Are you a parent? Are you on Instagram? I’ll bet you’ve uploaded a few of these photos… drink a shot for every pic you’ve posted (kidding! Or, you know, not…)
1. The much-needed morning caffeine hit
Whether you’ve had a disturbed night because of a little person, or your kiddos just like to get up at 4.45am EVERY MORNING, that first morning #mycuppa is the best.
2. The (often rare) night out selfie
When I post this kind of pic, I’m thinking ‘Look at meeeee! I’m wearing heels! I’m going out!’ It’s one of those moments you just have to share with the world, right?
3. Kids’ shoes
They’re so small. And cute. How can we not add them to Insta-history?
Gina Ford. Jo Frost. Heidi Murkoff. These people all have their own theories on how to best deal with your baby or child. They have pearls of wisdom about sleep training, controlled crying, routines, feeding on demand, behavioural issues and more. (Whether you choose to follow their advice is another matter altogether…) Strangely, though, none of them advocate my favourite method of parenting: bribery.
I am an unashamed fan of bribing my daughter. I use anything and everything I can – ice cream, use of the iPad, going swimming at the weekend, extra bedtime stories and the general vague promise of ‘doing something really fun tomorrow’. Basically, if it’s something she loves, it’s used to bribe her. And now that she is approaching four, I find myself turning to this method more and more, and in different ways…
Bribing her to behave
Take the other day, for example. She asked for an ice cream at the zoo. “If you’re a REALLY good girl all afternoon at the zoo, you can have an ice cream before we leave.” This was followed by gentle reminders every time she started to whine about her legs being tired/her arms being cold/her face paint rubbing off. “Remember, you need to be good if you want your ice cream….” In the end, she traded in her ice cream for a go on the bouncy castle (those fickle pre-schoolers!) but the bribery was still there. And she behaved… for the most part. Continue reading
I don’t know about your kids, but my three-year-old is really into make believe at the moment. At the weekend, she kept telling us to say hello to her invisible friend, Georgina, and her invisible baby, Gracie. She regularly makes us all swap names/roles, so that she is Mummy and I am Baby (I suspect she likes bossing me about…) and she often jumps from the bottom step shouting “Spider-Man!”
This superhero backpack is right up her street. Sent to us by online boutique Gigi Brooks, to try out, we took it for a road-test the other day. “Let’s go for a walk!” I suggested to the three-year-old. “Can I take my buggy and baby?” she asked. “Well, you could,” I replied. “But we need to go on a special spy mission, so baby might get scared.” She thought for a minute. “OK Mummy, I’ll just put baby down to sleep in the living room, and then I’ll be ready.” A few minutes later, she was back, put on her special backpack and we headed out.
“What’s the special spy mission?” she asked, as we walked along. We had not long been to The Discover Centre in Stratford where they have an interactive spy session. She’d been a little scared by that (I think she thought there really was an evil Russian doctor hiding in the next room) but this was a spy mission she could get on board with. “Well,” I said. “We have to walk to the end of our road, like this, pretending everything it completely normal…. and then when we get to the end of our street, we have to hide behind a wall, and transform into a superhero ready for our mission.”
Excited, she legged it along our street. At the end, I showed her how her a pouch at the top of the backpack unzipped to reveal A SUPERHERO CAPE! And in another pouch was A SUPERHERO MASK! Within seconds, the transformation was complete, and we set about our mission: to look for things that rhymed. Continue reading
We usually judge how old our children are getting by their age or their weight or their height. Although I haven’t had my three-year-old weighed since I last went to a health visitor many moons ago and I only know she is 1m tall because she was able to ride in the dodgem cars with us at a funfair recently. But that’s OK because there are less obvious signs that your child is growing up…
You stop buying nappies… and start buying teeny weeny pants.
You pack away the stair gate.
Your child’s preferred mode of wheel-based transport changes from pushchair to scooter.
You start forgetting to switch on the baby monitor, when your child goes to bed.
They can dress themselves, and actually manage to get everything on, the right way round. Continue reading
My husband, Mr P, is fantastic. I’ve probably mentioned it before. He’s the kind of man who is happy to do 50/50 around the house (*cough* there’s a chance he may do more than 50%) and he doesn’t see parenting as my job, he sees it as something we’re equally responsible for. Well, I mean really, what did you expect from me? I wouldn’t have married a man who’d be the type to dart out to the pub, leaving me to cook dinner every night and put our daughter to bed, would I?
He’s also really hands on. He takes the three year old swimming, plays rough and tumble, pretends he’s a monster who’s coming to eat everyone, makes tissue paper flowers to stick on a robot… You know, standard A* dad stuff.
But in the past year or so, I’ve started to feel a bit sorry for Mr P because he has to fight for my attention on a regular basis. Once our little girl is safely tucked up in bed, he often spends evenings in his own company, even though I’m there in the house with him.
Why? Because he is a blog widow. Night after night, once we have eaten dinner, instead of settling down together on the sofa to watch a box set on Netflix, I’ll open the laptop and tap away on a blog post or tinker around with some element of my blog. Mr P, meanwhile, will watch Mad Men/Battlestar Galactica/F1 (aka stuff I’m not interested in) or go for a manly bubble bath while listening to some Podcasts.
I guess it’s similar to being a football widow, so it’s not a new concept, but it’s new to us. Before my blog came along, we spent hours watching TV together and before we became parents, we’d go to the pub regularly or out to dinner, to set the world to rights over wine and pasta. Continue reading