She has the “big sister” part nailed. She also seems to understand the fact the baby is in my tummy, although her constant, “Your tummy is a bit fat now Mummy” this morning hasn’t done anything to assuage my insecurities over the alarming rate my waist is expanding.

Judging by a couple of her questions before heading off to pre-school though, there are still a few issues we need to iron out. 

“Will it be a pet Mummy? I will have two pets!” Am now a little worried she thinks the baby will live in the hutch with the rabbit we plan to buy at Easter.

“Will we be able to keep it Mummy?” Slightly concerned she thinks the baby will just hang around a couple of weeks.

But, perhaps, the most alarming. As she marched into pre-school waving the scan picture and telling the world she’s going to be a “BIG SIIIIISTER!!!” I heard her explaining to one of the keyworkers what the picture in her hand was all about.

“It’s my baby!” She beamed. “I’m having a baby!”

Yes, still a few conversations to be had by the sound of it.

***

Linking up to Wot So Funnee over at Actually Mummy. 

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But it’s these very hands, these tiny hands, which have made my own hands what they are now.

Because, without these mini fingers in my life, my own hands would not have found their current purpose.

I use these things on the end of my arms every day, all day.

They grip the steering wheel of my car as I drive to work. They hold a pen and tap a keyboard as I negotiate a radio show. They stroke my tired toddler’s back as she slumps against me for her afternoon milk. They change nappies, chop vegetables – are often burnt during the cooking of supper – and are inevitably scalded checking the temperature of the nightly bath.

These hands have changed.

Before my daughter they were often manicured, occasionally massaged with olive oil (Madonna does it, apparently) and regularly smothered with softening cream.

The pads of my fingers were barely worn, simply being used to type radio news bulletins and write the odd website article. Never had the nails of these hands experienced a child’s fecal matter up close. They’d never been urinated on or vomited on or bitten by a teething baby.

These hands were unlived in. Fresh. A blank canvas.

And here they are. A mother’s hands. A working mother’s hands. Wiping, typing, driving, cooking, washing, nurturing and patting.

My hands. Worn, lived in and a bit shabby around the edges.

I rather like them, actually.

***

This is my entry for this week’s Gallery, where the theme is Hands. Head over to Sticky Fingers to see the rest.

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Frog turned 20 months old yesterday.

She’s still not walking.

Unfortunately for my child, she’s been blessed with rather wonky feet and very long lanky legs. Just like her dad.

Also, unfortunately for my child, every pavement in Britain isn’t littered with a permanent handrail on which to balance while trying to negotiate life on two feet.

Each trip out of the house is fraught with anger and frustration. As other small people wander around, wreaking havoc on the world, my non-toddling toddler can only look on in dismay.

We’ve gone past the “Who gives a monkeys?” stage now. Instead, Frog is jealous and upset. She wants to join in but doesn’t know how. She has the language to demand other children take notice, but is left sitting in the corner, alone, as they skip off to play.

And as a mum, I now feel very much alone too.

The knowing smiles and reassurances of, “She’ll do it when she’s ready” have disappeared.

At baby swimming, I try to prop my daughter up to help her jump from the side, rather than simply flopping off the edge. All the other mums stand a metre or so back, waiting for their children to splash into their arms. Frog sees me trying to help and bats me away. Again, the tears and frustration.

At the baby sing-along class, the other toddlers march, hop and skip about the room to the beat of the music. My child is the only one still clutching her mother’s hand. Occasional attempts at letting go result in a wobble and fall to the ground. She’s left confused as the other children dance around her.

Now that we know there may be a problem, I’ve stopped mentioning the non-toddling status of my toddler to other mums. I’m sick of explaining away the raised eyebrows when the question of her age comes up. Instead, I let them make up their own minds. Is her speech just highly developed for an 11 month old? Or is there something wrong with her?

I leave the question hanging in the air between us.

Frog has one month to go until she passes the family record set by her dad for non-walking. As a bum-shuffler, I’m told the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine didn’t even stand until he was 21 months. But Frog is a crawler. She’s been standing and trying to walk for months now. Trying but failing.

And then I see the hospital date deadline looming in the future. 4th April.

Will the wonky feet have corrected themselves by then? Is there a hip problem? Will it all magically disappear one day as Frog gets up and puts one foot in front of the other, by herself? Or are we facing yet more months of frustration and tears?

If I could walk a day in my daughter’s shoes, I would.

I would stand for her and leap about and chase the other children she’s so intent on playing with. I would reach for things that can’t be reached on all fours. I would open cupboards and climb on tables and run through parks.

I would let go of my mother’s hands and embrace freedom.

***

Nominations are now open for the Brilliance in Blogging Awards. If you would like to nominate me, you will need my name (Mother’s Always Right) and my URL (http://mothersalwaysright.wordpress.com). There are 11 categories. I like the look of Lit but I wouldn’t shun a nomination in any category. Even the one for Daddy Bloggers. Although I rather think the actual dads may have something to say about that…

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When Frog was first born, my mum attempted to persuade me to use cloth nappies. “Yuck”, I replied. “What do you think I am? Some kind of hippy?”.

But after trying out the Bambino Mio two piece range during Real Nappy Week earlier this year (and finding that switching to cloth left more money for wine) I was a converted woman.

Re-enter Bambino Mio, with a brand new nappy. This one is even easier to use, as there’s no folding of cloth or any other such faff. The Bambino Miosolo is a one-piece nappy, with the lining and the nappy cover all attached. It has velcro fastenings and is a one-size fits all type of contraption. But more on that later.

We’re trying this new nappy out over the next few days and so far it’s a thumbs up. No leakages. No undoing of said velcro fastenings. No fuss.

If you want to try one out for yourself, those lovely people at Bambino Mio have given me a discount code to share with you, to give you 25% off a Miosolo nappy and a free 100g of Miofresh nappy sanitizer (meaning you can wash the cloth on a normal heat and save even more money for the beloved wine).

Just enter the code challenge at the checkout and the goodies are yours.

In the meantime, wish me luck with the nappies for the rest of the week – with an 18 month old who has decided she’d really rather be naked ALL THE TIME, it should be interesting.

***

DISCLAIMER: All views are my own, as ever. This is a review post.

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The post Silent Sunday appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

Occasionally I’d do a load of washing – back when I only needed to wash a couple of loads a week – and collapse for the rest of the evening on the sofa.

I had no idea what busy was.

As a comparison, I’ve done a little exercise. This is what my life looked like yesterday:

6am: Get up. Tiptoe to bathroom. Shower in record speed.  Realise we’ve run out of shampoo. Steal some of the baby’s. Realise we’ve run out of shower gel. Steal some of the baby’s. Emerge smelling like a Johnson’s Baby Factory.

7am: Get baby up, armed with a cup of warm milk as bribery.

7-7.30am: Wrestle with baby in attempt to change nappy / clothes / make her look generally presentable.

7.30am – 8am:  Sort out breakfast, preferably something non-messy like toast and fruit. Realise there’s no bread left so plump for Wheetabix instead. Ten minutes later remember why toast was preferred option. Spend five minutes trying to get dried Wheetabix off the crotch area of my dress. Give up. Realise baby is covered from head to toe.

8am: Look at clock, realise we’re late. Throw a babywipe halfheartedly at baby and spend five minutes wrestling her into a coat and hat.

8-8.30am: Drive to work. Arrive at work. Realise baby is still in car with me and not at the childminder’s. Turn around and drive to childminder’s. Drop baby at childminder’s. Drive back to work.

9am: Arrive at radio station flustered, but just on time. Nip to the toilets to have another go at that Wheetabix. Give up. Realise it’s in my hair too.

9am – 12pm: Do work. (Make some phone calls, read the news, make some more phone calls, check some emails, tweet a bit, read more news etc etc.)

12-3pm: Do some reporting from the field. Get lost. Receive text from childminder saying baby is grumpy. Reply to text. Feel guilty. Find required location. Do some more work. Drive back to the radio station.

3-5pm: Work again. Editing and writing this time. Finish bulletin scripts and check in on baby to find she has a biscuit and all is well.

6pm: Arrive home. Sit on sofa with exhausted and grumpy baby. Feel guilty.

6.15pm: Sort out lunches for following day. Unstack dishwasher. Feel resentful it’s not already done. Put load of washing on.

6.30pm: Give exhausted and grumpy baby a bath. Watch as her dad gets her into her pyjamas. Realise I’m still wearing coat. And shoes. Take off coat.

7pm – 10.30pm: Eat cuisine meal of pizza in front of laptop. Work. Reply to emails. Finish off a feature article and some copywriting. Do some social media work for a client. More emails. More work. Feel guilty again.

10.30-11.30pm: Remember baby’s DIY Advent Calender is still not finished. Feel like terrible mother. Spend one hour sewing and stuffing the pockets with second bag of chocolate coins. Feel guilty for eating first bag.

11.30pm – 12am: Attempt to broaden mind by reading some of new novel. Get past first paragraph and fall asleep. Awaken to husband’s trumpets of wind as he gets into bed. Stay awake as husband falls into deep, snore-filled and windy sleep. Succumb to trumpet fumes and fall into second slumber.

To do it all again tomorrow…

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***

I went to the shops today. Mum was muttering under her breath that it would be a quick trip, because the shop’s only over the road. We needed some of that delicious white stuff she likes to give me before my nap, so I was well up for going.

I decided I didn’t want to go in my buggy. It’s rubbish. Who wants to be strapped into a seat and wheeled around when you can hold hands and practise this new thing called walking?

Mum was moaning, as usual. She said I had to get in the buggy or she’d get a bad back walking with me. I won though.

Walking to the shops is really great – you should try it sometime. You get to take as long as you like and stop to look at each bit of green stuff in the garden. And there are loads of noisy things in the trees that flap and tweet when you wave at them. Mum was banging on and on with, “What noise does this make? What noise does that make?” etc etc. I just said, “Woof”. It seemed to keep her happy.

The thing about walking to the shops is that you really get a chance to show off. I mean, when you’re in a buggy you can’t give people a proper display of your skills. Walking isn’t like that at all. Plus if people aren’t paying you enough attention, you can just stop and shout at them and wave a bit. This either really annoys the people trying to walk behind you, or old ladies think you’re very cute and start chatting to you.

I took my sweet time walking past my house. I needed to make sure everyone was giving me the attention I deserve. One man wasn’t – so I shouted, “Woof” and dazzled him with my best smile. Who did he think he was to try and get past me without a greeting? Idiot.

Then we got to this big tall thing with some brilliant flashing lights on it. Mum had to pick me up at that point, which I wasn’t particularly pleased about, but I humoured her because it meant I got to press a button which made the tall lights go red and make a bleeping sound. All the whizzy houses on wheels (apparently they’re called “cars” – don’t know if you’ve heard of them?) stopped, just for me.

When we got to the shop Mum had gone a funny colour. She was a bit red and her hair was sticking to her forehead. I heard her tell the man she was getting a sore back because I can’t walk on my own yet. Seriously, all that woman does is moan.

I got a bit tired walking on the way back so I tried to sit down. Mum wouldn’t let me so I had a paddy. I find this works extremely well in situations that aren’t going my way. She gave in and picked me up. This was pretty cool because it meant I could try and lick her face and pick her nose.  She hates it when I do that in public.

All in all, I’d recommend walking to the shop over the road. But leave at least two hours for it. And be prepared for plenty of waving.

Hide and seek is another good way of killing time.

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And this is Frog now:

I’m amazed at how much can happen to a little body in a year.

From rolling to sitting, eating to crawling, to attempted walking (still to be mastered) and now…talking.

At 16 months old, I feel like I’m getting to know my daughter all over again. She may not be putting one foot in front of the other yet and she may make lots of strange gurgly noises, but she’s certainly not my tiny baby any more. She’s a diva, with a huge personality.

She can laugh hysterically and scream in the same breath. She can stamp her feet in a way Maria Carey would be proud of. And boy, that girl can talk. She never shuts up actually – I’ve no idea who she gets it from.

Just last week Frog had only one proper, understandable word in her vocabulary: Mummy. She used it for everything. “I want milk”, translated to “Mummy mummy mummy”. “I’ve done a poo”, translated to “Muuuuuummy Muuuummy”. It was incessant.

But now she’s added Daddy, No and Dog to the list. She can tell you what noise a dog makes (“Woof”, in case you weren’t already aware) and what noise a cow makes (it’s “Moo”, just so you’re clear). She can point to her head, nose, mouth and ears when asked where each part of the body is. She can scream at the right place in Row Row Row Your Boat. And she has a new name for me.

Apparently she’s outgrown the use of Mummy already. From now on I’m to be called by my first name only. “Molly” is the new “Mummy” don’t you know.

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