I am already fearful of the big day. It’s not the concern over crying in public (although, knowing me, I will be an emotional wreck). It’s not even the immense feeling of parental responsibility at helping her learn her lines. No. It’s something far, far worse.

At pre-school drop-off yesterday, I was given a sheet of paper with lyrics to the songs in Frog’s Christmas play. Contained within the package was a CD. Oh good, I thought, we can have a jolly sing-a-long when she gets home this afternoon. I pictured some good mother-daughter bonding. Possibly even an early mug of mulled wine for Mummy. We made an imaginary stage and Frog stepped behind the curtain…

The first song comes on. It’s an up-beat number, all about a bossy king who is (from what I can gather) a bit rude. My three year old related to the lyrics, “Being bossy is such fun” and threw herself into the verse with gusto.

The second song was a bit slower. I encouraged her to pretend to rock baby Jesus. “He not Jesus Mummy. He baby CHEESE-US”. So that didn’t go too well.

By the third song she’d had enough. The Christmas cheer had all but evaporated and “baby Cheese-us” was not cutting the mustard.

“This is SOOOOO BORING Mummy,” wailed my sullen daughter. “I hate baby Cheese-us songs. I WANT OLLY MURS!”

So now you’ll see why I’m scared.

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My two year old likes five things at the moment: jumping in puddles, doing jigsaw puzzles, reading stories, searching for bugs and eating chocolate. And now it’s possible for her to do three of those things in one game.

The My Bugs game from Gibsons (taken from their My World series) is a brilliant variation on the jigsaw puzzle, perfect for kids my daughter’s age and upwards.

Frog is just learning how to piece jigsaw puzzles together and loves looking at the shapes and patterns to see if they match. But she also enjoys making her own “unique” shapes and regularly has to be reminded not to ram the pieces together if they don’t fit.

That’s not so much of a problem with this lovely puzzle set though. The pieces all come in a selection of fun bug shapes to put together, either to match the colours to make the bugs we all know (and some of us love) or to make new “monsters”.

As a mum constantly on a mission to try and educate my toddler (tell me I’m not the only one) my inner frustrated teacher thoroughly approves of this puzzle.

It gives us the chance to talk about the bugs and practice new vocabulary, chatting about the colours and names of the insects. But it also has lots of potential for more learning, with the opportunity to count the pieces and start to talk about how to spell the names of the bugs when Frog is a bit older.

The phase she’s at now, she likes to piece the bits together, count them and recognise the familiar bugs. But I like that there’s room for her to grow into it too.

As Christmas fast approaches I’m really starting to feel bombarded with a confusing array of products to consider buying for Frog this year. The problem is, I’m not keen on just getting her “stuff” for the sake of it. Everything she will be given will be something clearly thought about and (hopefully) will be something she’ll actually play with – if not now then at a later date.

I think this puzzle is fantastic value for money, because it’s not the kind of game with a limited shelf life. There are so many different opportunities for play and learning that it’s likely to feature on Frog’s favourite list for a long while to come.

And the lefty, recycle-friendly, non-materialistic side of me really rather likes that.

***

The My Bugs puzzle from the My World range by Gibsons Games was provided for the purpose of this review. You can see more products in the range here.

The post A present with longevity appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

First it was shoes:

Then it was hats:

Then it was ketchup, Mr Tumble, pasta, swings, chocolate, ketchup again, books, crayons and Mr Bloom.

Those were all the things she loved. Loves.

But now she is a little older she has started letting us know (in no uncertain terms) what she DOESN’T love. Namely, what she “DON’T LIKE MUMMY!” At the moment this list consists of willies, lawn mowers, Grandpa in My Pocket, bedtime, not being allowed to sit in puddles and anything that isn’t yoghurt.

When Frog gets her mind set on something it’s like the inevitable trickle of water towards a waterfall. There’s no distraction. It’s from nought to sixty in a second. The rage is all consuming and That. Is. It.

Of all the obsessions that have tested my patience the most, it’s one song. She’s been through Gangnam Style and out the other side. The Wheels on the Bus is history. Even Carly Rae Jepsen has been crossed off the list.

But those bloody monkeys… They’ve been in our life for at least six months now and they’re showing no sign of going anywhere.

Meet my child’s Obsession Number One. Five Little (very annoying) Monkeys. Kill me now.

The post Obsession appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

“NO!” She shouts as she pulls the hat down over her eyes. “I SCARED!”

My toddler is startled by a loud duck on the lake. She runs towards me, arms outstretched, as she begs to be carried away from the source of her fear.

Two days later, a visit to a nursery sees a lady drag out a hoover. “NO!” My daughter whimpers. “I SCARED OF THE HOOVER!” And she pulls at my arms, attempting to wrap her legs around me as I walk.

Later that night, as CBeebies is turned on for the regular pre-teatime juggle of cooking, stroppy toddler distraction and washing / cleaning / wiping multi-tasking…. “NO!” My two year old screams from the living room. “I SCARED OF MR WHOOPS!” She cowers under a blanket, occasionally peeping out as Grandpa In My Pocket blares from the television.

My daughter is a scaredy cat. She wears her badge with pride, regularly boasting of the latest thing she’s frightened of because – in her own words – “I scaredy cat. I don’t like it”.

At the age of five months, my baby girl happily gurgled in her bouncy seat as I moved around the kitchen tidying. Emptying the bin, I shook out a fresh bin bag with a satisfying shake. The high pitched scream and the tears that followed told me to beware binbags near my daughter in the future. Her binbag phobia lasted a good four months.

After the binbag it was the hoover. She’s now fine with the hoover she knows and loves, but not with unfamiliar hoovers, preferring to scope them out before allowing them near her.

Nakedness terrifies her. She admires her own naked self in the mirror but the sight of my bare backside sends her running. For some unknown reason she’s started refusing baths with her mother. What was once an occasional fun activity that saw me jump in the bath, wash my hair and quickly scrub at my armpits while she happily played with her plastic ducks and pretended to paint the bath, is now an ordeal. Rather than laughing at “Mummy’s bottom”, Frog hides her face behind her hands, shouting, “No Mummy! No tuppy! Bye bye tuppy! Put pants ON!”

Charming.

This is all normal. It’s an odd toddler phase that will pass, my mother tells me. I’m reminded of my own childhood fear of hoovers and motorbikes. Images flood back to me. I’m three years old again, sitting on a stool in the living room as my mum hoovers around me. I’m terrified she’ll suck up my toes, desperately trying to tuck my knees under my chin. Walking to nursery, a motorbike whizzes in the distance. I reach for my mum’s arm, jumping up and down in a mad panic as the noise gets nearer.

I remember. I remember being scared to kiss my uncle goodbye because of his scratchy beard. I remember being scared to go to sleep in the dark in case monsters climbed from under my bed. And I remember walking with a renewed sense of urgency every time I passed the cupboard where my childminder stored her hoover.

It should come as no surprise, then, to find my own daughter’s fears so clearly resembling the ones that plagued me in early childhood. But there is one that shocks even me.

Drawing a picture this evening, I started to talk about the impending festive season with my toddler. As she chatted, I drew a Christmas tree for her to colour in. And then a reindeer. And a present. And…. Father Christmas.

At the sight of the fat jolly man with his bushy white beard and rosy smile, my daughter winced. Standing stock still in frozen terror, she gasped, whispering, “No Mummy! Father Christmas NOT come in MY house!”

I’m now under strict instruction to leave a clear sign on the front door for Father Christmas and at the top of the chimney, lest he miss the original note. It will read:

Dear Father Christmas, please leave presents outside the back door. They will be collected in the morning. You are under no circumstances to enter the house. You will find your mince pie by the back step, next to the spot for presents. Thank you in advance.

I think I must have the only child in the whole country who is scared of Father Christmas. This could be an interesting few weeks.

The post Facing her fears appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

After a night of pretty constant feeding on the ward and a morning of even more constant screaming, the midwives joked she was going to be a feisty little girl, who’d let the world know what she wanted.

And that’s exactly what she’s become.

Loud, cheeky, often naughty, a massive show-off, bossy and scared of the most random things (lawn-mowers, drills and – occasionally – hoovers) my daughter has also developed into a bit of an entertainer.

Looking at her now, I can’t believe that just a few months ago she couldn’t even stand up on her own.

Diva child.

The post The entertainer appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

The same goes for “ketchup”. It no longer goes by this name (where did the word “ketchup” come from anyway?!), it’s now known as “chechup”. A subtle alteration, but important just the same.

There are lots of words I thought I knew, having spoken English all my life. But, apparently, I am wrong.

For example, “other” does not exist. No form of the word will now be accepted anywhere in the world. Instead, it has been changed to “blue”. In plain (new) English, this means you do not ask for the “other blanket” or “other book” or “other shoe”. You ask for the “blue blanket” or “blue book” or “blue shoe”. Even if none of the above are blue. These are just the rules – if you question them you get hit in the face.

As a person who earns her living using words, these radical and sudden changes to her mother tongue are confusing and stressful. They’re so stressful, she has started referring to herself in the third person. See? It’s sending her my mind into all sorts of grammatical meltdowns.

Actually, I’ve just realised I’ve made a terrible error. When I referred to “blanket” above, what I actually meant to say was “makkots” (not to be confused with maggots). Yep, the word “blanket” has actually been banned. Sorry about that.

In other important English Language news, you’ll be pleased to hear your favourite song, The Wheels on the Bus, has NOT changed in any way. So if in doubt as to the words you should employ in your every day sentences (given the current delicate and ever-changing word situation), the only thing you can really be sure of is that The Wheels on the Bus still do – as ever – go round and round.

(And yes, that is ketchup on her nose.)

The post The Toddler English Dictionary appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

This is the sight that greeted my husband as he went to wake our almost-2 year old daughter this morning. It’s a blurred picture, completely out of focus. This is because he was shaking with fear as he took it.

I blame the wee.

The stench of it, apparently, was rather strong. There were patches in at least three corners of the room.

Last night was the first night Frog slept in her cot, without the prison bars on, you see. Despite sleeping in a proper bed on our trip to Devon, the novelty of being in her own big girl’s bed was clearly too much to handle.

Not knowing what to do with herself, she did everything.

This included:

• Throwing her teddies a party at 12am, 1am, 2am and 3am.

• Getting up stealthily at 7am and taking off her pyjamas and nappy, before going into each corner of the room and marking her territory, rather like a feral cat.

• Emptying an entire box of nappy bags and baby wipes.

• Taking every book off the shelf.

• Putting on ten pairs of socks. And then weeing on them.

• Running back into bed and feigning sleep as her father arrived in her bedroom to bring her morning milk. (Two minutes later, he was a broken man.)

It is now the second night of Freedom. And, almost two hours after being put to bed, my child is still running amok upstairs.

I give it 24 hours before the prison bars are replaced.

As quick as lightning

The post From cot to bed. And almost back again. appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

Despite her inability to confidently walk unaided (although we’re getting there, step by step) my girl is feisty, chatty, independent and extremely bossy. She certainly isn’t the tiny, helpless little bundle we brought home from the hospital.

Which means – we think – that she’s ready for a bed.

The whole “moving from cot to bed” is yet another milestone that parents can become obsessed by. On the scale of riveting conversations, the discussion about my daughter’s bed readiness ranks pretty low (about a 1 or 2 I guess) and isn’t something I’d expect anyone other than myself to give two hoots about.

But, as with all these milestones, the ones who are immersed in it are the ones who become obsessed by it. And boy, have I become obsessed.

I’m excited to try out her new Dunelm Sleepy Owl bedding. She already loves the matching cushion, taking it everywhere with her, including to wake up her grumpy dad on a Saturday morning…

I’m excited at the thought of being able to sit next to her in her bed, while we read a bedtime story. I’m excited at the lack of back pain as I constantly bend down, reaching over the bars to extricate my toddler from her nightime prison.

But I’m also rather scared.

What if she falls out of bed? Will a rail stop her rolling? Is a rail necessary? What kind of stair gate should we get? What if she decides to throw a party for all her teddies at 3am and won’t go back to bed? What if she comes into our room at 5am on a Saturday morning and gives up sleeping altogether?

All of these questions are, I’m sure, desperately unoriginal ones. But they remain at the forefront of my mind, as I postpone removing the side of the cot for yet another day.

Aware of my self-postponement tactics, I’ve now set a date and actually written it in my diay (I know – pathetic, right?). The Day Of The Cot To Bed will be next Saturday.

Which gives me a week to fathom an answer to all of the above questions. In the meantime, have you got any advice?

***

Disclosure: I’m on the Dunelm parent blogger panel. The Sleepy Owl bedding and cushion were one of the samples I received for the purpose of review, which will be posted once the cot prison is finally discarded.

The post Escaping the prison appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

The child I know.

When I look at Frog, I see a happy, fun, incredibly independent little girl. I don’t see a toddler that can’t do what other toddlers can.

But when I collected her from the childminder’s today, that wasn’t the case.

Although my nearly-22 month old was beyond excited to see me, the childminder said she’d spent most of the day watching from the sidelines. Because she can’t walk yet like all the other kids, she’s often happy on her own in the corner, reading a book. That’s not what bothers me so much as the next thing the childminder observed: she’s not talking. At all.

Now, this surprises me, because the little girl I know – the one who I spend all my time with at home – doesn’t shut up.

This is the Frog that my neighbours know, the Frog that chases (or attempts to chase) the boys and dogs and cats that live in our little close. This is the Frog that wanders into the next door neighbour’s garden (granted, still holding my hand) and helps herself to a toy, pair of shoes and the trampoline, all the while calling to her favourite friend “Arrfuur“.

She’s certainly not quiet.

But she’s not like that when I’m not around, apparently. Or at least, not at the childminder’s anyway. There, she holds her hands in front of her face when a stranger enters the room. She’s silent most of the time, only uttering the occasional word under her breath.

When I proudly reeled off the latest developments in her speech – attempts at counting, animal noises and colour recognition – the childminder looked at me blankly. “She doesn’t do any of that here”, she said.

So I’m worrying.

As every other working mum I know, I’m wondering if I’m doing the right thing going off to work every morning. I’m only spending afternoons with her. Is this wrong? I’m wondering if she’s unhappy at the childminder’s, or if she just had an off day today and needs to settle back in after the Easter holidays.

I’m worrying that she doesn’t like it there and would be better off at nursery. I’m worrying that she’s got problems socialising with other kids. I’m worrying that she’s shy and that this will hold her back later in life.

I’m worrying. Nonsensical worrying. Damned worrying.

Tell me this is normal.

The post Tell me this is normal appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

Hospital waiting rooms - a good source of books

I didn’t sleep last night.

I was too busy tossing and turning in bed, mulling over the various different things that could mean my toddler isn’t toddling. Why is it that things always seem so much worse in the dark?

Today’s hospital appointment – both dreaded and anticipated – wasn’t particularly pleasant. The X-ray which I was hoping to avoid did actually happen. The consultant examined Frog’s gorgeous hips and sent us straight to the room with the “special camera”.

It turns out, as much as Frog loves having her picture taken, she’s not so keen on the “special camera”.

In fact, she rather loathes it. As the light turned on she screamed “HOT HOT HOT” as her father and I pinned her to the bed, desperately singing The Wheels on the Bus in an attempt to stop her escaping the X-ray Monster. Pleasant is not a word I’d use to describe those 5 minutes.

But, once some raisins had been retrieved from the bottom of my bag, and Frog was safely out of sight from the “special camera” our spirits started to lift.

The consultant examined the X-ray and uttered the words I’d been hoping to hear for the last four months: There’s no serious issue with her hips. They’re not dislocated.

I could have cried with relief right there – black mascara running down my face – but I was too busy listening to the next bit.

But there is a problem. She will need treatment.

It turns out Frog is exceptionally gifted in the flexibility stakes. She could put any ballerina or gymnast to shame, apparently. The thing is, Frog’s flexibility is what is causing the mobility issues. In short, she’s too flexible to walk.

An examination from the doctor showed her feet turn almost all the way around, so that she could be facing forwards while her feet face backwards. Not something you need when you’re trying to negotiate the simple act of standing up without holding your mum’s hand.

Frog also has a clicky hip, caused by a dogdy ligament, caused by the flexibility issue. Her knees swivel around like some kind of fancy chair featured on the latest BBC talent show The Voice. Her body is a bit like a pipe cleaner, with no locking system to keep every joint in place, where it needs to be.

So, the bottom line is, although she’s approaching 2 years old, Frog is unlikely to walk any time soon. She needs special shoes with more support around the ankles (although where I get these is anyone’s guess) and she needs lots of physio treatment.

She also needs to go back to see the lovely consultant after her 2nd birthday to double-check there’s nothing more sinister behind her refusal to walk.

There are three months sitting between us and that first physio appointment.

I’m going to use that time wisely, to search for a special pair of shoes and a large supply of patience.

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