Sunshine, small things and (not too much) sangria....

Single parenting in the sunshine....

Being a single parent for the past five years has thrown a number of curve balls - some that have landed loudly, repetitively bouncing in the hallway in the shape of another football and some in the shape of my head banging against a wall....

Luckily, I'm well past that first year of single parent insanity where every new challenge seems like a hurdle that grew bigger than Mount Everest every time I tried to climb it. Now it's rare I have a mountain to climb, and the world of single parenting is really a walk in the park.* 

I rarely blog about the whole single parenting schizzle because it's mainly not about me being a single parent. 

It's just about me being a parent. And I'm single...(some of the time).

But there are times when carrying that single parent label becomes bigger than it should be - it moves from being a small identichip I happen to have to a mahoosive billboard advertising my status.

There's the misconceptions - yes I'm single, I'm not going to steal your husband or the yes I'm single, I'm not going to suddenly make your mrs misbehave. 

Thankfully for me this rarely happens mainly because I have a pretty fantastic group of friends but I know they still exist. And in general I've been misbehaving with all these friends for many years well before I was single. 

In the main, I reckon I have nailed the whole single parent thing. The cellar bootcamp for the small things was one of the more successful parenting techniques I employed and copious amounts of wine have also helped the flow of the single parent journey.

And then this year...the dawn of the summer holidays. A joyous time in every (single) parent's calendar - right up there with bank holidays and Christmas. 

What to do. When. How to plan. Who with. 

And then the momentous decision - to go it alone.

A holiday with the small things. Just me. And them. The three of us. One adult (debatable) and two children.

Before I could wimp out I booked it. Ready. Willing. And rather nervous.

And then we arrived. The airport negotiated perfectly. The flight a breeze. The sun shining. The apartment perfect (with the door blocked at night by two suitcases and a dressing table in case anyone tried to get in).

It was the most chilled - I would even say chill-axed if it wasn't one of the worst words in the new dictionary of today - I have been in a long time.

Just me. And them. And 3,245 games of Uno, 2,765 games of Go Fish, 10,000 attempts to get three of us to swim across the pool whilst riding the giant inflatable crocodile (that was a good look in a bikini), four shows, three diving competitions, two doggy paddle races and one bike ride.

I even turned my emails off. Obviously I didn't turn off the 24/7 support text service from friends and me mum on every given detail of the holiday. That would have been a ridiculous concept - and a step too far.

In summary - one of the most relaxing holidays ever - I even swam underwater to beat them in ALL swimming races. No prizes for second place in this family.

There were times I was conscious of the big fat single parent arrow that hovered above my head announcing my presence to all the smug married couples around me but I mainly didn't care cos we had fun and we did what we do every time we are together and I am relaxed - we mainly laughed.  The constant (all inclusive) supply of wine obviously helped. Although disappointingly it appears that the 13 year old isn't allowed to order me wine from the bar.

Perhaps most importantly it gave me proper time with the small things - and as it turns out they're quite good fun to be around. Well most of the time. Except when they decided it would be a really great idea to get me with the water guns when I was particularly relaxed with a good book - then shouty mum returned.

I did it. A summer holiday with my small things and I didn't feel that the big fat single parent arrow glowed too large above me head.

And the best bit....the small things told me it was the best holiday they had EVER been on. *Air Punch*

And the second best bit. I came home. They went away with their dad (that's not the second best bit) and I buggered off for three days of drinking in the sun with my friends with no parent guilt following me around tapping me on my shoulder (now that's the second best bit).

But for the record I never want to see another game of Uno again ever. Or Go Fish. Well maybe until next year when I'm thinking we go Greek Island hopping ...


*walk in the park aided by wine

Making the most of them there moments

Moments make the memories

This weekend, the 9yo has informed me he has had the best weekend ever. 

How? We've done nothing extraordinary, we've not spent bucket loads of money and we've not travelled the globe.

We've spent the weekend doing not much with lovely people.

Here lies the list of things that make the 9yo buzz with joy...

1. Playing football (crossing in apparently) after school with his mate for two hours. TWO HOURS!
2. Being childminded by friend's son to whom he showcased his colouring app from his iPad - and friend's son (who is an awe-inspiring 15yo) liked it. This gave the 9yo kudos. 
(of course I had nipped to the pub with parents of said 15yo childminder for a cheeky Fizz Friday)
3. Eating an Indian past his bedtime (of course when we returned from early doors drinking on Fizz Friday, we brought an Indian back)*
4. Being allowed to sleep in bed with his mummy (of course I have added this one as he would never admit it, but it's true)
5. Going to the Lakes to see his mate who he used to go to school with
6. Watching two Harry Potters back to back
7. Eating bacon butties
8. Listening to loud music in the car. I did try to educate him on the merits of Neil Diamond, but it turns out Ed Sheeran makes him much happier
9. Drinking Lucozade Sports - which in turn gives him brain freeze
10. Me (again I may have added this to get the list to 10.)

This list was put together as we travelled back from the Lakes and he was telling me in detail what happens in back to back Harry Potter movies....with impressions of all the characters.

It got me thunking. His list of things that made the weekend was a list of moments. Small moments in time that together made a blinkin marvellous weekend.

These small fry could (occasionally) could teach us a thing of two. 

I promised myself this year I would count the moments, not constantly worry about the bigger picture, not worry about the future and not try and plan the most perfect path with a cottage at the end with rose-tinted windows looking out on the world.

In the main I'm not bad at doing this - but the wisdom of my 9yo today has reminded me it's the moments that make the memories.

If I ask him to remember a holiday or an occasion, he picks out something little that happened. Like last year in Cornwall when I played Volleyball with him over the washing line, or when Bessie (the stupid dog) made a nest in my bed and the small things thought it was hysterical (I didn't).

So here's my list of things of moments that have made the memories this weekend...

1. A glass of wine (of course this would top the list) with a good friend in front of a burning woodfire as the rain lashed down outside (this was made all the better by the fact good friend's husband was looking after the small things)

2. A daft text from a friend which made me laugh out loud
3. Singing loudly to Neil Diamond in the car (whilst having the added advantage of causing the 9yo a great deal of embarrassment)
4. Getting the text from my soon to be 13yo to tell me she is on her way home from her netball weekend (and is safe and sound) AND everything on the text was spelt perfectly
5. Walking into the house to be greeted by the stupid dog 
6. My independent 9yo padding into my bed at midnight (I know he should sleep in his own bed all night, but I'm rather confident he won't be doing this at 15 years old)
7. Bacon butties - with brown sauce
8. An arrangement for an easy tea in the pub 
9. Did I mention a glass of wine?
10. See above

So all in all on the rather wet and not so springy Sunday as me and the small fry snug down and watch Paddington, I am cherishing the moments, counting my blessings and thinking of pouring myself a glass of red.




*For the purposes of those worried about my parenting skills, the impromptu Indian that followed Fizz Friday was at 9.30pm  - not 1am....(does that make it any better?)

Summer Juggling

Shush......The silence is deafening

Summer is here.

The sun is actually shining - and parents throughout the UK welcome the summer holidays with a sigh of relief.

Okay - that last sentence is a complete lie. 

Six weeks - six whole weeks - that 30 working days to fill with children's entertainment. Or in my case eight weeks as the 12 year old kindly broke up a week before the 8 year and the 8 year is going back a week after the 12 year old.

My diary looks like someone has thrown up childcare arrangements all over - and I have that niggling feeling that I have forgotten something - or someone important. Probably one of my children.

Every week has a plan - and what can only be described as a rough schedule attached to that plan - with post it notes on top of the plan - and red circles highlighting the really important things on the post it notes.

The years in PR organising client events have nothing on the organisational precision and attention to detail that goes into summer holiday small thing planning.

This week they have been thrown at the in-laws - as I write they are on a boat somewhere on the River Wyre with Grandma and Grandpa. Well I think they are on a boat - I received a picture but all I could see was Grandma and Grandpa - and wine - and frankly a rather ropey looking boat - no sign of the small things. 

Have they already fallen in? Is the eight year old trapped under the boat (yep that was last night's nightmare). 

The small things are at the in-laws all week, which should make me jump for joy at the sense of freedom I have - the evenings spread before me, dinner with friends planned and actual proper working days await me - however the house just seems a wee bit empty and just on the edge of quiet. Even the daft dog is wandering from room to room searching for something.

I think as parents we are never quite happy - we crave the silence. When the 12 year is pecking my head with her constant questions, opinions and smart arse answers, I beg her to be quiet - and now the house is silent, I'm craving the chaos.

Of course, those who know me will know that winesday awaits me - and the bliss of not having to do the school run is so far outweighing my craving for said chaos.

I also know that this weekend I am taking the small things to their first festival - and the neurotic worry that will accompany that 'care-free' adventure will be enough to occupy most of the quiet this week.

So all in all, I am going to try and enjoy the peace and quiet...really...I am.

The Week Where Everything Broke

The longest day of the year...EVER

Today has been crap. In fact this week has been pretty pants. Everything is breaking. Everything I say. 

Of course I am not exaggerating. 

Of course I am not being ridiculous.

And Bob the Builder appears not to appear on request. Or free.

Sometimes the whole single mum running a business thang becomes a bit overwhelming. Rarely happens but this was one of those days. 

It all started with the toilet seat trauma. So the toilet seat broke, completely cracked. I hasten to add before anyone casts aspersions it was not, I repeat not my fault, but the blame can be firmly planted at the feet of the small things as they stood on it to look in the mirror while they cleaned their teeth (imagine the shouty mum outburst the morning that was discovered). 

And of course nothing in this house is simple. Turns out the stupid expensive replacement toilet seat is not only stupidly expensive but also would take THREE months to arrive. Next time I shall be B&Q all the way - none of that designer Italian nonsense for me.

Turns out (after several million phone calls) it's cheaper and way quicker to buy a new loo. New loo purchased, picked up and now in hallway waiting for a suitable Bob the Builder to come and fit.

So in between toilet trauma and toilet seat resolution with purchase of new loo was the breaking of the bed. 

Cast your mind back to last weekend. Last weekend there were three of us in my bedroom, a night of fun was planned.....

STOP now with that thought......don't be so ridiculous.

Me and two of my friends were getting ready for a night on the town sipping fizz whilst applying mascara. Three girls sit on my bed to take this photo......

Mere seconds after the picture has been taken....

BED (from very reputable company) BREAKS. Bed which is only a year old SNAPS. Bed frame just caves in two. And I wouldn't mind but the straw that broke the bed frame was my very teeny weeny 5ft 3 friend.(names have been removed to protect their identity).

I am now currently waiting for the bed man to come and examine the breakage and determine the future of said bed. For now I am mainly lying very still in the middle of my bed as part of it is propped up on books - books I haven't yet read I may add.

Then there was technological hell as my emails went down...then server issues, then server issues as servers battled to outserve each other.

And finally at 3pm this afternoon my (expensive) push button bin broke. That pushed all the wrong buttons and I had a small strop.* A small strop that to be fair had been building all week due to the amazing achy breaky house.

(*complete breakdown throughout which the dog stared at me quizzically as if to say 'man up it's a bin FFS')

Then the small things came home from school. At this point I imagine most readers are covering their eyes thinking the smalls are going to get it from shouty mum extraordinaire. But my friends, that is not how this story ends.

7yo dispatched with his dad. 11yo with me due to concerts, leaver's party outfit shopping and some much needed mother/daughter time.

I anticipated me mainly sulking like a petulant teenager and drinking wine while the 11yo maturely watched TV and counselled me on seeing the bigger picture.

Instead we found gift cards for two shops and we went a spending. We then popped up to see my mum (who's birthday it is today). We spent a delightful few hours just mooching in each others company where I thought 'Wow it's quite cool having an 11yo daughter'.

We've spent quite a bit of time in the car and then I decreed it was only right and fair that I began her education into 90s music.

It started with this classic

The jaw-dropping embarrassment of my 11yo daughter combined with the loudness of me singling along to Dub Be Good to Me (complete with rapping) finally lifted my patheticness. (new word; feel free to use in times of patheticness)

Thus I give to you my lesson in life. (you can thank me later)

When everything breaks, when Bob the Builder can't be found, when the lottery hasn't been won and when the push button bin does not push the right buttons anymore play some funky music and sing loudly preferably in the presence of a small child.

It also helps if you combine the loud music and bad singing by winding the windows down and doing some crazy mum car dancing whilst driving along.

It's times like these when it's worth being a parent. 

When being a parent and embarrassing your small child makes everything better.

Here endeth this week's lesson. 

New Year Celebrations

The pressure of Christmas

Don't tell my small things but I'm glad Christmas is over. The minute I took down the Christmas decorations on the 2nd January, yes the 2nd, I felt a sense of relief and started to look forward to 2013.

I know it's just one day, I know it's all about the giving and not the receiving but still the pressure of Christmas crept up on me and before I knew it I was stressed about one day of present giving mayhem and a giant roast.

It's the time of the year when the whole focus seems to centre on the family unit. When there is almost a silent competition on who can do it better and who can be the most cheery.

I do emotionally invest in Christmas, I make sure the house is twinkly and me and the small things did some mean Christmas dancing to Last Christmas. The Christmas party was a chaotic success and I have respectfully treated every day like Winesday. 

But I am glad it's over. 

And I'm really looking forward to January.

I have thought about it and I'm thinking it might be because I got a salad spinner for Christmas which didn't invoke the same excitement as my Grifter bike did back in 1983. Or possibly it's Rylan's fault for being on the Xfactor and ruining my countdown to Christmas; which frankly I did not think was sch-mazing.

Or maybe it's because we simply put too much pressure on ourselves to create this perfect picture when frankly the one we paint every day with the small moments, creating the every day memories with normal roasts, giggling with the small things and laughing with friends are the ones that really count.

So next year I plan to do it differently. I''m not cooking. I'm going out. And I am gifting myself many presents. (I know it's not all about the presents *lies*)

In the meantime we have the joy of January to look forward to; which many of you will be dreading because you will all be detoxing, drying out and dieting. 

WRONG. DIDDLY WRONG WRONG.

January is one of the best months of the year; you should all be celebrating for the following reasons:

1. It's my birthday in January
2. It's the start of a new year
3. I'm going skiing
4. I'm going skiing again
5. The pressure of Christmas is over
6. Did I mention it's my birthday?
7. Oh and it's my Uncle John's 65th birthday

The new year is a time to reflect, make new year resolutions, fail dramatically at achieving the new year resolutions, embrace Winesday and celebrate.

I demand you all embrace January with the same vigour you embraced Christmas but without the pressure.

Go on. Hop to it.

Shush! I'm in silence

“Don't you hate that? Uncomfortable silence. Why do we feel it's necessary to talk about bull in order to feel comfortable? That's when you know you've found somebody really special. When you can just shut the hell up for a minute and comfortably share a silence -Pulp Fiction”

I've just realised that while I've been working over the past couple of days, I've been working in silence. Pure noiseless, deafening silence.

Apart from the odd conversation with the puppy (and frankly she is rather disappointing in the old two way banter) there has been no radio, no music and no noise.

I love noise (well apart from the small things shouting me at any time from 9pm - 10 am) and I've always lived in environments where people shout, curse, sing (badly) and where there is a constant humdrum of noise traffic.

For me a happy place is a noisy place.*

I never thought I would be a silence sort of a girl, but here's the thing - I have quite enjoyed it. 

The silence that follows the chaos of the school run, the calm after the storm of the shouting that starts at 7.15am and only stops when we leave the house at 8.36 am (OR WE WILL BE LATE).  

The hours of peace before the cacophony of conversation begins again after a day of school has been well ...really rather nice.

I'm still in silence now. And the only noise I'm really looking forward to is the sounds of my wine glugging cheerfully into my giant wine glass - some might say reminiscent of the sounds of a babbling brook. 

These are acceptable noises.

Now no-one dare disturb the sound of silence...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4zLfCnGVeL4

*To clarify, I mean grown up noise. Not play parks, not screaming children, not doctors surgeries and not random conversations with strangers on trains. I mean the sounds of adult life.

A friend for life

Project Dog

As many of you know 'Project Dog' has been gaining momentum in our house for a while now.

There was the school PR campaign that the 10 year old launched last year when her cohorts commenced on 'Campaign Cockerpoo' which essentially involved bucket loads of research and even the class teacher becoming involved in why we should buy a pooch. That girl has a career in spin ahead of her.

There has been the repeated requests. The promises that said dog will be looked after and the ultimate statement - the small things are prepared to pick up poo.

There have been many a friend who have told me what a ridiculous idea it is and many a friend who have frankly encouraged it so they can enjoy dog ownership from afar without the actually nonsense of owning a pet.

I've grown up with dogs. Two labs called Tess and Barney were a big part of my life. I know the joy of having a dog and how tying they can be. Then there is the fact that Tess - family dog of 13 years - bit my beautiful niece when I was looking after her and in one frozen moment turned from pet to animal. One moment that will forever be imprinted in my memory. (Luckily amazing niece is absolutely fine.)

So.... I know that as much as people put their dogs in their handbags and tell me that they are their babies - dogs will always be dogs in my book. A great addition to family life if you get one - but still under it all is the need to train and watch an animal. This is one of the reasons I haven't even considered it until the small things have got a bit older.

And then I found myself considering it, thinking about it, listening to the raging PR campaign fronted by the children. 

Could anything be more powerful - small things pushing cute puppies in front of my face with pleading faces and promises to be good forever.

So I decided a list was in order - the pros and cons of buying a pooch; much like that pros and cons list you write when you are deciding on finishing with your boyf when you are 15...

The pros:

- dog will be cute
- kids will love dog
- I will be best mum ever
- dog can run with me


The cons:

- dog will wreck my house
- dog could eat my shoe collection
- dog needs taking out 
- dog will poop, in my house, in my garden, on a walk
- I will have to pick up said poop
- dog will be tying
- dog requires commitment
- small things may get bored of dog
- dog will smell (even though there is a poodle parlour right on my high street = bonus)
- dog might get ill which will (a) cost and (b) upset small things
- dog will live a long time
- dog will cry when it arrives and possibly crack even my hardened heart
- a small, teensy weensy matter of possible allergies in the house
- much like those small things, I can't send a pup back

Anyway, the pup arrives on Friday.

Meet Bessie. Well, could you have resisted? 

Bring on the fun...(and mum of the year title).

Calm, cooking and roast potatoes

The roast is in...

I am done with summer. I am welcoming autumn with open arms. I have no expectations for autumn. I have purchased my new hunter wellies to walk in the woods, kicking the autumn leaves.

I have bought a new throw for the couch so we can wrap ourselves up as the nights draw in. 

Summer be gone. You disappointed me more than Gary Barlow did when he allowed Robbie Williams back into Take That.

There are a few signs that summer is over in my house. 

The heating has been sneaked on. I have stared longingly at the fire. The chiminea in the garden is already so last season.

Xfactor is back on TV - which only heralds the countdown to Christmas. Of course I only watch it because the small things beg me. I would much rather be watching some intellectual drama with subtitles.

But the ultimate sign; the great big chiming clock of autumn that marks the end of any more (dashed) hopes of crazy days in the garden is the fact the Sunday Roast is back on the menu. Every Sunday.

It's a staple in my house, it ticks my good mum checklist (that along with pillow fights and reading with the kids) and the small things devour it like they have never eaten before. To be fair after last night's picnic tea they could be right.

It reminds me of the good old days when I was growing up, when summers really were summer, where we played out with our mates and when a penny chew was actually a penny. *stares wistfully down a rose-tinted memory lane*

It reminds me of mum mooching (when I say mooching I actually mean cleaning and doing proper mum things) around the house with the radio on and we were playing with our Sindy dolls (Barbie's just didn't cut it in our house - she was too perfect). Mum was usually ironing (something you will NEVER find me doing) and singing (badly) her own made up words to songs. My favourite still is 'The Lift is up when we are down' to this.....http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CFYtpTot7hQ

The Sunday Roast is a powerful meal - it's the one meal in a week where I sit down with the small things and we chat. The rest of the week is usually a chaotic mess of rushed dinners, dinners without me and a couple of days with their dad.

Today, my sis in law is coming over with her (not so) small things and the roast will be the focal point of activity all afternoon. 

But for now I am mooching* around the kitchen, drinking coffee, roasting potatoes,  whipping up Yorkshire puds, listening to music, singing the wrong words badly while the small things play on the iPad. 

Times not changed too much then.

*mooching I do not mean cleaning or ironing - that would be ridiculous. 

Camping chaos and calm

Camping

I’m not supposed to like camping.

No double bed with white cotton sheets.

No doors to protect you from people.

No wardrobe with a choice of shoes and accessories.

No en-suite; in fact not even a toilet that you can call your own.

But I do.

I even like putting my tent up. I take pride in knowing I can erect a tent in 30 minutes (sort of well really 45 minutes but that does include the wine break).

I like being outdoors. I even like being outdoors when it rains.

I like the fact that I shoehorn a lot of equipment into my car and off we go for a weekend.

I love the fact that I’m in a field with my mates and even my phone gets ignored.

I ignore small details that would normally really upset me – like the fact that this weekend I managed to pitch the tent on an ant’s nest.

The reason I love camping so much is the feeling of calm that envelops me as the weekend settles in. As the sun starts to set and the small things roam free, I look around the field littered with tents, barbecues and camp fires and I realise (strangely) I’m in my happy place. Only for a weekend mind.

I love the fact the small things are so free, they can flex their independence.

They explore, climb, and operate as a pack having adventures and playing games that frankly just aren’t possible in my urban life.

Normal rules don’t apply, the six year old spent most of the weekend in his bare feet and I remembered to brush their teeth at around 11.30 am every day even though we had been awake since dawn o’ clock.

It’s taken me a while to get used to sleeping on a piece of tissue pretending to be a bed listening to the noises of the night and I have to ensure coffee is on a constant drip.

But when I’ve been camping for the weekend; I feel like I have really been away  (it might be because the days are soooooooooo long), I feel like we have truly left the nonsense of life behind and just had fun.

In the words of my ten year to her eight year old mate as she threw a cup of water over me this weekend and I didn’t shout:

8 year old: “My mum would have shouted if I had done that.”

10 year old: “Mum won’t shout this weekend. We’re on holiday. We’re camping. She doesn’t shout when we’re camping.”

My job was done. I was complete. I sat down in my very uncomfortable camping chair, supped my slightly too warm wine in a mug and smiled.

Note: as this blog is published, all camping equipment remains in my hallway as I don’t like putting it all away and unpacking. That sucks.

Manners - dying a death

Mind your manners - old man!

"In sociology, manners are the unenforced standards of conduct which demonstrate that a person is proper, polite, and refined." http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manners 


This wikipedia entry could of course be describing me. 


I have brought up my small things to believe in manners, to understand what they mean and to say please and thank you with the essential smatterings of excuse me. A simple death stare from me is enough to remind them in an instant of a forgotten social grace.


So it really gets on my nerves when the older generation, otherwise known as old fogies, senior citizens or old biddies seem to think it's okay not to use their manners with my small things.


Manners are in my humble opinion a two way street, regardless of age. And frankly (yes, yes I'm ranting) there have been several occasions of late when my children have been lovely and polite (and also almost spoke in the Queen's English) to old biffers and have been met with rudeness, indifference and even a glare.


Now I know that children should be seen and not heard, should know their place etc etc but if my small things politely say 'Excuse-me' then they should not be met by a curmudgeon's glare. 


It irks me. And I then usually end up muttering under my breath just like an old bean at the rudeness, at the sheer impertinence - which actually would probably have more impact if the pensioner in question had switched on their hearing aid.


Undeterred, I shall continue my quest to ensure that my small things are brought up in the knowledge of all things that are right. 


In fact I ensure they have lessons in courtesy, respect and etiquette taught to them every day, by me, their teacher. 


Lessons include:
1. The importance of respecting your elders 
Lesson: bring me a cup of coffee in the morning


2. Be nice and polite to others
Lesson: be nice to me above everyone else and you stand a good chance of getting your spends

3. Always say Please and Thank you

Lesson: mummy, ppplllleeeeaaaasssseeee can we stay up late. Thank you mummy you're the best.

4. Open doors for other people
Lesson: open the door when I am carrying wine, wine glass and mobile


5. Never interrupt when someone is speaking
Lesson: when I am talking, do not attempt to speak as this will usually result in a loss of spends, cakes, treats and generally any fun in life


Of course, these essential lessons in etiquette I am delivering are for their own good. Should they ever meet the Queen they will know how to behave, but if she doesn't reciprocate their good manners I may have to have a not so polite word in her ear.


I declare it to you now if the older generation keep treating my daaarrrllliiinngg small things with rudeness when they are being polite, I am not going to mutter under my breath, I might very well point out their own lack of manners. 


I said MIGHT.

http://pinterest.com/knightys/mind-your-manners/


P.S. I love old people

Standing behind the stove

Spatula Power

In my ongoing quest to tick the good mum box, the one thing that that allows me to award myself a big fat gold star more than anything else is cooking for the small things.


Standing in front of the stove, spatula in hand whilst the small things sit at the kitchen table, music on (pop party mix 999 is the current favourite) and random conversations a plenty. 


The good mum quest is often one that evades me and can also be made achingly hard to achieve (in my head) as a single mum. 


But I have found the solution, I know what ticks the box. 


I have the key. I have the secret. And because I am a good, kind, loving person (and sometimes great mum) I am going to gift that secret to you. So you too can wallow in the success of Spatula Power ©.

It's those small moments that count in the good parenting manual, the ones you don't even think about. It's those moments that your small things will remember and will take those parenting traditions to their kids.


It's the odd giggle, the impromptu pillow fight on a weekend morning and for the ultimate accolade, that feel good, good mum feeling, I give to you the cooking kids equation.


Cooking + Kids = Good Mum TICKS Good Mum Box. 


Realisation dawned on this cold wet bank holiday morning as the small things had begun their 'I want pancakes' chant and I started whisking up the mixture. 


I think it must go back to the dawn of time when I was little and many conversations with my mum happened in the kitchen, while she was cooking. I look back on these times with nostalgia and the knowledge that all the best cheesecakes come out of a packet.


Today, the only difference is that I, of course, tend to be cooking with a hearty glass of wine next to me. Not at breakfast time, obviously.


Sunday lunch is the same, it's probably the only staple on my parenting agenda. It's guaranteed to get us all sitting round the kitchen table discussing the meaning of life. Okay I admit, actually we are usually found sitting round the kitchen table debating whether Jessie J is better than Lady Ga Ga (I always go for Jessie).


There is nothing boho about my Sundays, but I also know there is nothing more fulfilling than my house filled with the smells of a Sunday roast, the small things mooching and with increasing insistence asking when lunch will be ready.


So this weekend I have awarded myself the 'Spatula of Success'. 


Go forth my friends, find your inner spatula.

Kitchen secrets

Family and friends found here

Last weekend was the official friends and family birthday party for my very nearly ten year old.

Twice a year I open the house up (there's also tours of the west wing on bank holidays) and throw an afternoon shin dig. The first one is just before Christmas and it's always mulled wine and mince pies.

The second is around the nearly 10 year old's birthday. The weather is always nice (I specifically order that) and the 'garden party' culminates in a crazed four to five hours where grown-ups eat food, drink wine and small things run like crazed loons in the garden and around the house.

The garden party - when I say garden party, I actually mean I open the french doors onto the square of grass and decking that can be called a garden and hope for the best.

Planning for this event is not something I plan.

It usually involves:

1. Small thing announces to a few friends when the party is planned

2. I frantically check the calendar

3. I send out text to family saying come one over

4. I meet various friends and say come on over

5. Small things randomly invite friends and say come on over

6. I mention it to the neighbours and say come on over

7. I take no notice of who can and can't come and make no note of numbers

8. The morning of the event I spring into action and muster up various dishes
(This year I actually made a chilli the day before as I had sensibly planned to undertake a car boot sale the morning of the party.)

9. On the day, everyone arrives (late) and leaves (late)

10. All conversation takes place in the kitchen (with the exception of a few men folk who can be found discussing football in the garden).

You generally can't move in the kitchen, it's full t'brim of people. People catching up, chatting away, discussing the state of school, the country, the latest relationship, pregnancy, marriage and/or divorce. Pass-the-baby, that well-known game, is played well and wine is consumed.

I have three rooms downstairs; living room, play room and kitchen and everyone still stays in the kitchen. The hub of my home.

All important conversations take place in my kitchen, news is consumed in the kitchen and issues debated (and sometimes resolved).

There's only been one real disaster at one of the bi-annual events. This occurred when various adults had strangely strayed into the living room and then shouting was heard from the bathroom.

A small thing (she was three at the time) had managed to lock herself in the bathroom. At this particular event (it was a Christmas gathering) the grown-ups were all pretty laid back (drunk) as we tried to encourage the three year old small thing to open the bathroom door. It was not successful. The other small things got quite stressed whilst the grown-ups got the giggles (drunk). Luckily trauma was averted as one of the dads (also a fireman) successfully broke the door to save the child (who incidentally was happily playing with the two boats and some bath crayons she had found).

The difference at this occasion, people had strayed away from the kitchen. People were in the living room.

We learnt a  lesson from the bathroom incident.

We should stay in the kitchen. (you can't hear if anyone is locked in the bathroom from there).