Rubik Jubilation

There are many unsolved puzzles in our house: why Crunchy Nut cornflakes seem to disappear overnight (other cereals are not affected); how it is possible that I have over one hundred odd boys' socks (not even hyperbole); why the remote control is male-gendered (read 'Hearth-Father-controlled'); why there seems to be genuine confusion over the precise meaning of the word, 'now' (unless delivered at a hundred decibels through gritted teeth). But, one mystery has finally been solved.

Gilby has persevered and solved his Rubik's cube. 

It has taken five months. Tears, tantrums, slammed doors. It has tested the patience of both Hearth-parents. 

But, finally, there was jubilation in the Hearth-household last night. 

Algorithms have not yet been learned by heart, and we are a long way from a record-breaking time, but  'tis done, and for that I am grateful. 

Currently reading: The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead

I Need A Bigger Bedtime

"I need a bigger bedtime," said Eddie, as I went in to wake him up for a second time for school this morning when he failed to appear at breakfast after the first call.

Yes, I thought, perceptive of you. But, on the other hand, at whatever point in the evening I decide to brace myself and mention the 'b' word, you embark on a sort of squawking performance which I have come to interpret as indicating a level of resistance to the proposal. You are also master of delaying tactics, able to draw out the whole process for a good hour or so. It is, in fact, a tad stressful, if am to be entirely honest.

Though a bigger bedtime would make all of us happier, I thought, longingly. My wine glass could be filled earlier, for one thing. Not to mention the fact that I myself could also do with a bigger bedtime, frankly.

Still, it's hard to believe that something as small and innocent-looking as this can be so noisy and ferocious before sleep, or so grumpy when it wakes up.

In the Swim of Things

Eddie has a weekly swimming lesson, and has done since he was about six weeks old. The word 'lesson' here is used in its loosest possible sense, and it's fair to say that he hasn't taken to the water like the proverbial duck. Thursday mornings have the potential to be a very stressful affair.

So, when he announced last Thursday that he wanted to get himself ready for swimming in advance, the suggestion was greeted enthusiastically by Hearth-father. Perhaps this might be a 'good' swimming day.

All was quiet upstairs for a while before Eddie marched down proudly, fully dressed but pulling his shirt buttons apart in the manner of Superman (Eddie is obsessed with superheroes; Batman and Spiderman are his current favourites) so that it was plain to see that he was already sporting his all-in-one swimsuit beneath.

Behaviour was bordering on enthusiastic, and it meant that exit from the changing rooms to poolside was unusually speedy and hassle-free. The chickens were lining themselves up to be counted.  The lesson passed without a tantrum, and Eddie even did some of the things that his teacher told him to.

But there was a problem. Hearth-father realised that, following Eddie's self-selected sartorial arrangements, he had neglected to bring along a pair of pants for Eddie to change back into after his lesson.

"Don't worry, Daddy," Eddie piped up unperturbed, "I kept my pants on underneath my swimsuit..."

Perhaps it's a superhero thing.




Currently reading: The Book of You by Claire Kendal

Toddler Tribulation

A little snapshot of what life is like in our house if the Coco Pops run out:

It doesn't make for a great start to the day.
And no, Rice Krispies with cocoa sprinkled on top does not make an effective substitute.

Note to self: Keep all breakfast cereal topped up.



Currently reading: Chop Chop by Simon Wroe

Carry on Not Camping

Easter 2015 was the time that Hearth-Mother decided it would be a Good Thing to have a camping adventure in the garden.  The little people had been looking for a good excuse to set up their 'dens' and there would be space enough to pitch a proper tent close by. It might even be considered 'glamping' given the proximity and availability of electricity, heat and lighting. She reckoned without the chickens, the commuters on the A29, the three-year-old's tantrum, a snuffling retriever and a Chinook helicopter.

Two sets of our friends are camping this Easter, and reluctant to join in since our last outing two years ago when I had to be chipped from a block of ice in the middle of the night, I thought a garden expedition would be a happy compromise.

It took one evening to pitch the tent so that everything was ready for the following night. Youngest, Eddie, came home from nursery in the filthiest, blackest of exhausted tempers, and refused to wait for his campfire supper. He fell asleep in a stroppy huff on the sofa.  One down.  Not the holiday bliss I had imagined.

Three of the chickens had 'escaped' from and were careering round the garden doing what chickens do, which is mostly to poo everywhere.  Hearth-father thought it was time their wings were clipped again.  My less rational explanation was that the sight of a large purple canvas erection next to their coop was enough to send them on the run.

Kempton got over-excited and got in to the bin, so that as well as chicken excrement, our campsite was also now littered with a week's worth of decomposing rubbish.

We cooked beans and sausages on the campfire, followed by marshmallows. In a fit of guilt at all the fun we were having I decided to wake up Eddie to see if he wanted to join in.  Big mistake. The pre-supper tantrum was just a warm-up for the screaming and relentless sobbing all over the garden he had planned for the rest of the evening.

Just as we got all three sleeping (and overcame the difficulty of Eddie getting his bottom all the way into his sleeping bag) a pair of helicopters decided to circle low over the house with searchlights, so that we felt like we were in the middle of a James Bond film at the very least.

By the time we settled everyone again the roaring traffic of the A29 was just about to begin for the morning rush hour. (Or so it seemed!)  I was under this strange illusion that we lived in a rural area, but it transpires that our main road is more like the M1 first thing in the morning. The over-efficiency of the heater meant that the previous year's defrosting wasn't necessary; in fact we all woke up with a bit of a sweat on.  One that had absolutely no relation to the amount of red wine I felt it necessary to consume in order to sleep five in our four-man tent.

'Again, again!' said the kids in the morning, like demented Teletubbies.

But that nonsense is all over for another year, at least.

(Although I do, inadvertently, appear to have book a yurt for us all to stay in for the Hay Festival next month.  Whoops...)



Currently reading: A Handful of Dust by Evelyn Waugh

How Do You Eat Yours?

Eddie would not, it's fair to say, fare well in the infamous 'marshmallow test'.

After his Easter Egg hunt he was allowed to choose one thing to eat straight away.  He promptly selected the largest egg, sat in the middle of the kitchen floor and ate the whole thing top down without pause.

Later, when he was having a tantrum - can't remember what it was about, but it would have been something like having the wrong-coloured straw in his drink or having been given the Octonauts plate instead of the tractor one, that sort of thing - I made the mistake of saying, "I think chocolate makes you grumpy."

He stopped sobbing for a moment, looked me squarely in the eye and replied. "No, it doesn't. You make me grumpy." Which rather told me.

Happy Easter!


Currently reading: The Lie by Helen Dunmore

No Fight Left Club

So, tantrums, then.

They are a bit worse, it seems, when I am single-parenting.  Hearth-Father is away in Malta on a cricket tour.

Eddie's tantrum this afternoon was prolonged.  And LOUD.  Insistent.  High-pitched and piercing.  It made me send him to bed without any supper, which I thought only happened in Victorian novels.  This was a meltdown of epic proportions. He was utterly inconsolable.  His eyes, at one point, seemed to roll backwards in his head with the sheer effort of continuing to scream.  And when he could get words out at all, which wasn't often, they mostly involved declamations like, "I...CAN'T....STOP...SCREAMING!" with giant shuddering gulps in between.  Horrible.  It made Eddie Norton's character fighting with himself in Fight Club look rational. It's been a long while since we've had one like that.

So I'm trying to work out what caused it; because, frankly, what escalated it was that I sat his Toy Story Woody toy upright instead of laying him down on the ground flat. Yes, I know.  Call social services.

Since he turned three at the weekend, can I blame 'terrible twos'?  I'm wondering if feeding him rubbish yesterday (birthday cake, chips, ketchup, sweets) was a deciding factor.  Bad if it was, because I seem not to have fed him at all, this evening.  Daddy being away?  The fact that everyone bowed down to his will yesterday because he was the birthday boy - and then didn't today, when he wasn't?  Being exhausted after having a lovely day in glorious late September sunshine at the stoolball, at the park and playing football?E

Who knows?  All I know is that I'm as exhausted as he is.  How does a little body have so much noise and fight in it? The 'expert advice' on www.babycenter.com suggests that the number one coping mechanism during a toddler tantrum is 'not losing your own cool'.  Right.  This is followed by the advice to 'remember that you're the adult'.  Oh.

Come back, Daddy!



Currently Reading: The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver

Bedtime Blues

I remember those halcyon days (sigh) back when bedtimes were easy.  Oh, I used to nod with sympathy and understanding as other parents described their debilitating night-time woes, but all the time I was smiling smugly on the inside.

Well.  It is payback time now.

Gilby's nightly tantrums have, if anthing, increased in duration and intensity over the last five days.  I made the school girl error of googling the problem.  Inevitably I stumbled blindly into a multitude of frenzied forums where the sleep-deprived contributors seemed ready to commit infanticide.

Suggestions ranged from cuddling your troubled toddler all night long, to locking him alone in the pitch black and ignoring the screams.  Well, that's cleared that one up, then.

It did seem to me to neatly summarise the two extremes of approach to parenting, if nothing else.

We have gone for what I hope is a middle ground of calm whispering (it works, which losing my temper completely on Saturday night blatantly did not), moving bedtime forward by half an hour, a CBeebies podcast to listen to...and a stairgate beyond his door.  Yes, I know, that's the controversial bit.

Last night it only took two hours for him to go down.  A significant improvement on Saturday's six hour marathon which left us both physically and emotionally drained.  And tonight...well, it's early yet, but...no screams!

I am not smiling smugly, inwardly or outwardly.  Yet.

Gunpowder, Treason and Plop!

We were getting ready to go to the fireworks on Saturday night.  This was actually our second fireworks display in the name of Bonfire Night this year, which I know seems a little excessive.

But the first was an unmitigated disaster. It took place at the local cricket ground, and we were doing our best to enjoy the fair rides in spite of the pouring rain, when the display began.  Daddy saw just the first few sparks before Gertie began screaming with terror.  Gilby, shocked by the dramatic reaction in his older sister decided that fireworks must therefore be the scariest thing on the planet, and he went off like a rocket.  Eddy wasn't particularly impressed either.  Daddy bustled them all into the home team dressing room, to wait it out like an air raid.

I decided that it would be better if I didn't hang about inside the men's changing room, so made the most of being able to watch the fireworks.  Spectacular though they were it wasn't quite the same without my family. At least I got to see something, unlike poor Daddy who came home muttering about the extortionate cost of the tickets.  The evening was gunpowder, treason and flop; a damp squib, so to speak.

So it was with a carefully orchestrated Plan B that we were heading off to the in-laws who live on the village green opposite the field of the display.  Grumps would stay at home with them, whilst Daddy and I and Eddy could saunter over and enjoy the display.  Hooray!  Except that there was another unfortunate damp start to the evening.

I was in the bathroom, putting the finishing touches to my make-up.  Tricky these days, since I barely remember how to apply it.  In my haste, I dropped my mascara wand.  Straight into Gilby's freshly-filled potty, with a resounding 'plop'.  It was, uncharacteristically, for me, an expensive brand, as it had been a birthday gift.  I felt like creating a tantrum to rival Gilby's, but managed to reign myself in: I only had myself to blame for lax potty-emptying. It's fair to say that I wasn't in the best of moods as I left the house.

Thankfully, the fireworks were brilliant.  And I preferred the cheap old mascara, anyway. 

The Restless Pillow

Sleep has become a problem in our house.  Gilby's very much in the Virginia Woolf frame of mind in relation to bedtime, seeing sleep as 'that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life' though of course he doesn't express it quite so articulately.  Here are his top five reasons for not going to bed.

1. "I'm not tired."  This one is particularly favoured after a long, busy day of lots of physical exercise and will be accompanied by enough tears, tantrums and general misbehaviour so as to suggest that 'tired' is exactly what he is.  This is my favourite since it usually means that he'll be snoring inside ten minutes.
2. "I don't like rooms."  This one's a bit trickier.  We moved him from his own room into sharing with his big sister a few weeks ago, because it began as "I don't like my room". When he persists with this one I usually offer the garden or the shed as alternatives.
3. "My duvet's not on straight."  There's enough OCD in this household to ensure that a not-straight duvet is extremely problematic for getting off to sleep.  Much fuss and smoothing over.  Calmly. Easier said than done.
4. ""There are people walking round and they're talking about trying to get me."  This one makes my heart hurt as I remember my own irrational night terrors.  It requires cuddles and headstroking and the promise of leaving the door open.
5. "There are monsters in here." As for 4.

Good night.

Pushing the Boundaries (or not)

I have self-diagnosed a severe case of bad parenting.  I have one 'ailing' baby at the boundaries of the weight chart, one explosive three year old in reference to whom the phrase, 'pushing the boundaries' can only be used as a polite euphemism, and an angelic eldest child who wouldn't know how to push a boundary if it bit her.

Gilby's behaviour is deteriorating exponentially, if that is possible.  Added to the tantrums (now indescribable) is the refusal to sleep alone, or, in fact, go to bed at all.  This then impinges on 'grown-up' time in the evenings, which is an absolute requirement for maintaining sanity.  If you see me on the front pages of the County Times on a murder charge, you'll know instantly that I am guilty.  I could cheerfully throttle him fifty times a day.  (Rhymes with a book I'm reading...)

At the other end of the spectrum is Gertie.  We went shopping in the village the other day and she wanted to bring her bike (stabilisers on, of course).  She was very good at sticking to the designated areas whilst I went into each shop.  My careful boundaries, "So - you can cycle round between here and here but not go up to the road, Ok?"  were met with an obedient, "Yes, Mummy."

Peering over the counter at the post office to check that she was in the right place, I noticed that she had confined herself to a thin sliver of pavement and was riding up and down on that, even though I'd offered the whole of the pedestrian end of the precinct.

"What was wrong with over there?" I joked, as I came out.  She pointed to the blue plastic National Lottery pointy-finger by the window. 

"But Mummy, the sign said, 'play here', so I did."

Scars, Tantrums and Banishment

Oh.  We are recovering from a row. This is a BAD THING. And I am still nursing the scars from a bouncy-castle related drinking injury at Gertie's birthday party, so feeling doubly wounded.

Have I mentioned recently how 'difficult' Gilby is?  On a scale of one to ten he currently sits somewhere around 'hellish'.  Temper tantrums, an unhealthy preoccupation with the word, 'no', an inability to carry out a task without being distracted by a toy: Eating, dressing, teeth-brushing, putting on shoes...the list of potential clash-points before we have even left the house in the morning is quite...exhaustive.  Sorry: exhausting.

This morning's flashpoint occured in the bathroom.  I have a three strikes rule.  I say 'rule', I suppose it simply reflects the limited amount of patience I possess. Once I have politely requested a course of action twice, I really can't be doing with a third time. So - to cut a tedious story slightly shorter,  I ended up forcibly brushing his teeth for him and then banishing Gilby to his bedroom to calm down.

I went back in to see if he was ready for 'deep breaths and a cuddle' but, no, it was too soon for that.
So, I returned to getting myself ready.  I mostly remember to brush my hair these days, and occasionally find some lipstick to apply badly. It was at this point that Daddy knocked on Gilby's door.  Met with a gruff, "Go away!" he responded with, "Don't worry, Gilby, it's only Daddy."  Don't worry?  DON'T WORRY?  Oh, I see, it's not evil Mummy, it's only Daddy."  Well, I'm afraid I momenarily became 'evil Mummy' until Daddy retracted his statement.  Oh dear.  Was I over-reacting?

And then Gertie decided, inexplicably at that moment, to point out that she hadn't, in fact, had any of her own birthday cake at her party. The cake that I had lovingly laboured over just for her...  It didn't really do a great deal to lower the emotional intensity of the moment.

And all this by 8am, before my day's work has supposedly begun.

Things got better though, and finished this evening with a glass of wine in the garden in glorious evening sunshine. The healing power of sun and alcohol...now only the bouncy-castle scars remain.

Sack of Potatoes

Saturday was our village 'fest' where the car park and shopping precinct are given over to stalls selling everything from olive oil to handicrafts to sponsored bricks for African classrooms. There are tombolas and home-made cakes and even a fair-ride. So my little people were happy, especially when, around lunchtime there was a cheer-leading display. After a couple of routines I suggested that it might be time to go home, but Gilby was adamant that he wanted to stay and watch more of the 'dancing'.

In an effort to stave off the now-frequent-terrible-twos-tantrum I acquiesced. How silly. Because then he just kicked off with even more of a vengeance when they actually finished. He sobbed in the street and refused to walk back to the car, stepping out behind parked cars shouting, 'No, no, no...' continuously at the top of his voice.

I think he was lamenting the dancing being over, but by this time he had lost most of the power of meaningful communication and wouldn't listen to reason. I was pushing the pram and holding hands with a skipping 4-year-old, and just wanted to be home. So - I picked Gilby up under one arm, pushed the pram vigorously with the other and let Gertie fend for herself. It wasn't a good look, and it certainly wasn't my finest hour of parenting. But we got back to the car in one piece, eventually. What I didn't need was a total stranger to wind down the window of a passing car and scream, "Don't hold him like a sack of potatoes!" at the top of her voice.

Who did she think she was? How dare she interfere? Don't scream out of car windows at stressed families!

Smashing Pumpkins and a Raging Raisin

Here are Gertie and Gilby splendidly painted as pumpkins for Halloween.

Eddie, alas, is too new for face-painting, but it doesn't matter because when he screws his little face up for a good screaming cry he resembles a particularly scary halloween pumpkin anyway. His new nickname is the 'raging raisin' on account of his newborn wrinkliness combined with his ability to ratchet up the decibels. I wonder if this is typical third-child behaviour, borne of the need to be very loud to make his demands heard above the others...?

We are winning, finally, with Gilby and the potty training; though the timing of a severe bout of diarrhoea was not helpful to this process. Enough said.

Things That Go Bump in the Kitchen

Another year, another birthday, another mess in the kitchen, another baking triumph (but don't look too closely, it's a little, er, 'rustic' round the edges).

Yes, Gilby was two last week, and with a few days to go before the event he announced that he no longer wanted another train cake, but 'Mr Bump'. Good, I thought, at least it's round. Though blue was not the most appetising colour for the, mostly adult, guests at his tea party.

Pregnancy hormones must be kicking in big time, because I also MADE bunting for the occasion. I saw some for sale at the primary school fete and thought, 'Twenty quid for a couple of metres? Pah! I'll make it!'

So, having invested in a sewing machine and a selection of fabric, I reckon my bunting has set me back over £200. Oh well.

But the little man was on top form, dressed in shirt and tie for the day, and even going as far as to sit back up in bed, more tired than I've ever seen him, just after kissing him goodnight to say, "Thank you for my party, mummy," in the sweetest, most angelic little voice.

Now, lest all this sound too good to be true, and I'm even sickening myself with the homely baking and bunting imagery, let me just pronounce, for the record, that the terrible twos began in earnest the very next day as Gilby kicked and screamed and demanded, "More presents, more presents, more presents..." for hours. So domestic bliss was short-lived...

34 Weeks pregnant: Definitely not feeling the bikini body...
Currently reading: That Summer in Ischia by Penny Feeny

Gangsta Nap

Gilby is eight weeks away from his second birthday, but the terrible twos have well and truly arrived. My usually smiley, happy, very good natured little boy is occasionally kidnapped and substituted for a little horror who looks remarkably similar. But when this doppelganger is present, we have regular screaming tantrums, the comedy grumpy face, the inflexible torso, the poker-straight back, the kicking and lashing out, and the repeated no's regardless of what the question is:

"Would you like a biscuit?"
"NO!"
"Would you like a birthday party?"
"NO!"
"Would you like to stand up?"
"NO!"
"Sit down?"
"No, no, NO!"
"Would you like to scream your head off all day long?"
"NO!"
Well stop doing it then....

We had one such incident the other night at bedtime.

Usual bedtime routine - supper, bath, Bedtime Hour on CBeebies, then milk in the rocking chair whilst I read my Kindle. In case this sounds heartless, it is at his behest. "Mummy, read Kindle!" (Sentences generally take an imperative form at the moment.)

When he has had enough of his milk he thrusts it forward and whispers, "Finished...bed." At this point, I tuck him in, leave his little wind-up cot-music playing, turn out the light and gently close the door. He might sing to himself for a little while, but usually he is asleep within a few minutes. (Lest this all sound too good to be true, let me reassure you that he will be up at least once and probably twice later during the night...)

Anyway, on the night in question, instead of the cosy little scenario described above, a purple-faced, snot-ridden, screaming tantrum from hell ensued. Nothing could calm him, and I resorted to leaving him crying in his cot for a while. I couldn't pick him up anyway, given the rigid back, clenched fists and kicking (not great for my 26 week 'baby tummy').

But the little man has learned how to reach over from the cot, open his door and turn the light on. The tantrum meant that Gertie couldn't get to sleep, so I had to drag the cot into the middle of the room in an effort to keep the door closed and contain the noise. After fifteen minutes had passed he still didn't seem to have calmed down at all. I had to go back in, and I braved his angry lashing out. I sat stubbornly in the rocking chair repeatedly offering the milk and singing. (Somewhere Over the Rainbow, his favourite from tiny.) His reaction was to punch me repeatedly in the mouth.

I persisted. Eventually, the rigid, angry little body went limp in my arms and he reached out for his bottle, snuggling back into his usual position.

He slid the bottle to one side of his mouth so that only the corner of his lips was moving and, menacing like some mafiosa gangster, gave his snarling, whispered demand that I 'Sing that Song!'

Gilby Says 'No'

In spite of Gilby's rich and varied (and newly acquired) vocabulary that includes such gems as:

- All aboard!
- baby (applied to anyone the same age or younger than himself, with absolutely no concept that he might still be considered one...)
- ballet
- balloon
- breakfast
- control (for remote control; he doesn't seem to have adopted the household's preferred term, 'blibber')
- cricket
- like it (said with a screwy-up face that actually means 'I don't like it')
- penguin
- present

along with dozens of others, many of which are uninterpretable, there is one word that rings out loud and clear, and at least 100 times a day: "No!"

At certain times he seems to get in to a cycle of 'nos' that he cannot escape from. Even if the options offered are mutually exclusive.

Are you finished? - No!
Would you like some more, then? - No!
Would you like to get down from the table? - No!
Would you like to stay there all day? - No!

Sometimes as they build, they are pronounced with increasing petulance. At others, you can forget Carol Beer's 'Computer says 'no'!' Gilby's automaton-like negatives are a force to be reckoned with.

I know it's an assertion of his rights, a testing of the boundaries, a manifestation of his growing independence and individuality, but it's bloody funny. Especially after abouth the fifth consecutive one, when I can do nothing but stand back and laugh...because he combines his responses with his cartoon-sad-face: comically protruding lips down-turned at the corners; breathing heavily downwards through his nostrils as though blowing smoke; the excessively heavy frown, large eyes peering up accusingly beneath. He just needs to make mock horns with his fingers and push his leg backwards to complete the picture of a raging bull about to charge.

So, this is how breakfast ends, this morning. It's going to be a long day.

Sleep is for the Drunk

"Christmas time, mistletoe and wine,
Children staying up past bedtime..."

Amidst the fun, fine food, Father Christmas and frivolity, Gertie was a little sleep-deprived over the festive period. Life was just too exciting to have a nap during the day; why, she might have missed something important like the opportunity to open another present. Waking up early was obviously par for the course, likewise going to bed late.

Her tiredness manifests itself in the usual ways: squealing and lots of high-pitched noises, increased likelihood of bumps and scrapes and tumbles. A corresponding reduction in pain threshold resulting in frequent tears. More tantrums and irrational behaviour (like the bread roll that was flung violently across the table at a party yesterday because Daddy had innocently cut it in half and Gertie didn't want a 'broken' one.)

But when she is really, really, really tired she moves beyond these tell-tale signs into a whole other zone.

Her words become slurred and sentences disintegrate. Thoughts and ideas seem increasingly random and following her chain of thought is nearly impossible. Her eyes start to roll back into her head and there is no other way to describe it: she begins to resemble an adult who is more than a little tipsy.

Frankly, she fitted in just perfectly this Christmas.

Pinchy Boy

We didn't have our happiest ever Sunday yesterday.

For Gertie, the terrible twos (which I have been fervently denying the existence of for the last six months) have finally kicked in.

At breakfast, she refused to drink from her cup as it was the wrong one. It was right the day before, so this was bewildering. Then there were tears because she didn't want the raisins 'hidden' in her cereal. (This is usually a fun game that causes plenty of giggles.) The banana got mashed into the 'cup of wrong' and smeared over table and face while I popped into the next room to give Gilby a feed. I came back in to carnage over the freshly washed floor. What has happened to her oft-commented-upon 'astonishingly good toddler table manners'?

Then there were two tantrums in public places (one of the prostrate-on-the-floor-kicking-and-refusing-to-move-variety), followed by a poo in the knickers (I have proudly been telling everyone how quickly and how well Gertie has potty-trained) but worst of all was the new nickname she has designed, completely independently, for her baby brother. We like nicknames in our family, and all have one. But Gilby's is NOT and NEVER has been, 'Pinchy Boy'.

And you can probably imagine the associated actions that come with the name. And yes, his pudgy cheeks do look invitingly 'pinchy', but surely not to a two-year-old? This is a worrying development as she has previously been very affectionate towards the new arrival.

She has gone to nursery this morning, giving everyone time to regroup, and Gilby's 'pinchy-boy' cheeks some much-needed healing time.

Absence Makes Mummy Much More Tolerant

Gertie went to stay with the grandparents last night. This was supposed to give me a bit of a break, since she was collected at 5pm. See The Hardest Part is the Evening.

In fact, what happened was that Gilby was just more demanding than ever, and I pined after my daughter ridiculously. I worked out that we have spent a total of fourteen nights apart in her short little life: a week's holiday last year, a few days around the time that Gilbert was due (in case anything happened in the night), and then the odd day here and there with grandparents for babysitting when it was easier for her to be there than for them to come here.

But last night there was no reason for her to be away: we were just home and not doing anything. (We had planned a night away, but the other grandparent, who was supposed to take Gilby, was ill, so the eagerly-awaited first full night of sleep in three and a half months has had to be postponed.) And the house seemed strangely empty without her. It seemed odd walking past her open and empty bedroom, and lonely in the morning without her joining us for cuddles in bed before breakfast.

She came home mid-morning today, so was only gone for 16 hours: 12 of which she would have been asleep for anyway; but I surprised myself completely with how much I missed her. And I was much more tolerant today of any poor behaviour this afternoon, cherishing every minute. I didn't even mind when she had a small tantrum because I had forgotten to roll her sleeves up before washing her hands.

I must be getting soppy in my old age.