I'm a proper embarrassing mum.

I'm a proper embarrassing mum. 

And I'm proud.

This evening I am taking the nearly 10 year old to her first gig. 


Well when I say gig I actually mean pop concert. I was just trying to be urban cool.


We are off to JLS. She's pretty excited, mainly as it gives her such kudos in the playground.  Yes JLS does indeed deliver kudos to nearly 10 year olds.


She has seen fit to deliver a number of instructions to me about our quality mother daughter afternoon. The first and most important rule of our outing today is that I haven't to embarrass her. 


Red rag. Bull.


I'm quite mortified at this (well I'm pretending to be) - how can I embarrass my nearly 10 year old. 


I am cool - well once a 6 year old said I was the coolest mum in the playground which counts -doesn't it?


I don't do much to embarrass her, I get down with the kids. 


And then it dawned on me. I do embarrass her. 


Have I become that fun mum that is making the nearly 10 year old cringe in her uber cool high tops. Maybe I am just trying too hard to get down with the kids. 


And then there is the other reason. The big reason. I can't help myself. I quite like making her cringe. It makes me laugh. A lot. When she starts to get embarrassed, I always have to take it a step further. 


On the way into school on Tuesday morning, as she was walking into class I ran up to her and smothered her in kisses, telling her I didn't know how I was going to cope all day without her. Her mates laughed. I chortled to myself all the way back to the car.


On the way to netball on Tuesday evening when I had a car full of her friends, I played my 80s tunes really loudly (I consider this education) and then as we got out of the car I showed them all how to robotic dance. Cool, yes? Her mates laughed.


And then my favourite trick of the week. I allowed both small things to go to school on their scooters which I would then carry home. The 6 year old was duly dropped off at his classroom and his stunt scooter was passed into the care of me - the responsible adult. It then made perfect sense to get on said scooter and race the nearly 10 year old through the playground to beat her to her classroom. As I jumped off the scooter and punched the air winner styli, her mates laughed.


What she doesn't know is that when she then gave up her scooter to me, a few of us mums had a scooter race down the road. We rocked urban cool as we synchronised our scooting. People stared. I know they were just jealous.


I know she laughs too. I know it gives her permission to have fun. 

Where do all the odd socks go?

Where do all the odd socks go?

Today while I was dusting my radiators (I know I think it's the saddest thing I have ever done), I contemplated the meaning of life. Well not really the meaning of life; that would be far too hard on a Sunday night.


This was after a great day in the balmy sunshine which involved a netball game (the nearly ten year old scored six goals), a post netball celebration in an ice cream parlour where the six year old conned me out of another scoop of gubblebum (his words) ice cream, followed by a barbecue at my sister in law's where the sun shone and the small things played croquet. Well when I say played croquet, it was no Alice in Wonderland scene, more two kids slamming a ball with some wooden sticks shouting 'get in.'


Me and the small things then came home and I decided I had to dust my radiators..and there I found an odd sock. 


And then it came to me, like a bolt out of the blue and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it ever since.


"What has happened to all my socks?" No matter what happens, no matter how often I try and pair the socks, every single sock in my house ends up odd.


I have tried the following solutions to beat the odd sock shocker.


1. Put the socks into the washing into pairs
2. Pair the socks as soon as they come out of the washing machine and dry them together
3. Only buy the same colour of socks


But NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING ever works.


The socks go into washing into pairs. They come out odd.


The socks get paired as soon as they come out of the washing machine, there is always one or two left over. AND THEY DON'T MATCH.


I buy socks the same make, match and colour and still I have a batch of odd socks which cannot be paired.


There is a new creature of cryptozoology in town. 


Sod the Loch Ness Monster, stuff the Yeti, there is a Sock Monster and it lives and it breathes in my house.

Tell me you haven't thought it. Tell me you don't wonder what has happened to your matching pairs.


Someone...or even something is stealing our socks.


There is a conspiracy theory in this. Maybe.

My mum is mad as cheese

My mum is mad as cheese 

My mum is mad as cheese. Fact.

My small things adore her. She often drives me mad, mainly when she sneaks all manner of crap sweets and chocolate into the hands of my small things and then pretends she knows nothing about it.

But without my mum I would be lost. She picks up the small things from school on a Monday and Wednesday for me so I can do my day job and on a Wednesday she bathes them and washes their hair so I simply have to deliver the bedtime story.

When the nearly 10 year old was less two weeks old and hadn't stopped crying, I rang her at 2am and told her if she didn't do something the then two week old was going to be launched through the window. Mum turned up within 20 minutes (usually a 30 minute journey) took said baby off my hands and rocked her for four hours while I slept and some degree of sanity returned.

We go to Cornwall every year, all of us. Mum, Dad, sister, children and husbands when they were husbands. On a recent family adventure on the beach, I was taking the small things on a rock climbing expedition between two bays as the tide was coming in. I got 'the look' and lecture of mum for not being careful until I reminded her of my childhood holidays in Cornwall and on one particular trip where mum took us (me and my sis) on a similar rock climbing adventure.

As we climbed into yet another bay, shin-deep in the advancing tide, we settled into a cove - where we got trapped by the rapidly advancing tide. An hour later we were still having an 'adventure' in the cove when the lifeguard paddled round in his canoe to ask us if we needed rescuing as it was a particularly high tide. Oh no said my mother, we're having a great time. We continued to have a great time until the tide went back out - about four hours later.

Today as mum rocks the Grandma title, she plays football with the 6 year in the back garden, she has more patience than me when helping the struggling nearly 10 year old with her homework and she still gives the small things way too many sweets.

This year my sister and I have decided that it's unsafe for mum and dad to drive to Cornwall on their own so we are splitting them up between cars. This is not really due to a lack of driving ability but the fact we are not sure that mum and dad should be left alone in a confined space for 5 hours.

This year I can't wait for Cornwall as at the fabulous age of 63 years she has promised the small things she intends to don a wetsuit and go body boarding.

See I told you. Mad as cheese.

Say my name...say my name.

Say my name...say my name.


No don't worry I haven't gone all Destiny's Child, but I have realised that not many people use my name. 


My actual name. 


The name I was christened with. 


It may shock many of you but that name is Sarah..not Knighty and not mum or mummy.


I was talking to a friend the other day and in the middle of the conversation, she said my name. Immediately the conversation had more meaning. Immediately I listened a little more closely. Immediately I realised that I very rarely hear my own name. 


Of course I am talking about my actual name and not the given name for the past 10 years. I hear 'mummy can you, MMUUUUUUMMMMMYYYYY, mum will you, MMMMUUUUUMMMMMM, is your mum there' all the time. 
In fact when I go to bed it's ringing in my ears. And then at 4am I hear it again and all to often I realise it's not a dream, it's real and it's coming from the 6 year old's bedroom. It also usually means that action is required.


I never liked my name at school. I hated the fact it couldn't be shortened as it meant (and still means) that I was forever nicknamed Knighty. It's one of the reasons I gave my small things names that could be shortened.


All through school, through university, through my career and even now if someone wants my attention, it's often Knighty I hear. Nothing wrong with that of course (well unless you're in a lovely posh shop and your 'friend' shouts Knighty from the changing rooms to get your attention; then I really pretend not to hear).


But now I like hearing Sarah; it often means:
1) I'm in grown up company
2) Someone grown up is talking to me 
3) It's time to behave like a grown-up (this doesn't always follow 1 and 2)


I think there's a lot of power in someone's name - used properly. 


I'm not suggesting you go around saying someone's name over and over again as frankly that would be slightly weird, but next time you're chatting with your colleagues, friends, peers use their name. Drop it into conversation and witness the magical effect of someone listening to you a little more closely.


Unless of course they are saying 'Sarah, get another drink in,' then all bets are off.

The 10 year light at the end of the tunnel

The 10 year light at the end of the tunnel


So my main plan today is to lie in front of the TV shouting: 'I can't, it's Mother's Day.' 


I've already tried it on the Labour councillor that's just knocked on my door trying to talk politics - bad enough on a Sunday, but on Mothering Sunday...


Do they not realise that mothers everywhere are trying their hardest to do nothing (except ring their own mothers of course).


As I lie on the couch of laziness, I can't help thinking of all those new mums out in the fog while I lie here ordering my small things about.


Dear mums, one day in about ten years you shall have a day like today and all the sleepless nights will be worth it. Today marks my ten year light at the end of the tunnel. 


Today my nearly ten year old has promised to spend the day making me cups of coffee. She has been in training for a while - obviously pouring boiling water has been my main concern - but now she makes the perfect brew.


This heralds the perfect mother's day.


New mums your day will come. Hang on in there.