Tootling off far from me, she chooses her own path, splashing in puddles of sea water gathering in the sand. On the wind, I catch her humming a vague tune all her own.

And then it catches me. That twinge of guilt. Is she lonely? 

Frog has no brother or sister to keep her company these summer holiday days. Not that she knows any different I suppose, but she positively lit up like a beacon when some other kids were at the park the other day.

When we planned to have a baby, we had always talked about “children”. We didn’t envisage having one “child”. I had a whole brood in my mind. A noisy tangle of limbs and laughter, chasing each other through the house, bundled into the back of the car for holidays.

Equally though, I didn’t imagine a toddler and a newborn. And then Frog wasn’t a toddler any more (she’s only three, mind you), but I didn’t imagine being pregnant and moving house. And I still don’t, actually.

We are in the middle of house-hunting, searching for a home to buy and finally settle in. It’s been two years of hard graft to save the money needed for a deposit, build my status as self-employed to the point where I’m making a good income and people want to lend me money.

I worked so hard over the last couple of years that now I’m no longer pulling 75 hour weeks I’m rather enjoying spending time with my little girl without feeling the kind of tired that makes you slur your words.

Although I look forward to our family one day expanding, I like our little brigade of three as it is, for now; when she appears at my side in the morning and clambers into bed, snuggling in to me with her blanket, while her dad snores on the other side of the bed. When we sit around the table at mealtimes and Frog is centre-stage with her stories of the day.

“She’ll be spoilt if you don’t have another soon,” someone said to me the other day. I argued that she’d be a diva with or without a sibling – I am living proof of that myself (when my sister arrived I simply saw her as a ready-made audience for my plays and dancing shows, especially as she was too little to turn her chair to face the other way).

“But there’s never a right time to have a baby,” someone else pointed out recently. True, but I really don’t fancy facing that bone-crunching exhaustion of early pregnancy while lugging round boxes and going through the stress of buying a house.

“But if you wait too long, they’ll have nothing in common,” another argument in favour of getting back on the baby wagon. My answer to this one is always the same: you can’t guarantee your kids will get along, just because they’re close in age. There’s four years between my sister and I and she is my best friend.

“But you’re not getting any younger,” a joke from a friend as we discussed the baby thing. I will be 30 in October. I don’t think that makes me old.

A baby is something I hope for again one day. But that day is not today. Or tomorrow, as it happens.

In the meantime, I hope Frog is happy being a lone ranger, splashing in puddles in the sand on her own. After all, she’s not really alone is she?

She’s got her mum and dad to splash with her, until the day when someone else may come along to share her puddles.

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She’s been adored from the moment they met her.

In fact, as I write this, my little girl is with one set of grandparents (my parents) down in Devon, on her own. And you know what? That’s how it should be.

My daughter’s grandparents love her and want to spend time with her and I like that they (sometimes) get to do that without me. Frog’s completely comfortable with both Grandma and Granddad, Marmar and Dadaz.

As much as I want to be part of the memories she’s making – the beach visits and the icecreams, the trips to the park and the bedtime stories – there’s something pretty special about the fact she’s doing these things without me. She’s spending quality time with people who love her, without me.

I remember when Frog was just over a year old, we left her for a night with her northern grandparents, while we visited friends nearby. I was anxious at first, but after being reminded she was being looked after by a couple who’d happily raised three of their own boys, I knew not to fret.

As much as we loved the night off, it was also lovely to know Frog had enjoyed some time bonding with her grandparents without us being there to distract her. Now, if she cries when her grandparents are around, she’s just as likely to go to one of them for a cuddle as she is to come to me or her dad. Sometimes she actually prefers to be on her own with them, demanding “Mummy and Daddy NOT here now”, while she pulls a grandparent this way or that.

My mum tries to explain to me how different it is having a grandchild compared to having a child. I think it’s something about enjoying each phase more, being more laid back and having the time and patience not to worry about things. And there’s something in there about not feeling guilty proffering treats near to teatime.

Here are some moments between Frog and her Marmar and Dadaz, the ones who reside in Devon. I’m sure there have been lots more like these over the last couple of days, but I haven’t been there to snap them. As it should be.

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There should be a law that states all mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters should live within 45 minutes of each other. The law should only be waivered in extreme circumstances, like if the family involved can’t stand each other and would rather live on opposite sides of the universe than a relatively short car journey away.

I don’t belong in that camp. I love my family – like them even. I bicker with my sister, who is also my best friend in the whole wide world. I laugh at my mother and father, who are also (they’d hate me saying this) my inspiration and – as an adult – people who I love to spend time with. I also love my in-laws and have found two new brothers and two new sisters in my marriage to the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine.

The thing is, they all live too far away. Quite literally, at opposite ends of the country. My retired parents live in a beautiful cottage by the sea in Devon, 4 hours away. My in-laws live scattered around Manchester, also 4 hours away (although it’s usually more like 8 hours due to the appalling Friday night traffic).

It’s too far. Far too far.

Work commitments and the fact that, since January, I’ve only had a fortnight of holiday from those 70 hour weeks have meant we don’t get to see any of them as much as we’d like to. But it also means that the time we do get is precious.

On Friday we packed up the car and trailed up north. Eight hours of motorway traffic later, we arrived at the NLM’s homestead, to be greeted by smiles, hugs, wine, beer, a delicious curry and lots of toys for Frog. We woke up the next day to more family; two brothers and their lovely partners, a gorgeous 4 year old neice, a gurgling, soft and beautiful 6 week old new addition, an aunt, uncle, cousins, old friends… It was like something out of a Peter Kay sketch but with fewer grey cardigans and dodgy haircuts.

I love those huge family gatherings. As a child I would relish the chance to have all my aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents in one place. The bickering, the laughter, the food – oh, the food – the games, the inevitable tears, more laughter and more food. The first time I visited the NLM’s family in the north I felt instantly at home. It was the same.

This weekend Frog got another taste of the big family life. She carved a pumpkin with her idol – her cousin – and her grandfather. She ran off halfway through with her idol – her cousin – and left her grandfather to do most of the work. And she returned at the exciting bit with her idol – her cousin – to watch her uncle light the ceremonial candle in the window.

She spent ten minutes getting trussed up in her best outdoor gear for her grandfather’s annual fireworks display, only to watch 30 seconds before running indoors with grandma, screaming alondside her idol – her cousin.

She missed the sparklers. But that’s OK, because the adults made the most of them.

The weekend ended at 9pm on Sunday night, when we eventually arrived back home, dragging our suitcase full of dirty washing through the door. I’m still exhausted – as is Frog – but we had a brilliant time and those two nights spent with family were worth the long old haul up the motorway.

I just wish everyone lived nearer. But until that happens, I’m happy to drink in every second of the fleeting visits.

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No, I mean REALLY honest.

Do you tell them about the time the other day when you lost your temper in a fit of exhaustion and shouted at your child, then instantly regretted it? Do you tell them that you gave your kids fishfingers and chips for tea the other day, because you were all out of organic veg? Do you admit that sometimes you let them watch too much TV, because you’re sick of the sight of playdough?

Please say you do.

Because, if you do, that makes you completely and utterly normal.

I’m sick of being confronted with images, conversations and Facebook updates about perfect parents living the rosy dream. Of course they’re doing the things they tell me they’re doing. They’re having nice times – like the one I blogged about earlier this week. These moments exist, I’m not denying that. But so do the rubbish ones.

Life’s not pretty and pastel coloured and non-tantrum filled and cuddly ALL the time. I refuse to believe it.

But the problem with only showing the good side of life all the time, is that it can lead to a skewed notion of what we should aspire to as parents. If you only ever see the wonderful days out and the happy cheery moments, does that mean the others don’t exist? Does it mean those of us that do experience the muddy moments occasionally are less than perfect mothers?

Again, I refuse to believe it.

The perfect parent does not exist. So stop beating yourself up if you can’t aspire to that ideal. The bar’s set too high. The expectation is an unrealistic one.

So stop trying.

That’s what I’m going to do anyway. I’m going to accept that my devotion and love for my little girl will see her through. I’m going to accept that there will be times she’ll watch too much TV. I’m going to accept that there will be times when tiredness will overwhelm me and I’ll fail to remain the Calm Mother Earth I so yearn to be when that tantrum from hell hits.

Because I’m a realist. Want to join me?

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When it comes to buggies, I have to admit to being a bit of a snob. It’s ridiculous really, because I’m not particularly materialistic in other areas of life. I don’t drive a snazzy car – and couldn’t care less. I don’t wear designer clothes – and again, couldn’t care less. And I get just as much satisfaction from a nicely upcycled piece of furniture, as a newly purchased piece.

But when it comes to buggies, I have a bit of a weak spot.

It all started when I was pregnant. Completely oblivious to the many different types of buggy / pram / travel system out there, I wandered into Mamas and Papas and was instantly intimidated. I didn’t know my Quinny from my Bugaboo, my Xplory from my Sola. I was a buggy novice who had no idea of the potential status symbol of the buggy.

So I happily purchased a Mamas and Papas travel system (I say “I” purchased it – it was actually a present from the husband’s generous parents) and didn’t give it much more thought.

And that travel system has done us proud. Most of the time.

But there have been times when I’ve yearned for something a bit simpler. I have a tiny car. The big buggy is too big to fit in the boot of my car, which is a pain. Although my two year old is walking, her hypermobility means she gets tired quite easily – and her toddler lump means she’s too heavy to lug around for long periods of time.

So a buggy is essential. But for those times when we’re out and about, I need an easy, fold away buggy. One that doesn’t require taking apart just to fit in my boot. Yet my inner buggy snobbery means I’m loathe to leave the posher travel system at home and wheel out the cheaper, smaller version for days out.

And that’s where this beauty comes in.

The Britax B-Agile is available exclusively at Mothercare. It’s designed to cover all your buggy needs, with a click and go device meaning you can put it up with one hand while holding your baby with the other. It’s lightweight, folding down to a really manageable size. And the four wheels combined into a three wheel, sleek black design means it looks pretty too.

We live in the countryside, so we need a buggy that can handle roads a bit off the beaten track, without bending or rolling away. So far, this buggy has performed just as well as the massive travel system we already own. And folding down to a fraction of the size, I can miraculously fit it into my teeny tiny car boot.

But it shouldn’t be seen as the second-best option. It’s far from the “extra” buggy to support a bigger travel system you might use every day.

I’ve been so impressed with the B-Agile that I’d happily recommend it to a family new to the buggy market. With a reclining back which goes all the way to flat, it could be used for newborns right up to four year olds. It’s durable, roomy but compact and very, very comfortable. I know this, because my toddler is very picky about where she falls asleep…

If you’re looking for an attractive buggy that’s easy to manouevre, is compact and light – yet chunky and durable – this is your man buggy. You don’t need to spend thousands on a massive travel system that can cook your tea for you while breastfeeding your child, you simply need to invest in this beauty.

And at £229.99, it means you’ll have more money left for all those other things babies need, like nappies. Or you could invest in posh crisps and wine. Whatever floats your boat really.

The clever inventors at Britax have done a great job with the B-Agile. Now they just need to bring us a buggy that can do four loads of washing at the same time as reading a toddler’s bedtime story. But for now, this one will do nicely.

***

Disclaimer: The Britax B-Agile was provided for the purpose of this review. All views remain my own. As ever.

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Hear me out.

I love my daughter with every fibre of my being. I haul myself out of bed to work very odd hours every day, all for her. I do it so she will have a room of her own one day in our own house, with holidays and swimming lessons and all the other lovely things small people like.

But sometimes I need some time with her dad – my husband – without the label of “mum”. Sometimes I just need to be me, with him, on our own.

Those times happen very rarely. The last time we ventured away from the house, just the two of us, was back in February when we went on our honeymoon. And what with our long working patterns, busy family life and the hectic summer schedule of visits and catching up with relatives, the next installment of “us” time was very much appreciated.

This last weekend we celebrated our first year wedding anniversary. It was a couple of weeks late, so we threw both our birthdays into the mix too and really pushed the boat out.

We stayed here:

In this room:

(Yes, that’s a bath in the corner of the room.)

We ate breakfast in bed, drank cocktails, ate far too much cheese and mooched around Cheltenham.

If you’re after a weekend of relaxation, I really can’t recommend The Montpellier Chapter enough. It’s not cheap, but the hotel is beautifully restored with art and stunning architecture. The service is impeccable (the staff uniform comprises Converse trainers – what more can you want?) and the technology at the hotel is second to none.

I didn’t realise just how much I needed a weekend away with the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine until we were in the car on the way there and it dawned on me that I wasn’t even stressed at the traffic.

It’s hard to get worked up when you can see this out of your window:

A walk in the park on a hot afternoon, followed by a leisurely read of the papers in bed, followed by more food and fizz… I’m a restored woman.

So yes, we spent the weekend away from our beautiful baby. But we came back happier and more relaxed parents because of it.

How about you – have you ever had a mini-break without the kids?

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My one remaining grandmother is not known as Grandma. Neither is she Granny, Nanny or Nan. She is Nana, pronounced Nan-arr (as if she was christened by a pirate).

Nana

Nana’s husband, my grandfather, was called Dada. He was also christened by pirates, so his name was pronounced Dad-arr.

These are the names used by all their grandchildren. I’m not entirely sure where the pirate theme originated from, but I’m pretty certain it had something to do with my eldest cousin Louise, who probably struggled to say Grandma. There’s a similarity between Grandma and Nana, if you say it slowly, in toddler fashion.

In an equally non-traditional way, my other grandmother also shunned Grandma as a name. She had a bobby dazzler of a title: Suntan.

Yep. That is what we actually called her. Without a hint of humour. Her name was Suntan and that was that. No questions asked.

Again, I think this has something to do with my elder cousins. I know they referred to her as Tantan, which in my 2 year old state of mind I probably found quite boring. So, in our house, Tantan was just plain old Suntan. It was a given. She even signed her birthday cards and letter, “Love from, Suntan”.

My 22 month old daughter is currently in the naming phase. She is lucky enough to have all four grandparents to christen. All four grandparents, whom she idolises. Her obsession over each grandparent rivals my own obsession with Gary Barlow. It borders on the unhealthy.

She’s cracked the names of my own parents. This happened with a certain finality over the last couple of days.

My mum, her Grandma, is Mar Mar. Dragging my mother around the house, Frog shouted Mar Mar at the top of her lungs.

The excitement was almost too much to bear when she was met on the road by the newly arrived Mar Mar. Frog’s legs waved around in all their hypermobile glory, like a plasticine man gone wild. She shrieked with elation “MAR MAR! MAR MAR!” before settling into a quivering state of excited shock.

Mar Mar it is then.

She has also newly named her grandfather this weekend. He is the Mark Owen to Mar Mar’s Gary Barlow. Another object of complete obsession. And from now on, he will be known not as Grandad, Grandpa or Pops.

Nope, his name is Dandaz.

Dandaz

Frog’s northern grandparents remain Grandma and Grandad, unless she decides on something different. I’m almost hoping she really mixes it up with something like Sparkly Pants and Icecream Head or an equally bizarre alternative. Or maybe she’ll just stick with Grandma and Grandad, who knows.

So, for now, the grandparents in our life remain as Mar Mar, Dandaz, Grandma and Grandad.

I’m intrigued though, is this normal? Coming from a history of non-traditionally named grandparents, it seems normal enough to me. But what are the grandparents in your life known as?

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We were going to do something today. I’m not sure what. Just, well, something.

Instead, we have spent the morning making a mess without really doing anything. The day is already half over and we’ve only made it to the end of the garden.

Weekends take on a new quality now I’m juggling the new job with everything else. We always plan to do something good. Something “quality family time” orientated. Something that involves effort and huge amounts of preparation.

And, yet again, we have failed.

Instead, somehow, time has slipped away from us today. Bed kept us all hostage (even the sleepy 18 month old) until at least 9am. The novelty of not getting dressed in a rush was too much to bear, as was the treat of eating breakfast together and not having to be out of the house when it’s still dark.

I blinked, and it was time for Frog’s nap. And, being the lazy child that she is, she’s still there. Sleeping.

So here we are, 2pm on a Saturday, and it’s already threatening to get dark soon.

Looks like the day trip is off the cards then.

At least we managed a spot of gardening though…

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I’m the first one to wake. Butterflies are dancing in my stomach. I haven’t felt this way since Christmas Day when I was nine.

It’s my wedding day.

Next to me, still fast asleep, is one of my best friends and bridesmaids, Ruth. We had an early night after a glass of wine and some pizza with my sister and other best friend, Ellen. The baby is still asleep in her bedroom next door.

I pad downstairs and put the kettle on, to try and still the dancing butterflies. I open the back door to check the weather and smile as the sun touches my face.

Only girls are allowed past the threshold this morning. Well, only girls and my dad…

For breakfast we have bagels with smoked salmon and cream cheese, washed down with ice cold Bucks Fizz. I blame the fizz for the fact I’m an emotional wreck as I read the card left for me by my future husband, the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine…

Upstairs, the hairdresser is busy laying out her wares as she pulls out the big guns in an attempt to tame my wild hair.

And then the flowers arrive. They’ve been delivered by the wonderful Lindsay at The White Horse Flower Company. They’re so beautiful they make me cry. Which is handy really, because it distracts me from the fact I look like I’ve escaped out of a 1980s horror show…

It’s now the fun begins. My sister and Ellen, the other two bridesmaids, arrive after a night at a hotel nearby. They’ve come to slap on the make-up and beat the frizz into submission. And then my future mother-in-law, sister-in-law, flower girl (Frog’s cousin), lovely friend and mum and dad beat down the door. It’s a full house.

After beautification I finally get to slip my feet into these beauties…

But not before bathing Frog and getting her into her outfit for the day…

Now it’s time for the dress. The one my mum has spent the last six weeks making. The one we designed together after finding some beautiful 1940s inspiration. The one we went into London’s Shepherds Bush to find the material for. It’s made from silk crepe and lace. I want to wear it every day.

The house is quiet now. I’m done up to the nines, with a huge pair of pants hidden under my beautiful dress. I’m too scared to move in case I tread on my veil (also made lovingly by my mum, complete with the diamond strap from my great aunt’s 1940s ballroom dress).

After ferrying a car load of pretty girls to the wedding venue, my mum and dad return, ready to drive me to meet my future husband, who’s currently putting the finishing touches to his own outfit…

Once he’s safely tucked away at the front of the barn, I can arrive to meet my bridesmaids and help persuade the Registrar this definitely isn’t a sham marriage…

And now for the wedding. My face aches from the smile plastered across my face. I just can’t help it. It’s either smile or give in to the emotion bubbling away in my throat. And as soon as I see the NLM, the smile just gets wider…

And so, we’re married. Mr and Mrs. Although I reserve the right not to be referred to as Mrs (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine.

While we frolic (this is probably the only time in my life I’ll be able to use this word to describe something I’ve actually done) in the grounds of Ufton Court, our friends and family munch on cream tea, drink Proscecco, bounce on castles, watch a magician and play with giant games…

And you know I said the bridesmaids are pretty? Well they really are…

Before the meal, I get a chance to catch up with my mum and my grandma, who shares her 87th birthday with our wedding day. (As well as my wedding dress, my mum made my grandma’s dress, her own dress and the two flower girl dresses. I’m considering hiring her out and making some money from her talents.)

The cream tea’s taken an edge off the hunger, so we move into the beautiful Elizabethan barn for speeches before more food. It’s now that my dad makes me cry (again), and the NLM’s two brothers (and best men) pull off a brilliant speech, as does the NLM himself.

It’s also now I realise that a week of making and decorating mini jars of chutney as place names was worth it…

And the decision to go with jam jars and bird cages for the flowers was a winner…

As was the idea to ditch a traditional table plan and guest book.

And although my grandfather may not be there this time, he sort of is. As are the NLM’s grandparents. They get to watch from their own wedding photographs…

After the speeches…

…there’s a barbecue and bottles and bottles of wine, followed by cake and dancing…

That first dance? We choose Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now. And yes, there’s  a touch of choreography. Which makes the NLM’s mum very happy…

And then more dancing. And drinking. And dancing. And drinking.

With a spot of apple picking thrown in for good measure…

So this is us. Our new family. The Weavers:

And that’s it. I promise you. No more wedding posts.

Unless a certain video of a certain first dance happens to turn up. And then I can’t promise anything…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Special mention

I have a friend. She’s a very special friend. She’s also very talented.

This friend took these photos of my wedding day. I couldn’t blog about the best day of my life without these pictures, so this post is written with the help of  Caroline Gue, who is an incredible photographer and who you should definitely hire if you’re thinking of getting married any time soon.

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