unprepared the baby might decide to put in an appearance a tiny bit sooner. But with four weeks to go (please not any longer) and everyone telling me I really should get packed I decided to get on with it.

I'm fascinated by people's hospital bags - Jules Oliver must have had an entire luggage collection for the amount of stuff she took with her, I've tried to pack light - but I will confess that the baby has its very own bag of bits too. And I'm sure I'll be adding to this. In case you're the slightest bit interested so far I have:

Two button front Matalan Nighties (one in a size 22(!) to accommodate the bump and another in a size 14 for post birth comfort)

One pair of Matalan PJs - just in case I have to stay over in hospital for any length of time.

Dettol Wipes - because I'm a clean freak and I'd like a water bath - but I'm not getting in it until I know it's been disinfected.

A mini fan - because it is ridiculously hot in the delivery suite.

Snacks - Marilyn our NCT teacher was all about fruit and jaffa cakes. The midwife at the hospital recommended high sugar sweets for instant energy. So I've gone for Haribo and Fizzy Bootlaces and some amaretti biscuits because I don't like jaffa cakes. I'll probably add some fruit in later. I'm putting Mum in charge of drinks (including the post birth G&T - Bombay with ice and lemon if you please )

Wash bag with essentials - a water spray - for more cooling, toothbrush and toothpaste, shampoo, shower gel, nivea, paracetamol and a nail file - just because there's nothing more annoying than a broken nail. Oh and of course some delightfully large maternity pads.

A dressing gown - for moments when only marching the corridoors will do

Four pairs of great big black knickers - they really are HUGE and I thought I'd spare you photographic evidence.

A towel - do they supply them in the hosptial? No one seems to be able to tell me so I'm taking a small one just in case.

Slippers - leftover from a spa day - why ruin a decent pair of slippers when these ones and any hospital yuckiness attached to them can just be binned?

It's just occurred to me that my birth plan includes using the birthing pool so unless I plan to sit there totally starkers I should probably pack something to wear for that too. Oh and some antibacterial hand gel - just because. Oooo and some socks in the very unlikely event that I get cold feet. Oooo and something to wear to come home in. See I knew I'd need a bigger bag. I'm sure I've forgotten other things too.

And relax....

2010-05-07T16:27:00.002+01:00

...It seems I am incapable of doing nothing. I thought I'd cruise into this maternity leave lark and enjoy lie ins, afternoons indulging in marathon sessions of detective capers at the hands of Angela Lansbury and possibly even develop a penchant for Bargain Hunt. But no - I can't sit still. I've done my accounts, filed everything that needed filing, sorted out cupboards, cleaned the fridge, washed things, sorted things, repaired my favourite teddy bear, organised birthday presents, got my wedding dress dry cleaned..... the list goes on. I haven't sat down all week. I went for reflexology on Wednesday and spent the entire time lying there contemplating my to do list - it was most frustrating.

Today my lovely mum came to "help" me do a thorough clean of the house. But she wouldn't let me help. She kept telling me off. Then I had to go to the hospital for a scan and thanks to the NHS and its super powers of organisation I was gone for four hours. By the time I came home the entire house had been blitzed. She's so good - I wonder if the selfless-I-don't-mind-helping-you-with-pretty-much-anything gene kicks in when your baby is born because I certainly don't possess it at the moment.

Baby Jones behaved very well at the scan and is apparently in the ideal position for birth (which is nice to know - and fingers crossed it stays that way for the next four weeks). Currently the little monkey is weighing in at 6lbs ish - and the sonographer assures me that means that if I go full term I should pop out a nice 7lb something baby and if I go over due it shouldn't be more than a little over 8lbs - lets hope she's right.

Maternity leave manifesto

2010-04-28T15:25:00.004+01:00

Everyone else seems to be writing manifestos at the moment – so I thought I might as well write one too. Luckily I don’t have to worry about the country’s debt, how on earth to overhaul the education system or whether or not Trident is really necessary – no my concerns are far more frivolous, but no less important (in my mind anyway). So this is my manifesto - a maternity leave manifesto if you will – spelling out my intentions for the next five weeks.

I will sort out the wardrobes and donate all the clothes we haven’t worn in ages to charity [Note – I may or may not include Mr Jones in this – his wardrobe needs a serious detox and his presence might hamper proceedings somewhat.]

I will weed the front garden – getting rid of a particularly offensive dandelion which mocks me every time I leave the house with is bolshy yellowness amid my blue, white, purple and pink colour scheme (maybe I should give up having a colour scheme? Should gardens have colours schemes – discuss)

I will rejig the kitchen cupboards to make room for all things baby….and get rid of packets of things that have been haunting the depths of the kitchen for months – possibly years.

I will plant things in the veg patch and encourage the cats to find somewhere else to sleep that is less muddy.

I will clean the oven – because clearly it is abhorrent to oven repairmen

I will scrub the hall floor back to it’s pristine Victorian gloriousness and then I’ll wax it and buff it before returning the floor buffer to Mrs Norman (I’ve had it in the loft for the last year and the poor woman hasn’t been able to buff her floors – though I have to say she hasn’t complained)

I will listen to my hypnosis for birth cd at least every other day, take my raspberry leaf tea capsules and invest in some clary sage.

I will buy a decent camera and learn how to take proper pictures just like this fabulous woman does

I will get our wedding and honeymoon pictures printed and framed

I will pack my hospital bag

I will eat breakfast outside

I will go to a café and enjoy just being on my own

I will talk to Baby Jones and maybe take him/her to the sea

I will finish the telling of our love story

The final bump pic

2010-04-28T09:50:00.006+01:00

32 weeks

28 weeks

20 weeks

Here it is, the final picture of my bump as taken by the talented Ruth Jenkinson. She has very kindly offered to come and taken pictures during the birth(!) - which is something she used to do for Pregnancy & Birth magazine.

While this would allow me to give you a blow by blow account of the birth, which I'm sure you'd all be desperate to read (no? you're sure?), somehow I just don't think it's right to have your friend and colleague down the business end with an SLR. So instead she's going to come and take pictures of Baby J once he/she has arrived - which will hopefully be a whole lot more pretty.

The bump has grown and is only going to get bigger over the next six weeks. I looked in the mirror the other day and wondered just how I'm still managing to stand upright.