Camping

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.

Believe it or not

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

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

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...

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

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

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*&^!

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Croque Monsieur - warning - possible inflammatory content

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).

Nine months old

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.....

Pancake day

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

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

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.

Share and share alike

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....

Eight months old

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.