The last month has been somewhat of a revelation in the parenting stakes. Have you ever noticed how just as you think you’ve got it sorted, a new curveball comes to challenge you? The challenge of the moment is… clothing. Or, rather, toddler clothing.

Despite not yet turning three, my daughter has developed incredibly strong opinions about what she will and will not wear.

Her fashionista choices deem wellies to be firmly IN and dresses firmly OUT. That’s fine, except for when she wants to wear her yellow wellies with a (completely inappropriate, bought by my sister as a joke) belly dancer outfit. To nursery. Not ideal.

Help has been at hand this week though, in the form of this gorgeous polka dot number from Swedish clothing label Polarn O.Pyret.

I always swore I wouldn’t be the kind of mum who would fret about what her kid wears. And I like to think I’m not – until I’m in a rush and have no time to explain to my two year old why it’s not appropriate for her to just wear a pair of knickers, wellies and a bobble hat to nursery.

This dress has proved a hit with my child, who has a dress sense Lady Gaga would be proud of. She loves the bold colour and I love the lack of insipid pink. The polka dots add an element of fun to win over any toddler, without bordering on the fussy.

Made from a comfy, stretchy jersey fabric, it also features some cute buttons down the back – although I have to draw on my deepest reserves of patience when my tot wants to do up Every. Single. Button herself.

Thank you Polarn O.Pyret for making getting dressed a tad easier!

***

Disclosure: We were sent the dress featured in this post for the purpose of this review. And rather lovely it is too.

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Photo credit: CP Photography

We went to a wedding at the weekend. It was very lovely and moving and special. It has also taken me three whole days to get over, in order to sum up the courage to write about it.

The words “wedding ceremony” and “toddlers” should rarely be used in the same sentence. This is something I came to learn after the weekend anyway. Unfortunately, prior to accepting the invitation to attend a beautiful religious ceremony for a lovely couple, I was blissfully unaware that toddlers don’t do wedding ceremonies. Not my toddler, anyway.

It started the morning of the wedding. Fluffing up my two year old’s favourite floral party number, I asked if she was excited. I should have noted the warning signs there and then.

“I NOT go wedding Mummy! It BORING!” replied my defiant tot. Glancing over at his child with a look of concern, Frog’s dad asked if she planned to be well-behaved during the one and a half hour ceremony. “NO!” She shouted, before confirming, “I do be stress my Daddy OUT!”

Fabulous.

As we drove to the ceremony, we charted up a war wedding plan between us. “You keep the emergency chocolate in your pocket,” I said, “And I’ll sit at the end of an aisle, so if we need to make a quick getaway I can do it swiftly.”

Feeling smug, I lugged my huge bag of Toddler Distraction Paraphenalia into the church, ignoring the ladies tottering in clutching delicate handbags and tiny lace purses. We were seated in the upper level of the church and, looking around, the potential horror of the impending situation started to dawn on me.

We were in a gallery-like setting, looking down upon more than 200 guests. There was no sharp exit to be made, with steep steps and a door at the other end of the building. The arching ceilings taunted us with the perfect acoustics to fully showcase a loud toddler tantrum.

Attempting to hide the lead weight in my stomach, I stood, holding my toddler, as the long-awaited bride made her appearance in lace and soft muslin, gliding down the aisle to the swells of strings and a rapturous congregation. I dabbed a tear and nodded approvingly at the other children, gazing longingly at the “princess” in white.

“IT FINISHED YET?!” Yelled my toddler, around two seconds after the music stopped. Scrabbling in my bag for the emergency chocolate, I hushed a loud “Shush” as my child announced to the congregation, from her high perch in the gallery, “I BORED. I GO HOME NOW!”

My panic eased as she settled into her chocolate and the business of vows and songs started. But, just five minutes later, the chocolate was gone. Cursing myself for not bringing more, I breathed a sigh of relief as another child, somewhere else in the church started screaming for “TOYS!”.

Lulled into a false sense of security, I sat back and smiled along with everyone else as we were asked if we knew of a lawful impediment to the matrimony. Enjoying the moment of drama, I sat with bated breath, looking around the church and acknowledging eye contact with the other mums as we internally mouthed a thank you to our children for remaining silent at that moment.

Until.

“TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR, HOW I WONDER WHAT YOU ARE!” Rang out from the pint-sized person beside me. Seizing the opportunity to perform in front of a crowd of 200, on a raised stage, my two year old had got to her feet on the pew and proceeded to wave her arms around in a new routine the likes of which Beyonce would be proud.

“UP ABOVE THE WORLD SO HIGH! LIKE A DIAMOND IN THE SKY!” As I tried to hush her, crimson at the hard stares emanating from the front of the church, I was met with, “I NOT BE QUIET MUMMY! I WANT TO SING SONGS!”

Needless to say we spent most of the rest of the ceremony at the back of the church, playing on the stairs hidden away from the main action.

I’m telling you, wedding ceremonies and toddlers don’t mix.

***

Linking up to Wot So Funee over at Actually Mummy.

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The pace that we travel through the world is set by how we walk, changing as we age. Those first bumpy steps that mark a baby’s transition to toddlerhood. The slowed shuffle of an elderly person wandering down a supermarket aisle. That gentle placing of each foot in front of the other is an action we don’t even think about. We just do it.

Unless we can’t.

This time last year I had a non-toddling toddler. As my baby approached her second birthday she was the child sitting in the middle of the floor, watching helplessly as her peers ran and chased each other across the room. She withdrew, hiding behind frightened fingers, terrified she’d be trampled on or – worse – be left behind.

The hospital appointments notched up, the physiotherapy sessions increased and, eventually, we had an answer to the lack of walking. Hypermobility was to blame. A consultant calmly explained that our daughter’s joints were, quite simply, too bendy to hold her upright.

Her ankle ligaments were like pieces of chewing gum, stretching and stretching until, eventually, they hit something and stopped. In her case it was the floor, meaning her feet splayed outwards at 90 degree angles, with her ankle joint entirely on the floor. She was trying to balance on the surface area equivalent to the side of a pencil. Impossible.

When she started walking just before her second birthday, I cried. Watching her put one foot in front of the other all on her own melted me. The relief of her smile caught in my throat as I hugged my congratulations and whispered how proud she made me.

From that moment, her legs have strengthened and we went from doddery walking to running, climbing to jumping. She walks on clouds now, her toes barely touching the ground as she races from one game to the next.

We walked our neighbour’s dog at the weekend. I took the buggy, just in case. But as we approached the muddy canal path, Frog asked to get out. “I chase Boots?” she shouted.

This time last year she wasn’t walking.

Now look at her.

***

This post was written towards this week’s Gallery at Sticky Fingers, where the theme is Walks.

And on another note, nominations are now open for the Brilliance in Blogging Awards. If you wanted to chuck a nod my way for the Writer or Family category, I would be eternally grateful.

The post Walking with clouds appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

The lunchtime nursery pick-up started as normal. As I drove the usual route I planned an afternoon of painting and snuggles watching CBeebies with my two year old. Rushing into the nursery, I was greeted with positive indifference.

My shining diva child did not want to be collected. She wanted to carry on playing with her friends and didn’t much like the idea of going back to her boring home with her boring mummy.

Stung but undeterred, I shrugged. One battle down, telling myself she’d be fine once we got outside, I kept up the smile and cheerfully ignored my tot’s angry grumbles.

Once outside, I lost the battle of the coat and accepted that my daughter preferred to have the biting cold air nip her neck as we walked across to the car. Drooping under the weight of her bag and general nursery crafty paraphenalia, I swallowed back the rising shouty mum that threatened to make an appearance, as I attempted to stop my toddler running away from me in the carpark. I managed that battle, but the biggest was yet to come.

It took me twenty minutes to get my tired, ratty, fretful toddler into her car seat today. Twenty minutes. Angry at her fun being ruined (apparently playing chicken with cars in the carpark is SO thrilling) and cross at being dragged from her playmates, Frog kicked up the biggest stink I’ve ever known her to pull.

There was hair pulling – so much that big fistfuls of my hair came off in her fingers – and scratching. I was kicked and screamed at. “NAUGHTY MUMMY!” came the shouts, along with, “I NOT GO IN CAR SEAT. I GO IN FRONT! I DRIIIIVE CAR NOW!” She’s nothing if not ambitious.

All the while, I fought the urge to shout back, to lose my temper in front of the playground full of pre-schoolers starting to collect by the fence to see the drama unfold. I pretended not to notice the other mums hastily walking their toddlers past and strapping them without fuss into their car seats. I hid my face from the nursery staff using their best loud jolly voices to drown out the screams of my child.

Inside I was sobbing.

Eventually, after a twenty minute battle – did I tell you it was TWENTY MINUTES?! – the buckles were snapped into place and we could finally leave that blasted carpark. As I drove away, I mentally notched up a point to myself, pleased with my win. The battle of the car seat is not one I’m willing to lose.

An afternoon of rest made things much better. It turns out stress isn’t helped by huge levels of exhaustion, so both my two year old and I had nothing to do but head to bed. On waking, we eyed one another up and offered a conciliatory cuddle. “I your friend now” whispered Frog. I melted a bit.

Half an hour later, another battle was on the horizon. As teatime approached, my toddler spied her beloved Cheerios on the kitchen counter. The whining started, then the little yelps of bossy defiance. And you know what? I gave in. Call me a lazy parent, call me an “under the thumb mum”, but I’m not bothered. Some battles are worth fighting and some aren’t. Simple.

So, my daughter had Cheerios for her tea, followed by a pudding of fishfingers and bean salad. Did she eat all her fishfingers? Of course she didn’t. Did we have a tantrum? Nope. Am I pleased with the way I handled this testing day? Very much so.

I won the most important battle and let the others slide. I’m sure there’s a cliche about winning the war and forgetting your battles or something but, to be honest, I’m too tired to care.

***

By the way, the annual Brilliance in Blogging awards are now open for business. Nominations are being taken as we speak, so if you’re short of a blog for the Writer or Family (or any category to be honest, I’m not fussy) then you know where I am. Mopping up Cheerios and and attempting not to have nightmares about car seats, that’s where.

The post Parenting a toddler – picking your battles the wise way appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

Once at the supermarket, my toddler delighted in choosing some delicious treats for an indoor picnic. She perused the veg aisle and plumped for juicy red peppers with crisp cucumber. Her eyes wandered over the various types of coleslaw but she ignored them in favour of hummus and a pot of sour cream and chive dip.

We hurtled past the yoghurts and I really let her loose on the cheese. Usually we shop online or do the supermarket trip in a bit of a mad rush, so it was sweet to see her relishing the opportunity to take her choice so seriously. Eventually (I’ll admit, my super mum patience was wearing thin by this point) she picked Applewood smoked cheddar and wensleydale with apricots. Her taste is (unfortunately) by no means cheap.

We brought the bundle of goodies home, set up a blanket on the floor and some teddies, before taking our time over our lunch. My gunky-eyed girl spent a good ten minutes positioning the teddies in the “right” place – apparently there’s some kind of teddy politics I’m unaware of and they don’t all get on – and then sat down, patiently waiting for her servant mother to serve up the goods.

We ate, chatted and fed some of the pitta to a couple of the peckish teddies. Frog was in good spirits, laughing about eating lunch on the floor and constantly checking she wasn’t going to be in trouble for not sitting at the table.

My heart burst with that all-encompassing hit-you-in-the-stomach type of moments of love for her. I’m always floored by her continual ability to melt me to a puddle of mushy mum nostalgia.

I think we’ll do it again. Soon.

The post An indoor picnic – how to keep a poorly toddler happy appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

My toddler is a bit of a pain when it comes to bedtime. There is the odd occasion when she pops into bed without a peep, but battles at bedtime are also a regular occurence in this house. One of the main reasons she gives for “NOT sleeping now Mummy!” is a fear of the dark. So, step up the Brother Max Bunny Nightlight.

Frog already has a nightlight in her room. Plus, she sleeps with the door ajar so the light from the landing peeps in. But, on evenings when she really doesn’t fancy giving in to her tiredness, these sources of light are no help. Something changed last week though. And I’m putting it down to this little beauty:

Although we’ve had a couple of long bedtime dramas over the last fortnight, the Carry and Hang Bunny Nightlight from Brother Max has definitely removed my two year old’s favourite bed-dodging excuse. It’s no longer, “I scared of the dark Mummy”. Instead it’s, “I want more milk / cuddles / sandwiches / books / kisses Mummy”.

The funky light comes with Brother Max’s typical attention to detail. It can be carried by a toddler seeking a parent in the middle of the night, as well as hung on a door handle. It glows various soft disco colours and charges from the mains at the wall, taking away the need for expensive batteries.

It’s my daughter’s new bed companion – she calls it her “Bunny” and “he” has to be tucked in beside her each night. I take him out of the bed once she’s fallen asleep and put him next to her bed, so he’s ready to be grabbed if a bad dream wakes her in the night.

The different colours have also come in handy when asking Frog to identify “green” and all the other shades she’s currently learning. There’s been a marked improvement in her recognition of all colours recently and I’m sure it’s partially down to us talking about the colour of “Bunny’s” belly.

It’s a great little nightlight with a difference, if you’re looking for something funky, easy to use and transportable. And if it helps with even one bedtime battle, then I reckon it’s money well spent.

***

Please see the brothermax.com for more details and to find your nearest stockist. The product featured in this post was provided for the purpose of this review.

The post Brother Max Bunny Nightlight – keeping the goblins away appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

At night, I hear her conversing with John Jelly Moo, the other friend I can’t hear. He lives by her side, although sometimes he’s not there. He’s real in her mind. She can see him.

Outside, she talks to the birds. Shouting or laughing, stretching her arms wide as she tries to reach up to the sky. Frustrated, she bends down to the earth, searching for worms she can whisper to. Whispering is her new favourite thing.

When the rain whips at the windows like angry tentacles, she retreats into an indoor world of supermarkets and baking, houses and boats. It’s a world I’m sometimes given restricted access to, but only when she needs a customer to visit the shop.

Our house isn’t a house. It’s a secret cave, flying saucer, rowing boat on a rapid-filled river. It’s a place of adventure and magic, fairies and frogs.

Inside her den she arranges the toys around her, gathering the troops for the next installment of her mission. “Get the playdough,” I hear her whisper. “We need a cushion now,” she commands. No one moves, but she seems happy enough with their efforts. “Good girl” she mutters, before closing the curtain and buttoning herself away.

I’m on the outside, looking in. Entry to this world is strictly VIP only. You are deemed incredibly special if you’re allowed inside.

There is one game I am needed for though. It involves hair and a brush. I’m instructed to sit quietly and wait. “I make you pretty Mummy,” she nods knowingly. I submit to the pulling fingers of a toddler immersed in the new role of hairdresser.

For five minutes, I’m a VIP, on the other side of the curtain. I smile as I take a look around this secret place. And then I raise my head, realising I am alone again.

My toddler has gone to fight crocodiles.

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She proved just how grown-up she’s becoming by insisting on taking her own bag, purse and baby to the shop in her quest for chocolate this afternoon. As well as the pram she pushed all the way there, she had a card to post in the postbox. She took her responsibilities incredibly seriously, even asking me to put her hair into bunches so she could impress any passers-by who might stop to chat.

As she strode on ahead of me, I couldn’t help but smile. My two year old has been an independent soul from the moment she was born, refusing to drink her milk from anywhere other than its source and screaming at the sight of a spoon she couldn’t hold herself.

She’s always wanted to do things her own way and been very clear about what that way is. So you can imagine her satisfaction at pushing her own pram, with her own babies, holding her own bag and her own purse, all the way to the shops.

She was in her element.

As I watched her wonky little feet place firmly on the ground, I could hardly remember this time last year, when she had to walk holding both my hands to keep from falling over.

Sometimes the frustrated independence of a toddler is draining, especially when they realise they can’t do the task they’ve set out to complete. But today it was refreshing. A small trip to the village shop was enough to count as an adventure in my daughter’s eyes, when she realised she’d be allowed to take her pram for the first time ever.

Oh to be two again.

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The days of success followed by days of tears may have confused me, but they didn’t unnerve me. I was determined you were not going to win.

It wasn’t meant to be a battle. It was meant to be easy. Everyone said it wouldn’t be so, but I didn’t heed their advice.

I ignorantly followed my own stubborn route and listened to my own instincts. But when things didn’t go to plan, I thought my instincts were wrong. I’m glad I didn’t let you make me believe that. After all, a mother’s instincts are often the most trustworthy ones in the world.

There were two days when I came close to accepting defeat. The Tuesday and Wednesday left me shaken. I was tired, so unbelievably tired. I thought about turning back and giving in. I was so close to giving in.

But with the dawn of each new day I soldiered on stubbornly. You would not win. I would not be broken.

Just as I was nearing the end of my energy reserves, you backed down, just like that. It was like the mist had cleared and, suddenly, you submitted without a peep.

From two days of tranquillity to two days of fuss, on the fifth day you relented and all was tranquil again. That was one week ago and I’ve been waiting for you to return armed with new troublesome intent but, so far, nothing.

Potty training, you are done. There’s nothing you can do to me now. It’s over. You can move along and pick your next victim.

I have won.

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I know. I hate myself too.

The thing is, no one told me that having children would mean there would be a moment in my life when I would find myself dancing a celebratory conga around a potty. I was completely unprepared for the sheer joy a potty training triumph would bring. There is nothing like the all-encompassing pride at hearing the tinkling notes of your child using the potty as it was intended (not as a hat, pillow, cereal bowl or weapon).

I was also shamefully ignorant of the loud whoops I would emit as my toddler stood up to display the toils of her labour, clapping herself and demanding a present for her hard work. More still, I’ve been taken aback at this driving urge to run out into the street waving the potty – and all its contents – at passersby, desperate they acknowledge my child’s first “potty wee”.

I almost – almost  - found myself taking a picture of the glorious scene and pasting it all over Facebook and Twitter with the caption, “Look what she’s done! *proud face*”. Thankfully, the potty hysteria has left a small corner of my mind untouched.

I did, however, accost my unsuspecting husband with the full potty on his return from the shops. “Look! LOOK! Isn’t she CLEVER?!” I cried with enthusiasm, thrusting the item into his hands and standing back to survey his look of wonder, his face lit up by the golden liquid.

At this point I should probably lie to try and salvage some of my husband’s credibility as a “cool bloke”, but I’m not that good a wife. “WOW!” my (usually sedate, low-key) man exclaimed, before joining me and the toddler with a celebratory dance around the potty.

Turns out potty hysteria can get us all.

*Proud face*

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