New Babies

It took me a long time to feel broody after I had my twin sons. But then being pregnant for 18 months with a three month gap would, in my humble opinion, kill the desire to procreate for a century or so.

But I’ve been surprised that I’ve started to feel it again, not really for me to actually do (I’m not insane) but just that urge to cradle, gaze at and smell a baby is becoming more appealing as I get older. And the great news is, I know a few ladies now expecting, so roll on next spring I’d say.

I do love a newborn, a baby, a toddler, a pre-schooler, a little one. Super-cute when they’re as small as dolls, delightful when they can be shocked out of a tantrum just by acting a little bit weird. Ultimate entertainment when you ask them about their family and how much wine their mothers drink. Ya know, the really entertaining stuff.

They can be excellent value, those friend’s and relative’s kids. If I’m honest, I’m happy not to spend so much time with them as teens, only because I found it irritating enough trying to glean conversation out of my own children and I’d rather wait until they get a bit older, more interesting and the attitude isn’t at volume number 11 anymore. But hey, that’s just me. (I’m not sure anyone has ever accused me of tolerance).

My best mate and I go to a rather nice hotel in central London a couple of times a year and we always spend our Sunday afternoons sitting and chatting and drinking tea and eating biscuits and reading the papers in the rather nice lounge. Generally speaking we are joined by a group of anything between 8 and 20 women celebrating a Baby Shower.

Bearing in mind that my best mate and I met within a few weeks of our first borns being ummm born and that we have six children between us, we can happily say that we have been there and we have done most things maternity wise. But having a Baby Shower isn’t one of them. They simply didn’t seem to exist when we were busy bringing up babies and I feel like we missed out, because they seem such sweet, supportive and joyous affairs. Mothers and mothers-in-law always seem to be in attendance, another few women in stretched jersey over football tummies waddle about for fun and everyone seems to be eating cake with gay abandon.

And I think one of the nicest things about them is that it gets the whole ‘come celebrate with me’ out of the way. You get to give gifts and be special and celebrate the start of a new life before the actual baby arrives. Because when your baby arrives, there are only certain people that you’d be glad to see and, quite frankly, most people won’t make the cut for the first few months.

I remember my uncle turning up out of the blue to see our first born when she was under a fortnight old and I resented every second of him drinking the tea I’d made whilst my baby slept and I didn’t.

And he wasn’t the only one. In hindsight, I should have sent a ‘round robin’ style note out that read something like this:

Come around to see us if I know you so well that I won’t even have to explain why there’s a cabbage leaf stuffed inside my bra and that I’m crying because I still can’t see my ankles. Pop in if you’re in the mood to do some washing up/ironing/cooking/cleaning of floors without us actually having to talk to you. Enter if you think I’d feel comfortable enough to have you sit there holding my baby whilst I change the dressing on my episiotomy and promptly fall asleep with a boob hanging out. If you want to bring flowers, expect a tight-lipped thank you, and be prepared to silently return in a week to throw them out.

And if you think that a nice 30 minute snuggle with a sleeping baby whilst you talk about how your boss is pissing you off to a semi-comatose woman with bruised eyes and bleeding nipples is your idea of fun, then you need to look at yourself in the mirror and try to work out what kind of human being you actually are.

And so, before I truly get into the groove about the unwitting idiocy of the visitors that we received with our daughter and then with our twins, I’ll get back to why I think baby showers are so awesome.

Because when you’re heavily, but not too uncomfortably pregnant, you can spend a couple of hours surrounded by friends and nearest and dearest celebrating with cake and sandwiches and tea. And then you get gifts that are useful, thoughtful and returnable whilst baby is still conveniently inside. And that’s it in a nutshell.

So, although I’m really looking forward to meeting new humans next spring and showing off my keeping babies alive skills, I think I’m also just as excited that I might be invited to a baby shower. I’ve got the best ever gifts to take. One will be our Award Winning Birthday Yearbook (it really is a frickin’ awesome gift for new babies).

The other gift will be the promise that I’ll not visit for the first two months.

 

If you’d like to give more than just the promise of your absence or the promise of your help, do check out our Birthday Yearbook here.

1 BY

The Birthday Yearbook cover

2 BY

yes, that is actually me with my firstborn

3 BY

The Birthday Yearbook

Advertisements

Being Ahead of our Time!

I’m just going through some of our product images and found this one – I wrote the copy, the lovely Lenalisa designed it and it was published in 2006.  2006! 

For those who would like a gorgeous notebook/sketchbook to capture their moments, just click on the image to be taken to the MotherShip site.  I still use mine and I do love looking back.  Here’s what it says on the back of the book:

“Moments, we all have them.  The first time you hear “I love you”, your baby’s first steps, an amazing gig, a profound comment, a silly joke that made your stomach hurt, a truly awesome view.

Write them here, keep them for inspiration, for fun, for life.”

Actually, I think that’s rather nice.  #keepingmemories

moments-01

Hot doughnuts & screaming at the sea

I awoke one Monday morning a few weeks ago with a need to do something entirely different.  Something out of my comfort zone that didn’t involve a passport, a large dose of tranquillisers, an absence from the home/office longer than 6 hours and that didn’t cost a small fortune (so two weeks in the Caribbean was out).

I still wanted an adventure. I looked at the weather forecast, wished I hadn’t, grabbed a waterproof bag, my friend and business manager (who hadn’t received the text telling him to wrap up warm), and headed out on a hot doughnut quest.

Because that was, indeed, the very quintessence of adventure that I sought on that very cold and miserable Monday morning.  Figuring that Brighton was the closest purveyor of said fresh doughnuts and being quite used to the Victoria to Brighton train line. It really wasn’t very long at all before we were walking through the lanes to find some lunch. I’m good at deferring gratification like that. The pier with its sugary fatty delights wasn’t going anywhere and I knew if I didn’t eat something wholesome, I’d be gorging like a half starved hog at a truffle convention (yeah, I don’t know if that’s a real thing either).  Oh, and Sam needed a hat to keep his head warm.

Nice tapas, nice hat (waterproof too!).  Short walk downhill to the shore. Stormy sea.

Oh man! Do I like a stormy sea.  People tend to wax lyrical about mountains making them question their very existence, something about that peace engendered by feeling so small amongst the majesty of snowy peaks.  I get that, I really do.  But the relentless of the sea, the roaring waves dragging pebbles across the shore, the salty spray crystallising on rosy cheeks. And I just need to reiterate the frickin’ relentlessness.  The sea just doesn’t stop. EVER. It’s lapped those shores like, since forever and on windy days, it’s noisy, it’s so noisy that you can’t concentrate on anything other than keeping your ears out of the wind and hunching your hands into a warm pocket or two.

And then you can scream. You can scream and shout at it.  You can shout every profanity known to man, in every combination that could even make a sailor blush (and that takes into account the real expression of ‘swear like a sailor’).  So I shouted, I shouted until the veins in my neck bulged like rope and my mouth was so dry I almost went off the idea of eating a doughnut.

I said almost.

Purged of internal noise and feeling a little light headed, we made our way to the pier and there, in the lee of the pier, we ate hot donuts watching the seas and listening to the wind.  Sam then put in a request to play on the slots and so we spent a good half an hour losing five pounds in the 10p cascade dropping thingy.

I didn’t want to worry about the London rush hour, so we left Brighton and its stormy sea and the rain that had, as forecast started to pound the pavements.  My kids had hardly noticed my absence, reaching home only half an hour after their return from school.

We finished the doughnuts off after supper.  But there was no roar of wind, no cold face, no warmth from the greasy paper bag.  It just wasn’t the same.

But it was nice day.

Monday Random Mission had been accomplished.

Mission Accomplished

Please note that although ALL of the photographs on my blog are my own (unless clearly stated), they are not necessarily from my day out – it was not a trip for photography.  Except the snap of me – that was taken on the day 🙂

 

Brighton DoughnutsBrighton

 

If, like  me, you’d like to get down there for a hot doughnut or a sea scream – here’s Southern Railway’s train timetable

Visit Brighton Website is full of key information as well as pointers to finding accommodation if you feel the need to scream at the sea some more 🙂

 

‘Holidays’ with Children

logo.jpg

 

I will never forget our first ‘holiday’ as three. Our daughter was 7 months old and I was already 4 months pregnant with identical twin boys so we kept the holiday simple. Stayed in this country, chose a delightful ‘family very friendly’ hotel just outside Bath and packed the car to the roof rack with all the paraphernalia involved with a ‘baby comes too’ holiday. At 4am on the first night of our holiday, we were starting to pack up again as baby daughter decided to cut what we could only imagine was a sabre tooth in her gum and she cried. She cried all night. Contrary to sense, we decided to remain with a typical British grim determination.

My husband is a very calm, reasonable and gentle man who takes his responsibilities in his stride and works very hard with little complaint. He SULKED for an entire week as the dawning of an understanding swept through him like molten lead. Holidays will NEVER be holidays again.

A year later, we were five and have remained so ever since. Holidays have, indeed, never been the same. They became less relaxing and our expectations for ‘quiet time’ were lowered somewhat (entirely). We did, however, have a lot more fun and I look back on photos and we chat over the dinner table about holidays past with misty eyes as I remember just how much fun we had.

So, as is a proud mum’s wont, I have a fabulously selective memory. I have forgotten the two weeks of packing an enormous trunk suitcase with everything that three babies will need and I have forgotten that the same suitcase filled was still necessary for a weekend away; I forget the fact that my daughter always wanted to be on the move – no time to settle in to a hotel before she wanted to go to the beach, before she wanted to go back inside, before she wanted to see what was in the nearest town, all before lunch. I forget the drug addled me at Heathrow airport sobbing with fear of the flight and convincing the children I had stubbed my toe.

I simply remember sitting at a table, asking (and receiving) a spoonful of each of my children’s ice-cream, telling them to ‘point at the clock, to mummy, to the door, to the sky, to the window, to the salt, to the (you get the picture)’ just so that we could finish our coffee. I remember playing the A-Z of swear words when one of my sons decided that he could simply put an animal in front of the word ‘arse’ and that would be rude enough. I remember the day that I took the photograph that became the Two Little Boys logo. My husband was in the pool with our daughter and our two little boys were sitting on the edge; aged only aged two at the time, they had been told not to move and stock still they stayed; waiting their turn to go for a dip with daddy. The blue of the swimming pool, so Mediterranean and yet we were in Bournemouth. And just after that photo was taken, one of my sons fell over on some stairs and chipped his tooth. But I forget that.

I remember holidays with their grandparents, helping with the application of an endless stream of sun cream, the brushing of tiny feet with towels to stem the quantities of sand entering the hotel or rental house. And the lie-ins the grandparents gifted us on a regular basis.  The effort needed to ensure that they had a good time was exhausting, but as they look back with laughter and fondness of those times, I feel nothing but pride.

I always ran a tight ship bringing up our children because I didn’t have the luxury of a third arm to grab one who might decide to misbehave. I was very lucky that I had three children in 12 months because I had no ‘life’ other than bringing up children, and, I say again, expectations for ‘me time’ were set very low. I dedicated their waking hours to them; displaying an enthusiasm for the most mundane of activities (Let’s clean the cupboard!). An enthusiasm that I wouldn’t be able to muster now even if you placed me in a room filled with chocolate oranges. I played Snap with a pack of cards that I loathed the sight of, cleaned up after painting sessions tirelessly and played pretend ‘customer in the restaurant’ more times that I care to admit. I had weekday help, for which I will be forever grateful that I was able to devote more time to my children than most.

When they reached nursery school age, I started Two Little Boys Ltd to produce products that could help time poor parents entertain their children and for those same parents to keep memories alive without enormous effort.

I had been given an excellent cookbook for children and the author’s opening statement stuck with me. I paraphrase (massively) here, but he was opining that it is when children are young that they should be given the best food available, whether that is the best premium sausages instead of the cheap ones given on kids menus at so many restaurant chains or a piece of delicious darker chocolate than the cheaper white stuff; it is when they are young that they are taught to differentiate, to appreciate and to be educated in every area. I felt exactly the same about games and toys. Rather than go for the plastic and quickly designed imported stuff that was available at the time, I wanted my children to grow up with beautifully designed games and I wanted them to learn whilst they played. So, out went those sodding cheap Snap cards and in came sets that I had created with my own photography and each image was labelled because children don’t know that most adults can’t differentiate a plumbago from a cosmos flower (well, my children can now!). I should also mention that I’d like to think I kept a company called Orchard Toys solvent with the purchase of pretty much every game and jigsaw they ever produced.

Along with various mind-saving record books and the aforementioned Snap cards I initially devised, the ‘This is my Holiday’ playpack. It was, at the time, presented in a bag with a cute 35mm camera and it was a perfect way for my (and others) children to capture memories from a holiday. The pack was extremely well received by the press at the time and I was commissioned by the Mandarin Oriental in London to produce a bespoke version.

We still have our children’s filled in books with photographs taken from a child’s height of my bum and slightly blurry images of meals eaten; they are truly delightful to look back on and my kids loved taking the photos and writing about their holidays. In fact, I can remember after the trauma of getting on a plane with them for the first time, their ‘best thing about the journey’ was the snack! I could only think that after all of that expense and my much depleted bottle of tranquilisers, I could have given them a small bag of pretzels on a coach and they’d have been just as happy.

The ‘This is my…’ range of books continue to sell really well, and we still produce the Snap cards, activity books and lots of other stuff that a hassled mother of Irish triplets thought might make life a little more fun, colourful and, on occasion, quiet.

And as my children are getting older, I can’t help but feel a little wistful that they no longer need my attention 24/7, but then, I forget just how tiring that actually was.

So, for anyone about to take their first holiday with a baby, don’t sulk…

it get’s a lot easier ;).

Happy summer all.

1x.jpg1d.jpg