One step behind or one step beyond? 

This weeks topic is by no means a reflection of how anyone has treated me. It’s more about how I feel. How easy it is to always feel one step behind the crowd. Not that this should influence how you live your life but it’s always nice to share similar experiences with those around you. 
Pre motherhood I was what they call a typical “binge drinker”. I didn’t go out every weekend but rather once or twice a month. This is behaviour that I wouldn’t encourage. Especially for my younger readers. At the same time though, I do believe you only live once. Sometimes you have just got to throw caution to the wind. Anyway, this type of life was great, carefree, the next piss up to look forward to, and plenty of like minded individuals around me all looking forward to the same thing. 


But then came the babies. One by one I slowly lost all my drinking buddies to the wonder that is pregnancy. Suddenly people wanted to go for chilled out meals so they could fill and nurture their ever growing baby machines and have some relaxing conversation amongst family and friends at the same time. This was all great as I consider myself a foodie so I love meals out. But what about “Wild Cassie”? She was having to quietly take a back seat through no fault of her own and watch everyone else settle into their new lives. Happily married I wasn’t exactly a wild child but I needed to know that the  once a month binge and a giggle was round the corner. All I could see was someone metaphorically packing it all away in a big box and putting it on a plane destined for “sometime in the very distant future”. 


I had no maternal instinct in me. My hubby is fabulous with kids. I knew we would have kids, because that was the done thing wasn’t it. The moment we were married we were constantly asked when the babies were coming. The pressure was growing. I was so happy for everyone around me falling pregnant, but I just didn’t have that definate feeling that I wanted it for myself. There was far too much uncertainty involved and what if it ruined what myself and hubby had together. I constantly took mental notes from those around me about what to do and what not to do as a parent and a wife that had recently become a mother. I started to think about what kind of parent I would be. And discussing it with hubby, I found out we both had the same ideals of parenthood. 


It was a very uncertain time of “we’re trying”, “no we’re not ready to try”, “let’s try” , “are we both sure” , “we’re definately trying”. To the outside world though we both mutually portrayed this picture of not wanting children for a long time so as not to put any pressure on ourselves. We had seen others tell the world their plans only for Mother Nature to not allow it to go quite as intended and for us we felt this would be too much pressure to have a captive audience waiting on our every sexual encounter. 

After 8 months of trying, and might I add becoming completely consumed by the idea, we became pregnant. Many were actually surprised and asked if it was planned being as we had put on this marvellous display of not wanting to be parents. If only they knew how obsessed we had become with the whole idea in those 8 months. 


So rather fantastically my sister who is the same age as me was also pregnant and we would literally text everyday. She was further down the line than me by 5 months but was spot on with predicting each stage I would go through. Even down to what consistency my poo would be. Both my sister in laws and three of my close friends had also not long had babies along with an abundance of people I worked with, even my hairdresser! I was suddenly part of the group again. All with the same interest, same topic of conversation and we all knew what each other was going through. My pregnancy made some of them reminisce about their own pregnancies with some broody for more.

Then when George was born although I chose some different styles and approaches to those around me, the mutual “I know what you’re going through” feeling was still there. We were still a group of mothers talking about sleep deprivation, feeding, nappies, body demolition, relationship struggles and emotional triumphs and setbacks. I still remembered wild child Cassie’s days but I didn’t miss them whilst I was part of this group. And with a new baby came a socially acceptable ticket to attend all these groups and places I had never been to. After all I didn’t have to go to work anymore so I filled my days meeting like minded mummies with similar age babies and this fabulous community started to open up around me. 

Then suddenly people started to fall pregnant again. Suddenly there were people that had two babies. Now not having two babies myself, I can’t comment on how different it is to having one but let me tell you how it appears to me. It’s very different. It’s harder. Almost instantly I was back in a minority. Surrounded by people whose lives I couldn’t join in with. I knew what it was like to be pregnant, but pregnancy with a toddler in tow is another world. I knew what it was like to have a newborn but a newborn with a toddler in tow was a different world. And by this point some people had returned to work. I returned to work for three months but decided it wasn’t working for our family so I quit to become a stay at home mum. So I couldn’t empathise with knowing how that felt either. 


So here we are. Standing at the edge of a path with two branches. The one to the right takes me towards wild child Cassie. No longer breastfeeding and with George fully content spending time with Daddy and other family members, I could very easily afford a few mischievous nights out as the old, young Cassie before she became a mother. And indeed I have a few of these nights on the calendar. The path to the path to the left is a fast track back to the group. Two children. Another pregnancy. A sibling for George. It’s what we both want and we can’t decided when the time is right physically, financially, emotionally for George. All I know is this path leads me back to understanding what everyone around me is going through. 

Watch this space to see which path I choose. If indeed it is a choice? 

Until next time….

A week of surprises. 

This has been one week of surprises. Not huge ones, to some. And no I’m not about to make THAT announcement either (rolls eyes). No….. I’m talking about the little surprises. The ones that leave you in amazement. 
This week I have been in awe of the fabulously clever, albeit mischievous little guy my George is becoming. Let’s start with the wonderfulness that Monday brought after my sister gave birth to a beautiful new niece. Having not found out the baby’s sex during her pregnancy, we were delightfully surprised with the news she had had another little girl. Showing George the gorgeous pictures we received of the new addition, I cunningly asked him, who he thought it was. To which his answer was “baby”. I said its your new cousin. His answer was “pretty baby”. That instantly went into the mental memory box of ‘this moment just made my heart melt’. Such a simple statement, made so much more beautiful by the realisation that my son was growing into a very polite and complimenting little dude. 

Tuesday brought with it a trip to the local gymnastics club where it was marvellous to watch George interacting with the other toddlers with a smile. An impromptu giggling peekaboo session with one of his pals was so much fun to see. And such a surprise as he usually wanders around in his own little world, scowling at any child that attempts to interact with him. 
Wednesday George went with Daddy for a big boys haircut at the barbers, as opposed to Mummy’s hairdressers. It filled me with dread as I anxiously anticipated him returning with a stubbly head. I wasn’t ready to part ways with his beautiful baby locks that I regularly brushed and ran my fingers through. Daddy, having been well prepped by myself, was very kind to my anxieties and made sure his beautiful locks were honoured and retained. As I visited my new niece, I received a picture of George fresh out of the barbers sporting his new razored crop. Still enough hair on top for me to indulge myself in but a lot tidier and shorter which felt essential for such a sweaty little boy. 


Thursday and Friday were fun filled days full of activities with friends but lacking in surprises. On Saturday we visited our nephew for birthday celebrations. George having always been very dubious and pretty much against bouncy castles and slides, was suddenly presented with the two combined. After some short observation and gentle coaxing, he was soon running around inside, screaming and giggling with the other children. He then got hugely excited to be given full permission to climb up the bouncy slide from the bottom. Having achieved this rather effortlessly, he then turned around and slid down it. Without protest or tears. This turned into a game which led to him coming down the slide in various positions including head first. “So what!”I hear you tut. But having been opposed to this notion of play for the past 20 months, it was a huge achievement for our little boy and a lovely surprise for us. 


And finally. We rounded off the week with a visit to the local canal, returning home in time to see Andy Murray become Wimbledon champion 2016. Unbeknownst to me, George had been enjoying watching the tennis the day before with his daddy and had learnt to say “tennis” and “racket”. Tuning into the final, my hubbie asked George what it was we were watching, just as the player was making a serve. “Service” was George’s reply! Stunned, I asked hubbie if he had taught him this, to which I was informed he hadn’t. A huge coincidence I’m sure, and I’m aware he picks up on a lot more than we are aware of, so there is every chance he had heard it said by the commentators and we had missed it. Nonetheless it was a happy surprise to round off the week. 

Parenthood can bring with it some unpleasant surprises, leaky nappies, finding your son splashing in someone’s else’s wee in a public potty, catching him picking his dropped raisins up off the public loo floor and going to eat them. But when you are watching your child develop, learn and grown, there’s a certain wonderment that can only be described as the best present you have ever received. 
Until next time……

A step into the unknown

I’ve always been a lover of surprises, good ones that is. But with surprises comes the  unknown and that’s something I can’t handle. A stickler for lists and organising,  I love to know what’s coming next and to be able to plan and prepare for things. I often take on more than I can handle however, and I usually end up struggling and having a last minute scramble to get everything completed, calling on others for assistance. Coupled with this I would describe myself as pretty spoilt at times. As laid back as I am, I’m pretty used to getting my own way or at least a compromised version of what I originally wanted. This all amounts to me requiring a certain degree of control, which completely contradicts the side of my personality which craves surprises. You still with me? I know rambling is a speciality I inherited from my father. 

So bearing this all in mind it is no wonder that I struggle with the structure of life. As predictable as it can be, consequences of our actions blah blah blah, no one really knows what is coming next from day to day or even minute by minute. And when it’s all over, there’s still no certainty about what happens next. Well at least not in my belief system there isn’t. I very often wish that someone had handed me a book when I was born, telling me the story of my life so I could flick to whatever chapter I was feeling inquisitive about and satisfy my curiosity. At the same time, I think this is something that would be wholly dangerous. I mean if chapter 14 told you that you life was to end at a certain age, would this lead you to live your life differently? More recklessly? In which case thereby potentially ending your life sooner. Or is our fate determined regardless of our actions? All very deep and some people may say I need religion to answer my questions but let me tell you that I am so good at picking things to pieces that religion is the last thing I need to get involved in. 

I have no idea if I am the only one that thinks this way or if in fact these are regular thoughts that cross all of our minds. As if pondering this never ending list of questions for my own life wasn’t enough, I now do it for son! Observing his ever changing character and the way he behaves leads me to wonder what kind of a person he will grow to be. Will he be kind, thoughtful, a pushover even, strong willed, mean, disrespectful? I believe that children to a degree are a product of what you put into them. There are many traits in George that I can see we have instilled in him these first 19 months of his life. Then there are the traits that I have no idea where he gained them from. The traits that I believe are his own natual personality and therefore traits that will determine his destiny regardless of what I do. 

As we sit watching television programs, I have always insisted, even when George appeared too young to be taking it in, that we are careful what we watch. I didn’t want him being subjected to the latest gangster film just in case in years to come he suddenly becomes the next Essex hard man. And of course it will all be my fault 😜 

Until next time……..

Life, it’s a risky ole business

So here we are on the eve of the big EU referendum. Many of us still on the fence, confused, baffled by “facts” that all contradict one another. “Facts” that are given to us by people that all appear to have their own agendas. Well here is my take on it all. A simple view. But one I hope will be gratefully received. 

When I moved out of my mums for the first ever time, myself and rob decided we would move an hour down the road. People thought we were mad. Moving to the sticks they said. It felt like a risk. But it was the best thing we ever done and many have since followed us for the quieter less chaotic life. A few months after said move, the commute was becoming a drag so I decided to resign my job in general hospital for mental health. “You’re crazy” many told me, “you’re backing you’re self into a corner” they told me. Eight years I spent working in mental health. Working my way up the banding a lot quicker than I would have in general. Increasing my earnings and allowing me to attend training weekends and to travel to a conference where I gave a talk on my role and how we used the company’s computer system to achieve my daily tasks. It felt like a big risk at the time, but it was the best thing I ever did for my career. After those eight years, my husband and I had a baby. A baby that was being introduced to our perfect 16 year relationship. It was going to change the dynamics of our relationship and potentially seriously rock the boat and who knew if it would be for the better where our relationship was concerned. I was dubious but at the same time it was what we both wanted. It was a risk I felt  but 19 months in and we are both so in awe of him. And still so in love with each other and approaching 18 years together. After returning from maternity leave and due to some health difficulties that were affecting my ability to do my job 100%, I made the decision to resign my post and become a stay at home mum. Not only this but my husband had just been made redundant and was starting out as self employed. It was a huge risk. It caused much angst with the deliberation of was it the right thing to do. 7 months down the line and the bills are still being paid, I’m not “bored” like “they” suggested I would be, and our son is thriving. 

Life is a risk. But without risks we wouldn’t have achieved anything in this world. 
I don’t trust politics. I don’t understand it. And overall I don’t have the time to waste on it. I’ve read many arguments online from your average joe debating in or out. And I’ve come to the conclusion that I want a change. A change has always worked for me when I’ve fancied one. Yes it’s always been a risk, but in the end it has worked out for the better. And so there you have my take on the EU referendum. 

Remember to turn up at the polls to make your vote count. 

Until next time…..

Common as sense

I’m pretty common, I lack sense, I’m as common as sense of course.

If becoming a mum has done anything for me it’s certainly improved my common sense. This may be because before I make any mumsy decisions I tend to “research the crap” out of them first. And as for any non mumsy decisions, well they are few and far between now I’m a mum.

So maybe it would be fun for me to enlighten you to my ditsy past. I’m not one of those girls that acts stupid because she thinks it makes her look cute. I’ll be the first to tell you how intelligent I actually am. Alls that I’m lacking is some common sense. “Don’t be silly!” people say, “you have lots of common sense”. Oh really! Let’s see what you think in a few minutes then shall we.

common as sense

  •  I was easily 25 and over and had been driving around 4 years when I discovered, rather amazingly, that miles per hour (or mph) actually means how many miles you will do in an hour at that speed! I mean I still can’t comprehend it now. It actually means something. It’s not just a measurement for measurements sake. It can be used to calculate how long it will take to get somewhere depending on what speed you drive! Now having discovered this marvellous piece of knowledge, I rushed to share it will those around me, and you won’t be surprised to know that this wasn’t only a revelation to myself. So perhaps I am forgiven in the common sense stakes here.

common as sense

  • Before I had George I used to work in pharmacy. During our training years and college days, myself and my two, now very good friends for life, were released from college early one day. Realising this meant returning to work, we quickly talked ourselves out of it. By the time we travelled the hour home to change into suitable work attire, had lunch, travelled to work? It would be home time. No, let’s come up with a full proof story on what we want work to think happened. So we decided we needed to have a lunch break by which point we actually wouldn’t make it to work until after closing. So we all agreed that we would tell everyone we got released at said time and went to have lunch. My friend suggested we say we went to “Greggs” for a sandwich and then headed for home.

“But I had a sausage roll” I piped up.  

“What?!” My friends replied, still in the early days of us all get acquainted with each other.

“Yeah”, I continued “I’ll say I had a sausage roll, coz there’s no way I would go to Greggs and not have a sausage roll, it’s got to be believable!”. Chuckling as I type this. I honestly can’t lie so to me I had to imagine it as if it were the truth. Absolutely bewildered, my friends could not get their heads around my declaration and to this day they have referred to me as “Trig”.

  •  My new nickname soon got round at work, and I was soon being pranked with requests to remove labels from boxes, as I attempted to I eventually learned they were printed on. It was good fun though and as soon as I realised my own lack of common sense, I often found it as funny as everyone else. My husband also takes great pleasure when we are out in saying to me “drink up Trig, we’re leaving!”

  •  Now the piece de resistance as I like to think, although the tales are a plenty, happened in my early twenties when I was living at home with mum and my number two dad. I had a landline phone in my bedroom at the time. It hung nicely on a nail in the wall, until one day it didn’t. I hated to leave things looking unfinished. It just added to the mental to do list that I carried around in my head. Master of improvisation that I am, and lacking the motivation to go downstairs and get the hammer, I grabbed the most solid and sturdy thing to hand, my deodorant can.

Yes that’s right, for the more savvy readers amongst you, I had just picked up a pressurised aerosol can with the intention of using it to hammer a nail into the wall!

A few seconds later and there was a strange hissing sound. It took me a few moments but I soon realised that the hissing was coming from the, now pierced, aerosol can. In a complete panic with the impression that this was now going to explode in my hand, I ran down the stairs screaming at my mum. Her response to my hysteria was to tell me to “throw it out the front door”. Flinging it out the front door, I watched as it rolled under mums car. Doh! Mum assured me it was fine and before you knew it the panic subsided and the drama was over. That wasn’t before I realised that the fingers on the hand that I had been holding the can in, were now frozen together from the pressurised air that had been released from the can. Ten minutes with my hand in a sink full of warm water and no harm was done and I had learnt a very valuable lesson.


Of course there are many, many, many more tales I could share, but this is a blog, not a book so I shall have to leave it there for the time being.

Until next time……

Aaaaand relax……

So this past week was spent in Somerset in a little place called Watchet. We rented a large, old house with the in laws. Complete with old fashioned service bells linked to the kitchen, wonky floors and ceilings, an aga, the odd low doorway, steps up and down to every room and a beautifully large garden. My first thoughts on entering the house were how it smelt very old. But that soon became the norm to my sensitive nostrils. I then had the overwhelming dread of having to worry about all of those random steps as George toddles around the house along with his almost 1 year old cousin. For his other two cousins they are not far off of being 3 years old with the other being 3 and a half and fully confident in walking, running, jumping, climbing, you name it, they’ve mastered it. Oh and yes as you may have now realised, we had gone on holiday with 4 children under 4 years….for our sins! Myself and Rob, quickly realised as lovely as this “holiday” was going to be, it was going to be anything but relaxing.


 It was truly a beautiful week for seeing George interacting with his cousins whilst they taught him new tricks and he quickly picked up some new catchphrases from his elders. Along with lots of meals out, we spent a lots of time in the vast garden letting George explore the flowers, say “hi” to the sheep in the adjoining field, play on the climbing frame and gain confidence on the slide, something he usually avoids at all costs. 


As well as the adorable log stepping stones which needed some assistance from mummy as they were more a leap apart than a step. We also watched Daddy and his brother wade through the stream at the bottom of the garden and George got lots of practice using a wooden trike we found in the house and brought outside. He blew bubbles whilst his cousins popped them and mummy made daisy chains for us to all wear for a memorable photo opportunity and so that I could personally relieve my own childhood.


The weather wasn’t always so glorious, but the rain brought with it the opportunity for some puddle splashing as George watched how his cousin jumped. Jumping is something he observed a lot of from his two older and more energetic cousins. He now has a little bouncing, leg stomping action going on in his attempt to replicate them.

On a visit to Minehead beach I taught George how to build Sandcastles although with Daddy running around with a football, my efforts went rather unnoticed. This was then followed by a fabulous win in the arcades allowing us to get lots of goodies to share round. George had his first cave experience as we ventured into a guided tour of Wookey hole. He was very comfortable in his Little life carrier, modelled by Daddy Rob. Glow stick in hand , and at one point wearing a fantastic kiddie hard hat, he seemed to love it. I was a bit of a nervous wreck on the other hand as Rob would not listen to my protests of his head being too close to the ceiling, eventually leaving Rob no alternative but to crawl on his hands and knees to satisfy my anxious self. 


We then ended a few of the days with George enjoying a rather crazy bath with some of his cousins.
Overall it really was a memorable week and something which has helped George progress marvellously in many ways. However I’m glad to be home for a relaxing rest.

Until next time…..

Ode to my amazing body

I am and have always been so extremely grateful for my body giving me the great pleasure of becoming a Mummy. A luxury I know some men and women would do anything for and not something I have, or ever will take for granted. But as much as I love, admire and adore what my body has achieved in creating our gorgeous George, I am also hugely annoyed at it for leaving me with such a load of postnatal crap, to be blunt.

Bearing in mind I have always pulled myself through this world, content in the the knowledge that no matter what I am experiencing, there is always someone else worse off than me and for that I am thankful. That’s not to say that there are days when I wonder why my body can’t be on par with some of the people that are better off than me.

My pregnancy wasn’t the worse, it wasn’t the greatest. Carpel tunnel syndrome, severe fluid retention, first trimester migraines, nausea, insomnia, sciatica, having to sleep with a million pillows every night, my belly button turning inside out, haemorrhoids! That’s without mentioning all the typical pains and discomforts of your organs all  squishing together and a 7lb baby pressing on your lower regions to try and prepare to escape. But it could’ve been worse.


Then there was labour. I was diagnosed with a curved spine (scoliosis) aged 14 and had corrective surgery aged 15 which meant a years recovery and learning to walk again. Through which I endured a substantial amount of pain prior to and post surgery, the likes of which you can only imagine. I thought this had heightened my pain threshold. None of this however compared to the sensation I experienced through labour of having a grown man swing at my hips and pelvis with an enormous sledge hammer in an attempt to crush my bones. Followed by several failed epidural attempts, laying in theatre feeling the consultant fail to pull George through the birth canal with forceps and then push him back up again. Thankfully, although quite vomit inducing, my epidural was increased before I had an emergency Caesarean section.


Eighteen months later and I have three faint black dots on my face below my eye, a melasma from my pregnancy that I was assured would fade when I stopped breastfeeding six months ago. It looks like I’ve smudged my mascara and not cleaned it up but covers relatively well with makeup and is only faint. I quite like it. My feet remained the extra size they had grown during pregnancy. I am currently sixteen pairs into my size 7 shoe collection. A far cry from the 75 pairs of size 6’s I can no longer fit into and really need to sell. My hands swelled during pregnancy so that I had to remove all my rings at 20 weeks. The rings are back on but are noticeably tighter with many of my costume rings no longer passing over my knuckles. The haemorrhoids are no longer a problem thankfully but lets just say I was a fan of soft comfy chairs towards the end of my pregnancy. I was meticulous about smothering my body in every moisturising product going before and during my pregnancy but alas the dreaded stretch marks decide to grace my thighs and lower tum with their presence. I mean I just never even had my thighs down as part of the equation! The baby was in my belly not my thighs! My boobs, only ever having been a B/C cup have remained more or less the same but they lean a little further towards my knees than my chin now and let’s just say if they were pillows then they look a little like some of the stuffing has been emptied from them . And then there’s my beautiful c-section scar. Evidence that I was unable to get George into this world by myself. Something I mentally punished myself over for a long time but that I am now at peace with. As they say, you can’t fight a battle without gaining some war wounds.

 So the point I’m trying to make is we need to come to accept our bodies as they are. I don’t think enough of us are honest about our supposéd flaws. The media certainly isn’t that’s for sure.  No matter how much you think you could improve your body, try to remember the amazing things it’s done for you and as long as you are happy and healthy then that’s all that matters.  Overall, recognise the amazing strength our bodies have to seemingly achieve the impossible. 


  Until next time……..

 

That’s not my Daddy!

Just as I was starting to ponder the possibilities of signing Georgeous up to Mensa, he brought me back down to Earth rather embarrassingly. Master of shape sorting, brilliant at speaking and taking instructions and very good at remembering things we teach him, these are all qualities he amazes us with more each day. He recognises the fact that his Daddy wears glasses and has a beard but he doesn’t seem to have grasped that not every man with these features is his Daddy. As a result, I am learning that a large amount of restaurant waiters appear to possess these features, prompting George to point and shout out Daddy when we are out in restaurants without Rob. The most recent unsuspecting waiter was quick to exclaim “not that I know of!” at Georges declaration. Way to make Mummy look like she puts herself about huh George. 

Our home can remain relatively tidy for days. Either due to George playing with the same few toys or the pair of us having so many social engagements we are barely at home long enough to get the toys out. Then there are those days when the house turns into a complete toy war zone. This results in moments for me which are not so much painfully embarrassing but more embarrassingly painful. Just attempting to put my shoes on and leave the house resulted in me hurriedly sitting myself down on the settee to do up my shoes, only to have a huge “ooooooooooo” expel from my mouth as I realised I have plonked my posterior onto a rather uncomfortably large Mummy Pig weeble. Recovering quickly from this and with shoes successfully tied, I ran towards the porch door to grab my bag. Not noticing Georges green transparent ball in the corner near the hinge, resulting in the door only marginally opening as I rushed towards the porch. Consequently the door frame became a painful addition to my face. Toys should maybe come with the sarcastic warning, not for ages 32 and over!

If you haven’t met George then I’ll try to give you an insight into his persona. He is very caring and affectionate, especially with his mummy and daddy, but he has a hint of shyness mixed with overwhelming social awkwardness with everyone else. At home in his own environment though he is such a character and myself and his daddy Rob have an amazingly close bond with him. We have so much silliness in our home. Silly noises, faces, songs, laughing at pop offs and mimicking each other. We try to include manners and acceptable behaviour into our parenting but I often feel at times that whilst Daddy has the upper hand, I appear to have landed myself in the “friend zone”. I love the idea of me and my son growing up to be best friends but I want him to respect my opinions and guidance as his mum. I feel like it’s a thin line and I probably won’t know if I’m on the wrong side of it. I can only do what feels natural and try and be the best mum I want to be. The latest act of friend zoning me is for George to mimic my laughter back at me. This is one thing but the timing of this act seems to occur when I say “No” to him. Consequently I am having to find different ways to ask him not to do things that I deem unacceptable. 

Our week this week has ended with a visit to the local steam railway museum where we met Peppa Pig. George was thoroughly  star struck. I don’t think he quite anticipated Peppa being larger than his own Mummy and Daddy. He was a big fan of riding on the different types of trains. In particular the minature railway. We sat  right at the front, but as the train reached the end of the track and turned around, the train driver disconnected the small train in front of George and turned it around on a turntable before taking it down and connecting it to the rear of the train to go back to where we started. This left George perplexed and he leaned over the back the whole way trying to work out where the train had gone. As we arrived back at the station and got off the train, George walked round to give the back of the train a good inspecting. It was quite fascinating to see him trying to work out how the man had disconnected the train. 

Enjoy the rest of your bank holiday. Until next time……….

The challenge should you choose to accept it.

Me and hubby have always had an extremely similar outlook on life. Live for today, money is for spending not saving, and always trust your instinct and do what feels right over what others tell you…

Source: The challenge should you choose to accept it.

A week in the life of.

So being fairly new to the blogging scene, and starting to attract myself a small but much appreciated bit of attention, I decided to seek some advice and input from those around me. I’ve been chatting to fellow bloggers along with my fairly tech savvy nephew. I knew as a whole my blog was rather sporadic and I could have days where I had inspiration and content every day, or suddenly go a few weeks without any. And as much as I enjoy writing, I can’t write for the sake of it. I want it to be interesting to read. My nephew suggested I offer my readers some anticipation. Something to look forward to and to know they could regularly tune in, or rather, log on, and get it. So I created a publicising page  and promised my readers a post once a week. Surely in a week I was bound to get at least one day of something worth writing about. Gathering ideas and inspiration and storing them as the week went by, I quickly realised I could very easily be writing a few times a week. This week alone I have at least 11 things I want to share with you all!

So in an effort to keep your attention and restrain my rambling genes that I’ve inherited from my father, I shall summarise these 11 events from this previous week, into the most entertaining paragraph I can. And if you can imagine whilst you are reading it that I am standing in front of you and blurting it all out without pausing with breathe then you will get a brief understanding of how my days go by.   

As the school holidays drew to a close, we took advantage by planning a long weekend at a caravan resort with two of my sisters, their partners , niece and nephews and my dad as a belated birthday treat for his 70th birthday late last year. George loved watching the world go by out of the many windows. Along with running around the arcade with all of the other children of an evening. He delighted us with his clapping and foot tapping as the kids club show took hold each evening. The highlight of his weekend was driving a day boat down the Norfolk broads and of course array of Peppa pig toys and bouncy ball my family won for him from the arcade machines. Back home, I’d arranged to meet friends at Westfield shopping centre in Stratford. A long overdue visit as I hadn’t been since it opened. The prospect of travelling into London by train wasn’t  something I relished but it didn’t phase me. From experience though, buggies, commuters and train stations do not mix well. To my surprise though, Stratford is one of the most accommodating stations for he disabled and pushchair users. Lifts to every platform that I saw of along with extra wide self access gates. Our biggest and most unexpected dilemma was when George took it upon himself to push the help alarm in the lift. Much to the amusement of the elderly couple travelling in it with us. Whilst I panicked and apologetically told the lady over the speaker that we were fine and my baby had pushed it. She said it happened all the time. It didn’t to me, not in the last 17 months anyways. I have a feeling it may be my new hobby talking to tannoy lift rescuers. Another big surprise of our day was the copious amounts of gentlemanly and gentlewomanly assistance we were offered at every stop. With offerings of help to get on and off the train. I like to try and be as self sufficient as possible so I graciously turned down these offers of help. But the fact that they were offered has restored my faith in humanity. With the sun also making an appearance that day and temperatures rising to 16.5•c I went into panicked parent mode and hurriedly purchased some factor 50 sun spray. It’s got the lot. Waterproof, sandproof, easy to apply. Uva, uvb protection. Leaving me feeling relaxed and ready for summer to truly kick off. And with the rising temperatures and a girly lunch in Nando’s with the bubbas, I found I had no choice to get the wings out. Bingo that is, not chicken. 😜 Saturday saw many weeks of planning a surprise 25th wedding anniversary party for my parents pay off, as it all went off without a hitch and thankfully much to their utter clueless delight. Finally to end our week, I noticed my husband give me that look. You know the one. The “shit-it’s-that-time-of-the-month-again” look. So for now I’m just trying to keep the demon under control until she crawls back in her cave for another 4 weeks. Have a lovely week and I hope I’ve managed to perk up your Monday morning. Love and hugs. 

 

Life through the overactive imagination of one ordinary lady turned mama.