Since becoming a parent I’ve been acutely aware of the passing of time. When you have a small person growing before your eyes you have this constant reminder of the transience of things. Tiny hands and tiny nails growing bigger with every passing day, to a distant tick, tick, tick. Strangers telling you, “Make the most of it – they don’t stay small for long,” as you battle through tantrums. Even the most grim of parenting moments seems to be a reminder that nothing is forever.

I remember, in technicolour detail, folding my daughter’s outgrown newborn clothes and putting them away safely in a box to be stored in the loft. I cried as I did it, a mixture of raging hormones, sleep deprivation and the dawning realisation that time was passing too quickly.

I would cuddle my newborn tightly in my arms in cafes, sniffing in that new baby scent – a mixture of milk and magic baby perfume – and feel secretly sorry for mums cradling a bigger baby. My baby was still tiny, I was behind them. I still had all this time to enjoy.

And then the daily desperation to hold on to the slipping sands sort of faded. As the physical changes in my baby girl slowed down, so too did the incessant reminders that she was growing. It all became more gradual in a way, until we’d be surprised by a first word or a newly acquired skill like clapping or pointing. And then it would be a cause of celebration, rather than a moment to mourn the loss of time.

As the firsts rolled in – smiles, steps, Christmases, toes in the sea – that tick, tick, tick was drowned out by life. We were too busy enjoying, battling, LIVING to notice how quickly time was passing us by. Until a last – and then we’d be hit BOOM with that realisation of what had gone.

When we relocated from Berkshire to Devon last summer I spent much of the month prior to our move in a state of lost limbo. Every day would be a last. A last trip to our favourite pub. A last cup of tea in my friend’s garden. A last day at nursery. It was a long goodbye – and I’ve never been very good at goodbyes. I get emotional and sentimental and nostalgic, forgetting the bad bits and viewing the past through a rosy haze. Like an Instagram filter that skews the real life and makes the ugly bits pretty.

And so, this time, I’m choosing not to focus on the lasts, but to enjoy the idea of the firsts instead.

Tomorrow will be my daughter’s last day at pre-school. The place that has been fundamental in our feeling content and settled in our new home in Devon. The source of new friendships, new skills and many, many happy memories.

But the last day of pre-school means the first day of the summer holidays. The first day of a summer spent by the sea, scrambling around on Dartmoor, rock-pooling in Cornwall, visiting beloved family up north, seeing wonderful friends get married, making plans and painting walls in the first ever home we can say is truly ours.

It’s our last summer as a family of three. The unit we’ve grown so used to over the past four years, full of shared experiences, memories and “in” jokes. But after the summer comes the autumn, when we’ll be a family of four, with a whole lifetime of new memories waiting to be made.

With every last there is a first. And the firsts are just as worth celebrating as the lasts, in my book.

(PS. I may not feel this way as I collect my daughter from her last pre-school session tomorrow, a blubbering, pregnant, hormonal wreck.)

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One of my biggest regrets of the past three years is that I wasted so much time worrying. I was a worrier with a capital W. I worried about where we were going to live, what we were going to do for work and what school my daughter would eventually go to. I worried about all sorts of things but, mainly, I worried about the future.

I am a planner you see. I wish I wasn’t but I am. So there you go. This means that, although we lived in a pretty little cottage in a lovely village in Berkshire not far from London, I couldn’t relax. It was all so… temporary.

We rented our house and lived on a rolling short term tenancy contract. Buying a house was on our “To Do” list, not because we aspired to owning property particularly but because tenants in this country hardly have any rights or security and, after 6 years renting we’d had enough. We wanted to put down roots properly but knew the chances of affording anything bigger than a shoebox in that part of the UK was nigh on impossible.

I can vividly remember getting so panicked about the future when Frog was six months old that I was in tears by the time the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine returned home from work. Having had no one to talk me off the ledge of my own worry I’d wound myself up into a complete state.

Other mums at the baby and toddler groups would discuss optimum age gaps between siblings, planning pregnancies and school start times, while I fretted. I knew I couldn’t afford to return to my old job – I’d barely break even once I’d shelled out for petrol and childcare fees. Work woes took over house woes at that time. I was fixated on setting myself up as a freelancer on the first step towards our Master Plan.

Everyone told me to “live in the moment” and “enjoy this special time” while my baby was small. And I tried to. I really did. But it’s easier to live in the moment when you know your future is secure. All the time, at the back of my mind, was this vague sense of unease as a big knot of worry tangled in my stomach.

Photo credit: CP Photography

“Things will turn out OK in the end,” my mum reassured me. I wanted to believe her but I couldn’t.

When I got a new contract we decided to save everything I earned and try really, really hard to get a deposit together to buy a house – even though we didn’t know where that house would be.

We only had the luxury of saving because I was basically working two jobs – around 80 hours a week – and the NLM earned enough for us to live on. If we earned less there’s no way that would have been possible.

18 months ago things were coming to a head. The house we lived in was owned by a lovely family in the same village. They’d decided they wanted to move back in, meaning we had to move out. That was OK – we’d told them we wanted to move out in the summer anyway. But it gave us an added pressure to actually get a Plan B in place.

I used to lie awake at night worrying that the NLM wouldn’t get a job in a different area before the cut-off point for teaching posts (if he didn’t have one sorted by May half term we knew we’d have to stay in the area until Christmas). Until his job situation was all sorted we couldn’t make any house plans. That made the planner in me feel a bit sick.

And then it happened. It turned out my mum was right all along. The NLM got a new job – 200 miles away in South Devon. It meant we could move to an area 45 minutes from my parents’ place. We wouldn’t be so isolated from family and, another bonus, houses were far, far cheaper there compared to Berkshire.

One year on and here we are.

We’ve been in Devon for a year now. We rented a house for six months while we got our mortgage sorted and found a house to buy in a little village on the edge of Dartmoor. Within a month of picking up the keys for that house I became pregnant. Frog will start at the village primary school in September, just before the new baby is due to arrive.

Life is calm now. That ball of worry disappeared nearly a year ago. We are settled, happy and enjoying life properly, finally.

The last three years have taught me a few things. To trust my mum when she gives me advice. That being a planner isn’t always a bad thing. That worry about things you can’t control is pretty pointless. And that working hard isn’t always enough – you need a fair amount of good luck too.

It’s not that we weren’t happy before. I have hundreds of happy memories from before our Devon days and many friends who I still miss. But this is a new type of happy. It’s a contented happy that, as a family, is still pretty new to us.

So here’s to one year in Devon. And hopefully many more to come…

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I used to roll my eyes when doting parents would harp on about their children growing up too quickly. To me then, as a young woman without kids, it all seemed a bit sentimental. I mean, children grow up don’t they? They get bigger and move onto new exciting phases of development – it’s just part of life.

But now, as a mum myself, I can totally relate to that slight tinge of panic that your child is growing too fast.

As we hurtle towards Frog’s fourth birthday I’m reminded of this time four years ago. I was getting ready to go on maternity leave, nervous, excited and more than ready to welcome my baby into the world. We didn’t know if we were having a boy or girl, which – for us – added another element of suspense to what was to come.

Fast-forward four years later and we’ve been through a lot as a family. We’ve survived me working crazy hours, we’ve gone through the agony of waiting to find out why our toddler wasn’t walking (hello, hypermobility) we’ve worked and saved our backsides off to buy a house and we’ve relocated 200 miles across the country.

It’s been such a busy few years I sometimes worry that I haven’t made the most of the little moments with Frog. There are only a few months left before she’ll go off to school and her new baby brother or sister will arrive, completely changing our family dynamic and the daily routine.

But rather than wallow in the unknown I’m determined to make the most of the time I have with my nearly four year old, making the effort to do things together in the times when she’s not at pre-school.

As she gets older she’s become my little mate, chatting to me about all sorts of random things and regularly making me laugh. She comes out with corking conversation starters, (“Do you like One Direction Mummy? I like the one with curly hair best.”) and observations, (“Daddy doesn’t say ‘gravy’ – he says ‘grer-vee’. Is that cos he’s from Woch-dayle?”).

The last couple of weeks have seen us taking an impromptu picnic to a local nature reserve, make countless trips to the park and spend an afternoon painting old flower pots in the garden.

I’ve tried (but not always succeeded) to juggle my workload so I’m not dealing with emails or on the phone while Frog is around. This is an art I’m yet to completely win at though.

As my diva child gets nearer four and my belly grows with this new little one, I’m aware our opportunities for time together just the two of us are slipping away. So I’m determined to make the most of them while I can.

And I expect the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine feels the same way…

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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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Frog wanted to share it with you via the medium of dance.

Here goes….

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Rain. It feels like it’s seeping into every pore at the moment. The rain is unforgiving and relentless, varied only in the direction it pelts you in the face. From arrows of ice to a fine misty drizzle that makes your eyes sting, the rain has been our most constant companion this January.

My claims that, “A bit of rain never hurt anyone” have been wearing thin recently. With flooding devastating farmland and ruining homes, the rain has been far from meek. But on Friday afternoon, after a morning indoors, my three year old was chomping at the bit. She could see huge puddles outside our living room window just waiting to be splashed in.

I admit I wasn’t keen. But no matter how many times I tried to persuade Frog that we’d get wet and probably end up cold and miserable, it made no difference. So we suited and booted up – me in my tired old waterproof and leaky wellies, Frog in her brand spanking new wet weather gear courtesy of Kozi Kidz - and ventured outdoors.

The rain was unforgiving. It was a driving rain, coupled with gusty winds that whipped the water up into our faces. The conditions were, arguably, ideal for putting Frog’s new Varberg lined rain trousers and rain jacket through their paces.

About thirty seconds after this last photo was taken, Frog found out what happens when she ignores my warnings not to splash in the very deepest part of the puddle. She got water in her wellies, a soggy foot, and then decided it was time to go home.

Once inside, we discovered the only part of Frog’s body that had got wet were her toes, showing that the Kozi Kidz rain wear really does live up to its name. I, on the other hand, was soaked through.

Do you still get outside when it rains? Is mine the only child to be drawn to the deepest part of the puddle?!

***

Disclosure: We were sent the Kozi Kidz items featured in this post for the purpose of review. All opinions remain my own. 

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It may be that I have spent the last two years working and rushing around non-stop, so it’s only now that we’re more settled I can fully appreciate the need to savour all the little moments. This time last year I spent so many of my days exhausted and powering on until bedtime that I’m not convinced I made the most of every second.

It’s a bit of a paradox, this time thing though. When you become a parent you’re constantly told, “Make the most of it, they grow up so fast”. And you can see it yourself, when you blink and your newborn is suddenly a chubby toddler. But at the same time as wanting to savour those moments and feeling them slip away all too quickly, you’re trying to stop ketchup being smeared up the wall and fighting an exhaustion that will only be quelled by sleep. Your days both zoom past in the blink of an eye and drip along in a slow trickle, like a smear of thick treacle. 

I always find looking at photographs reminds me how lucky I am. Whether it’s scrolling through my Instagram account or looking back on photos on my laptop, I am instantly taken back to a day or a moment that seemed important enough to capture at the time.

With the weather so cold and dismal recently I’ve been hankering after some summer sun. I’ve been drawn to photographs I took last August, when the sun was hot and we ate ice cream, drank fizz and explored the beaches near our new home. We went on a camping trip to Cornwall, near the Devon border. We ate sausages for breakfast and flew kites on the sand.

These were a series of tiny moments. But they were moments that mattered.

***

Thank you to Lloyds Bank who encouraged me to relive these moments with their Moments That Mattered campaign. This post is written in association with them. For more information please see my disclosure page. 

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I’d like to start this post with a disclaimer: I love Christmas. I like the sparkle and the glitter and the festive build-up and the sense of anticipation surrounding the main event itself. But I am not a fan of a certain craze that has swept across my Twitter, Instagram and Facebook timeline this weekend.

Elf on the Shelf is an American idea. It’s a little toy that parents purchase pre-December. Billed as a “special scout sent by Santa from the North Pole”, the elf is meant to keep an eye on kids, updating the naughty and nice list before the big day. 

Often though, the elf doesn’t just stay on the shelf. He ventures out in the middle of the night to cause havoc in a corner of the house, ready to be found with much hilarity by the children the following morning. In short, it’s a way to build the sense of excitement throughout December, giving children something to look forward to each morning when they spring out of bed.

A way to improve behaviour and add a sense of fun at the same time? Surely that’s a win then? Well, no, actually. Not in my book anyway. Because, you see, from where I’m standing the Elf on the Shelf has become just another opportunity for one-up-mumship.

It’s only 2nd December, but I can already foresee Competitive Parent Syndrome rearing its ugly head as mums and dads try to out-do each other on social media to have the best “Elf Experience”. Who can come up with the most creative naughty elf scenario? Who can make the funniest elf scene? It’s a slippery slope, I’m telling you.

Putting one-up-mumship to one side though, this blasted elf is a constant reminder to those of us who don’t take part that we haven’t invested the time and energy on creating yet another Christmas tradition for our children. It’s not enough that my daughter has a homemade advent calendar, lovingly sourced presents and a variety of festive days out. No, I am not winning at motherhood this Christmas unless I get an elf too. And don’t forget – it’s not enough to just sit him on the shelf. I have to actually move him around every night and then take pictures of him too.

I hear stories of Elf Facebook groups and Elf Twitter profiles. In some families, I understand, the elf has his feet well and truly under the table. Apparently that’s just a way to ratchet up the fun too, because it’s not enough to give him a name. And now I’m left wondering where it will end. Will the elf have his own Klout score? Will we get “Elf Social Media Gurus” ready to offer advice to other elves who have fewer Facebook friends and Twitter followers?

I’m genuinely interested to know what you think about this. Am I being a complete Scrooge? Am I missing out on a magical family tradition that my daughter will forever hold against me when she grows up? Will I always be *that* awful mother who didn’t do the Elf on the Shelf thing?

I’d love to know what you think. Because, at the moment, I just want him to elf off.

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I know it was taken at 10pm, because my husband happily posed for the photograph, which means he had consumed around five pints of beer and was feeling co-operative. Apparently his Northern roots don’t allow for selfies. 

On Friday night the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine and I ventured into the cold for a rare night out, just the two of us. We were up in Rochdale, the NLM’s birth place, so his parents kindly offered to babysit. Rochdale isn’t the first place that springs to mind when I conjure up romantic images in my head, but Paris was off the cards and, to be honest, when you get out as little as I do then anywhere sounds appealing.

Our night out was courtesy of Head & Shoulders who gave us £100 to spend together, after a 15 minute coaching session with relationship coach Matthew Hussey.

It turns out £100 goes far in Rochdale.

The tapas restaurant – The Rake in Littleborough if you’re ever near – was brilliant. We ate prawns in garlic (you don’t need to worry about garlic breath when you’ve been married 2 years) and chargrilled sardines, along with Halloumi and some fancy chorizo dish. Oh and olives – of course. And calamari. And bread. Actually, there was so much food I had to undo the top button of my jeans to allow for breathing room. Sexy.

We washed it all down with Spanish beer and Prosecco. It felt positively decadent to be sitting in a restaurant on a Friday night, leisurely eating and drinking, without having to get up to go to the loo with a young child every ten minutes or worrying about getting back for bedtime.

The thing is, the bill only came to £60. So, obviously, the answer was to go to the pub down the road to spend the rest of the cash. That’s where things became slightly less romantic, although no less fun.

Black peas and cider were being served outside in the garden area, which made the NLM instantly excited about being reacquainted with his Northern roots.

We drank some more and chatted and laughed and generally had a brilliant time. It reminded me how important it is to spend time together away from computers and the stresses of daily life – even if it’s just to sit on the sofa on a Friday night and watch a film together. We made a pact to keep weekends free to do more stuff together, rather than let work or chores take over every space of our life.

I tried to remember the points that Matthew Hussey made during our pre-date chat, to compliment my husband and bring something interesting to the evening to talk about. Next time I will remember not to make Gary Barlow my specialist subject or to compliment the hair of a man who has none. Other than that, we found lots to talk about that didn’t revolve around work, money or our child. I call that a win.

The exhaustion the following day was a good reminder for us both of how long we’ve actually been together and how much we’ve changed since we first met. Time was, we would go out partying until the small hours and still feel breezy enough to do it the following evening. Those days are well and truly gone now.

And no, I can’t still walk in heels.

***

Disclosure: A huge thank you to Head & Shoulders who provided me with £100 for the night out, and to Tots100 who arranged it. Thank you also to Matthew Hussey who gave me some fantastic pre-date advice, even if I didn’t follow it to the letter. 

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When we moved to this little corner of Devon at the beginning of the school holidays it all felt very exciting. The sun was shining hot heat over the pretty hills and the sandals and strappy tops on the high street made it feel like a holiday.

Two weeks passed and the holiday vibe was replaced with something else.

My (teacher) husband was off work and my three year old’s pre-school was closed for the holidays. We had days out and trips away, but I still had to work, albeit from home. Life was still exciting, but I craved a bit of stability and routine. I think that craving was partly due to the fact we are only temporarily renting our house, so it felt even more like a holiday home. 

This time last week I was sad that summer was over. I already missed the long days on the beach and rambles over the moor. I dreaded the pre-school dash in the morning and cramming the extra work hours into my shorter working day. But, at the same time, I was eager to return to a sense of normality. I was ready for it to feel less like a holiday and more like our life.

So, summer is now officially over. But you know what? That’s OK. The last week has been brilliant. We are starting to feel settled. We have a new routine.

Frog LOVES pre-school. We get to wander down the hill together in the morning when I drop her off and I feel like part of a club, as I smile at the other mums at the gates. This is simple stuff, but they are things I missed when I was working on a breakfast radio show alongside my freelance writing work, pulling 80 hour working weeks and being out of the door at 4.30am. The work was fun, but so is walking down the road listening to the chatter of my story-telling three year old.

People are friendly here. There is a slower pace of life, I feel less stressed and frantic. I get no Internet signal outside of the house, so I can’t surreptitiously check my phone for emails. I like that. My three year old likes that. People know when they can get hold of me so I don’t worry about being available 24/7.

We have a little routine going on. Afternoons are spent doing stuff. Eating cake in a cafe, meandering down to the library or the park, going to swimming lessons or playing at home.

For the first time since becoming a mum I have a regular two evenings a week to myself doing non-work, non-mum stuff, at a Yoga and a Zumba class. I even enjoy the walk there (although not so much when it’s raining). I’m starting to wonder if this is what “normal” feels like.

Of course there are bouts of stress or anxiety, as I fret about hitting deadlines and keeping on top of work. But, mostly, I am managing the juggle. I enjoy my mornings working, even. It adds balance to the mum stuff.

Summer’s over, but that’s OK. I’m looking forward to seeing what autumn brings.

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