Thursday, 24 April 2014

The day the seagull pooped on my face

Nowadays every Friday is good, thanks to maternity leave and Tommy. But last Friday was Easter and officially Good Friday. We went to the seaside for a picnic with family and friends. It was cold.
Oh and a seagull pooped on my face.

Hold my hand.


Fancy an ice-cream?


Walking along the pier.


Horsing around.


Haven't I seen you on the telly?


Daddy, I think this is what they call a high five moment!

Saturday, 19 April 2014

And for my next trick...

Recently I have thought pulling a rabbit from my straw hat, or turning white doves into rainbow coloured unicorns, would be easier than Tommy sleeping a whole night.
As I'm sure you're aware dear readers, a whole night is not one hour, two hours, or even three hours. It is generally considered a full nights sleep to be eight hours for an adult and approximately ten hours for a five month old baby.
Try telling Tommy that!
It was all going so well, then for unknown reason to man, it was all spoilt. Although Google has tried to explain to me this unknown reason. It could be he is teething, it may be his mind is over active due to all the wonderful things he is learning. He might be cold/hot/hungry/disorientated/uncomfortable/wet or dirty nappy.
So there you go, I have a list to choose from. Because Tommy is only five months and can not speak, it's a process of elimination.
It's also exhausting and frustrating.
I was fully aware how lucky we were that after the first night or two he's been a good sleeper. People used to look at me with envy and disbelief when I uttered those heavenly words, "He's a good sleeper, sleeps right through the night."
Now when I explain the circumstances I receive looks of pity and sympathy.
I'm praying it's a short phase as it's not ideal when your evening is continually interrupted. More important than broken television viewing and cold dinners is how distressing it is hearing him crying and trying to comfort him.
We've tried everything hubby and I. Bonjella/rocking/extra milk/dummy/nappy change/radiator off or on/singing/despair.
Latest thing on the list is ordering a bamboo comforter from Amazon. Apparently if I sleep with it for a few nights it absorbs my scent and Tommy can cuddle up to this and feel comforted. I've also been informed Prince George uses one, as alas he was a poor sleeper for a while. I know this because my mum read it in the newspaper one day and telephoned me to say, "If it's good enough for Prince George, it's good enough for our Tommy!"
So no prizes for guessing what I'll be sleeping with tonight. That's once I'm allowed to sleep in my own bed and I'm not dozing off in the white wicker chair next to his cot, trying to comfort him.
One positive thing, I have the most organised mind ever right now. Well I have to think of something when I'm rocking Tommy back to sleep. I've planned his and my wardrobe for our forthcoming holidays to Suffolk and Cornwall, what chores to do on what days in the cottage, and basically I've merrily mapped out the rest of our lives.
Therefore, I'm praying his good sleep pattern will return and I can actually achieve these late at night, well devised, plans.
Or at least finish my dinner before it's inedible, and not nod off into my porridge every morning.
Wish me luck.

Thursday, 17 April 2014

Turn left at the watering can

If you open the wooden gate and step inside the church garden,


the church opposite our cottage and next to the village hall,


then turn left at the watering can by the lamp post,


follow the footpath by the allotments,


until you reach the red berries,


you'll stumble across the hidden cottages,


and then you'll see the tree-lined lane,


by the meadow of flowers,


winding along to the harvest field,


which is very close to Freshfields Farm, with horses and sheep grazing in the background (I've lost the leads to my camera and the zoom on the iPhone is rubbish so you'll have to take my word for this),


there's farm equipment,


and barns at the end of the curly lane,


this is what you will find if you open the wooden gate into the church garden, the one opposite our little cottage.

Friday, 11 April 2014

That was March

March was the month Tommy sat up by himself. Sort of. When propped on the swing anyway.


March was the month we started weaning Tommy. So far Rusks biscuits, apples and bananas and sweet potato. Here he is before he tipped the pot of food all over himself and his high chair.


March was the month my friend Sophie kindly passed on the play station. Tommy loves it, he thinks he's a DJ. Actually he doesn't know what a DJ is, he just likes trying to eat the plastic microphone.


March was the month we went to the family fun day at Ascot. Unfortunately we didn't win our fortune on the horses, therefore we couldn't buy a tropical island and live like Kings. Maybe next time.


So that was March.

Monday, 7 April 2014

The mystery of the missing cat

One evening hubby and I were sprawled on the sofa in our pyjamas. (His are the manly stripy kind, mine are covered in dainty birds, which to be fair are the only dainty thing about me these days.)
We were watching the American drama, Hostage, which had reached a particularly creepy part. Suddenly, there was a loud knock on our window.
BANG, BANG, BANG!
We both jumped and looked at each other in a startled manner.
"That's the police."
Let me explain there was a good reason for Mark stating the above. He does not have super powers which allow him to see through walls, and windows with blinds covering them. And we are not usually accustomed to police officers banging on our window late at night. The reason Mark assumed it was an officer from the police force, was due to the fact a flyer was posted through our letter box earlier that evening.
This flyer informed us the police had tried to call with regards to a nearby break in, and they were keen to know if we could assist with their enquiries. Unfortunately, they must have rung the door bell which is not working, again. The batteries were needed in Tommy's Winnie the Pooh light show and have yet to be replaced.
So Mark opened our front door, expecting to see the boys in blue, but was rather startled to see a young, slightly menacing (apparently at the time he appeared menacing) lad in a hoody, who rather abruptly said:
"Have you seen my cat?"
Mark had not seen his cat and replied appropriately.
The youth then asked Mark if he was sure, as he lives at the end of the alley and his cat often sits in the gardens of neighbouring houses.
I immediately worried about the safety of the missing animal and asked what number the young lad lived at, should we spot his cat and try to return it to him.
"Erm number 18, thanks anyway," said the hooded stranger.
Mark closed our front door and it was then we looked at each other suspiciously, both realising exactly the same thing at precisely the same time.
"But we're number 95, he can't live at 18 if he lives at the end of the alley!"
Feeling very uneasy my mind raced into overdrive. I decided and discussed with hubby this was part of a scam to check if we were at home and could be disturbed if he/they wanted to rob our property.
I pleaded with Mark to telephone the police, report this dodgy character, and never leave me home alone again.
Mark called the police, described our visitor, and left his details with the friendly voice at the other end of the line.
Our American television drama was now completely forgotten. We were living our own unexpected and uncomfortable real life nightmare.
Mark then decided to knock at our next door neighbour's house. Our nice neighbours whose names we STILL can't remember, to warn them of this scam and to check it was not their house which was burgled.
"Yeah," said our nice nameless neighbour (it's been a year, how can we now turn around and say we can't remember your name?), "he knocked at our door too. He's the young boy who lives in one of the streets at the back of the alley. I told him off the other day for riding his motorbike down the alley. There are notices about the missing cat all over the place."
Oh.
We both silently cringed. We were convinced the lad was part of a terrifying gang and our house was under surveillance.
Damn you over active imagination and damn you American drama show.
Just as we were feeling especially guilty, the real police turned up with a patrol car. An officer stepped outside the car and rang the doorbell that doesn't work (we were standing by our window at this point and to our horror noticed the police car).
"We're going to scan the streets for this man, could you give us any more details please?"
Mark and I both looked sheepish and wondered who would explain the huge, massive, mix up.

A few days later, I was sitting over the park with Tommy. He was having a kip in his pram and I was staring into space and chomping crisps. Through my savoury daydreams I saw a young lad, in a hooded top, wheeling his motorbike on the pathway.
"Excuse me, " I said, wiping cheese and onion crumbs from my mouth, "are you the one whose cat went missing?"
"Yes, that's right," he said politely, "but luckily he's come back after 5 days missing!"
"I'm so glad," I said, smiling sweetly.
All's well that ends well.

Thursday, 3 April 2014

Mothering Sunday

Lace and rose buds on the card I made my mum.


It was her first nanny card, made with polka dots and cupcakes.


Flowers in a teacup for my mum's kitchen.


A lavender scented, embroidered nanny heart for my mum's cupboard.


The day was extra special, my first mother's day.


Not forgetting nanny in heaven who looks after us from above. We visited her garden with Tommy.