Little Mix Up

I thought that, with all the children now settled at school, we had passed the point of major milestones but Gertie achieved one last night with her first 'gig'. We went, (along with most of the primary-aged girls in Sussex) to see Little Mix at Ardingly. Someone was VERY excited about the prospect.

Her mother was, well, less so.

Preparations were extensive: the choosing of the outfit, the hair, the earrings. And of course we bought the t-shirt, which was modeled immediately:

It was a nightmare getting in and out of the ground, and we ended up spending longer in the car park afterwards than the band actually played for; but, logistical gripes aside, I enjoyed the whole thing much more than I thought I would, and mostly I enjoyed Gertie's joy in the whole experience. We went with two of her friends and they danced and screamed and hugged each other all night long.

With all that car park time to kill, the post mortem was extensive, and involved the three girls reliving every word to every song. Which was nice. But Gertie wished that she could have bought one of the lanyards designed to look like a back-stage pass. I pointed out that I'd needed to remortgage to cover the cost of food and their soft drinks, AND she'd got a t-shirt.

"But Jess went to see The Next Step Live and she got a sweat-shirt, a t-shirt, a programme and one of the necklace things," she pouted.

"Lanyard," I muttered, correcting her, and the conversation changed.

Except that, a few minutes later they were discussing another friend of theirs that they thought was a bit spoilt, and I heard one of them say, 'Yeah, she's such a lanyard...'

Hoping for an entry in the next OED.


Currently reading: To Miss With Love by Katharine Birbalsingh

Dressed to Distress

Everything is a battle with Eddie at the moment, but matters of sartorial choice are the worst.

He uses strange adjectives to explain why he will not wear a particular pair of trousers.  They might, for example, be 'too furry', (though I can confirm, categorically, that he does not own a single pair of fur trousers) 'not bony enough' (likewise) and often complains that the pockets are 'bumpy'.

His wardrobe is extensive, which is what happens when you have an older brother and get all his hand-me-downs; but only two or three items remain eligible for actual wearing at any given time.

This means that mornings are often fraught and it is easiest to let Eddie dress himself.

Which is how he ended up at church this morning clothed in mismatched stripey socks, the lower half of his Ugandan national team football kit, and a t-shirt with a monster on it.  Not exactly Sunday best, more like 'Sunday mess', but at least we managed to leave the house without a row.

Though he decided to announce loudly, delightedly and without preamble during the quiet moment of reflection between the gospel and the homily, 'MUMMY, I HAVEN'T GOT ANY PANTS ON UNDER MY SHORTS.'

A pause, and then a stage whisper, ''SHALL I SHOW YOU?'

Even the priest looked like he had to suppress a giggle, though some older members of the congregation were less understanding.

We didn't stay for coffee this morning.


Currently reading:  Living With It by Lizzie Enfield

Traditional Dress

I went out dressed in my new Christmas poncho, feeling both snug and smug.


Daddy and I were enjoying a rare night out at a local Indian restaurant. It was a lovely meal, and as the time came to pay the bill, the remains of the Scottish banknotes came out.

When the waiter looked slightly aghast we had to explain that they were legal tender and we only had them because we'd just been staying in Scotland with friends and family.


I nipped off to the loo as the bill was being settled, so I didn't hear the next comment first hand:


"And your wife? Is she wearing traditional dress?"


Still snug, not quite so smug!





Currently reading: Death Comes to Pemberley by PD James

Jeans Blues

I have, this morning, much to my surprise, managed to squeeze myself into a pair of pre-Gertie jeans. 

I have therefore disproved the well-known (to myself) proverb that you can't teach old jeans a new body, and though they no longer make the most comfortable outfit, and I shan't be sporting a cropped top with them, there is something deeply satisfying about the achievement. 

The joy this brings is marred somewhat by the realisation that they are probably eight to ten years past their fashion-date, being rather more on the flared side of bootcut, and of an indigo that hasn't been seen on the high street in a while.  Sod it.  I'm wearing them anyway.

This is a post that won't be receiving a pictorial accompaniment...

Dressing Down

Gertie was keen to dress herself from before the age of two. She needed no encouragement, and certainly no help, thank you very much. This has continued through to the dizzy heights of being five. And dress herself she does, though these days she manages to get far fewer items back to front or inside out. My sister, based on the South coast, will often comment on 'how very Brighton' Gertie looks; a euphemism for..well, slightly eccentric, I suppose.

Gilby, soon to be three years old, has no such pretensions. The most he claims to be able to dress or undress is to remove his socks, with much huff and puff and fuss, just prior to his bath. Everything else must be done for him. Indeed, when I have forced him to dress himself just to make a point, he has made one back by making the process so painful and unproductive (usually involving two limbs down same leg-hole of his trousers, and I deliberately say 'limbs' because I don't necessarily mean legs) that I am forced to intervene.

Strange, then, how the arrival of the paddling pool in the garden today saw him whip his clothes off in a jiffy, no problem at all. He was also, curiously, able to don them again whilst I wasn't looking. I will remind him of this miraculous feat tomorrow morning, though I have a sneaking suspicion he will play helpless once more.

The Importance of Being Earnest

I came down the stairs this morning wearing the same dress as in this picture. (Not a good photo, I grant you, but I was nearly six months pregnant then, now I look much more svelt in it. Or so I tell myself.)

I'm slightly struggling with the working wardrobe, but this is a trusty old number. Or it was, until Gilby remarked, with an indescribable earnestness, "Oooh Mummy. I like your spiderman outfit!"

Tie for First Place

What is wrong with this picture of two beautiful princesses all dressed up?



Nothing at all, except that this is Gertie and Gilby. My son appears to be very much in touch with his feminine side: His other favourite costume is a mermaid one...

But we were at their lovely cousin's christening at the weekend, and Gilby dressed up smartly for the occasion.



I get the feeling that his father is much happier when the little man is wearing a shirt and tie!

The Edible Woman

Daddy has a black eye. A real shiner; a black to purple-hued lumpy swelling. I don't know what story he intends to tell at work tomorrow, but the actual version is this: His one-year-old son cracked Daddy across the temple with a mobile phone. It was an unlikely but extremely painful accident...and whilst Daddy was looking for sympathy, I was more worried about Gilby - who was mortified by Daddy's reaction.

Meanwhile, it seems, Gertie is concerned about the edibility of her mother.

She has a t-shirt, not bought by me, I hasten to add, bearing the legend, "Don't you think I've got a yummy mummy?"

Now that she can read a little - though she is nowhere near deciphering the whole phrase she can detect the word 'mummy' - she asked me what it said. And it is fair enough, after all, to have an interest in the motto emblazened across one's chest, I thought. After I had explained it, though, she became quite concerned.

"But Mummy, who's eaten you to know?"

Good point.

Baby Sale Hate

It's a year since I wrote my first blog post: a whole twelve months of revealing little secrets about my children to a small community of strangers. It still feels like a rather odd thing to do, but I'm hooked now.

Yesterday we went on our bi-annual pilgrimage to the local 'baby-sale'. I have to mentally prepare for these days; a necessary evil, it seems to me. Children's clothes, shoes and general stuff is so expensive that the only way we can do it is by making considerable purchases of nearly-new goods at a fraction of the price they would be in the shops.

The trouble is that the baby-sale is not a pleasant shopping experience. It is a frantic, frenzied grabbing competition where only the toughest will survive, snatching out dangerously in an effort to locate that Jojo Maman Bebe bargain or Monsoon special.

In exchange for waiting patiently and keeping her baby brother entertained whilst I wrestle with clothing racks, Gertie gets to choose a toy to take away. So it was odd to hear her say, very firmly, "I hate baby sales, Mummy," as we were en route in the car. (Of course, I hate baby sales, but I can't imagine why she should have this strong reaction.)

I thought I should get to the bottom of this, so decided to probe a little further. "What exactly is it that you don't like about them?"

This floored her for a minute. She thought very carefully, then said, "What does 'hate' mean?"

"Um. It's when you really, really, really don't like something..."

Later, as we came out (me, armed with bags of winter stuff; she, clutching her new cuddly hippo, which she christened 'Vanessa'...?) she told me that actually she didn't 'hate' baby sales. I think she genuinely didn't know what the word meant.

I felt quite pleased that it had taken her three and a half years to come across the concept of hate.

Then, on reflection, worried that she had now encountered it too early in her little life.

Wardrobe Malfunction

Gertie has become furiously insistent on choosing her own wardrobe every day.

I am happy to encourage this independence, but it comes with a price: The hideous concoction of clashing colours that are perfectly acceptable to a two year old. She is happy for me to rectify wrong-way-round or inside-out errors, but not to offer style advice.

Today, for example she is wearing no less than five different shades of pink, and has explained how she is 'all matching'. (She isn't.)

Now I don't know whether to intervene while I still have the chance; since, frankly, she is not going to accept my fashion insights in a few years time. On the other hand, it seems a shame to stifle the self-expression of toddler. I think I will just have to accept the second-glances as we walk down the street.