Over (and out)

I am eating the remains of a New Year's curry. Me and her stayed in and ordered a saag bahji, saag panir, cauliflower bahji, brinjal bahji, a tarka dall, and chowed most of it down with a portion of pilau rice between us. Younger Dad, only not so young anymore (psst, he's 38 this year), saw in 2016 with his mates in Norwich. I don't do New Years Eve - give me a warm bed, a grand novel and my bed socks any day.

And today, the first day of the year, I've been rewriting this post over and over in my head, over being the salient word.

I'm throwing in the towel, taking the decorations down, closing the door. But carefully. I must take care to wrap the baubles in finest tissue, not to tread and crush out the fairy lights. Everything must be dismantled gently, stowed away with love, as I may need it all again, yes - I'm sure that I will... someday.

...this blog, this blog, what it has given me, or maybe I should rephrase that to what I've given myself.

Never thought to write, it was all a ruddy great accident at the time. But light is so often found in the darkest of corners - thank you post natal illness, thank you anxiety, thank you fear.

And I was in a muddle when I started this, when I wrote the first words. A mother to an eighteen month year old. A mother. A mother who had forgotten herself, saw the curtains drawn instead of the stars, who couldn't see beyond the bridge of her nose, the future and the journey.

One post followed another and then another.

And now... and now I am a writer, a therapist, a yogaholic. I have cut off my hair. Had a tattoo. Plan another. I am not sad or anxious. I'm in a pretty good place. I have finally made peace that I will only ever be a mother to just one beautiful child, but the decision feels right - no more doubt and vacillation, and anyway, my body clock has ticked on, and I have been lucky, so very lucky. I have clarity, the fog lifted on the road ahead. Illness has moulded and shaped me. The person I was before my daughter seems unfamiliar and unmade, just a different person I guess.

I don't call her Little A anymore. How can I? Little she ain't, the height chart, the marks on the wall confirming otherwise. She turns six at the end of this month, and I don't feel as comfortable writing about her anymore. Or maybe I've simply run out of ideas.

I am about to take a greater step back from the blogging community, a community that has supported and nurtured me and my writing. And this I do feel nervous about. I will try to read blogs when I can but I can't make any promises; time has become a squeeze, two enclosing walls - Han, Leia and Luke in the garbage room - and I must organise it wisely.

So I need to create room and sharper focus. I feel split having my creative writing divided between two blogs, and now I need to narrow this down to one.

Closure is important to me. It releases energy, expectation, while granting new ideas.

Thank you dear reader for reading Older Mum in a Muddle, for commenting - your thoughtful words and encouragement have meant the world to me. I wish you a wonderful 2016 and fulfilment in whatever projects lie ahead.

And if you wish to adjust your television set, you'll find me twiddling words on my other blog, Sadie Hanson. But never say never - a moment may arise when I'll need this space again.

My word for 2016? Bold.

Over and out.

So Far...

Motherhood. I haven't thought about it for a while. Have stopped observing myself going about the daily routine. I haven't clocked off though, still there amid the breakfast making, the tooth brushing, the reading, the spelling, the tucking in of the duvet at the end of the day. I am still very much her mummy; it's just I haven't asked myself how I'm doing in this job - the decliner of wants, the administrator of can't haves, the peddler of pleases and thank yous - for many, many months. I can only guess I'm doing okay, I guess.

And now the summer holidays. Play dates. Summer camp. Crafting anxiety (on my part). I took her to the hospital the other day. Glue ear. In the right one. She's had it for over a twelve months now, and I've lost count the times I've had to slug gloopy yellow antibiotics down her throat. She had a hearing test. The specialist deemed her hearing fine, although he agreed her canal looked dull. So there won't be any grommets yet, and instead we will have to battle on with pain killers and antibiotics every time her ear becomes infected which seems to happen at regular intervals of six to eight weeks. In the mean time, she's started pulling faces, scrunching her face as if about to sneeze, or tasted bitter lemon, to get, as she says, the gunk out. The specialist said she's trying to pop the pressure. Apparently research suggests blowing up a balloon with a nostril, and with a special nasal piece, is good for glue ear. Handy - we have a glut of bright water balloons stashed under the sink...

I have lived life internally this year. Not introspection as such, more a bombardment of characters and narratives and finely-crafted sentences. The novel has been the entire focus which in one way is good. I have shut my self away, got on with it, completed a third draft, and in the process raised £350 for The Birth Trauma Association. I am going to The Writers Festival for the second time this September in York. Two years ago I only had thirty thousand words to my name, this year I go with a more completed product, and maybe I will feel more confident in my one-to-ones with agents. Afterwards, a full and proper edit, further polishing, and then it will be as complete as it can be; I may even have a finished novel by the end of this year. A couple of weekends ago, in a gauzy field at the Latitude Festival, I was struck down by an idea for a new story, another novel sized adventure. The idea came from the sparks of another idea I'd had - a dystopian that needs a lot more work and research. This new story came complete, the characters fully formed, and I'm itching to get started. It's set in the Lake District (any excuse for a trip to one of my favourite places) and is another coming of age story. I love coming of age stories as there are no full stops, life a continuum, a cloud that puffs and flattens and dissolves at the end.

Motherhood. No, I haven't thought about it much at all. As I write this, there are mothers I know who are struggling with their daughter's diabetes, or in unparallelled shock their child has gone. I feel blessed, lucky for the luxury of not having so many worries about her. I only have the one girl. It's easier with one, especially now she's through reception, all dancing, all swimming, reading and writing. Sometimes I feel a fraud, that I'm not in the same league as those mums who are harvesting two or more, or those who are battling on their own with little or no support. Yes, by comparison, I have it easy, have time to roll out the yoga mat or have a mandala inked on the top of my foot, or my hair chopped every four weeks and highlights painted through. I am in a privileged position. I am time rich, a fortunate woman. And that is why I know I must get back to work, live a life in the external, to observe the everyday as well as the gallivanting images inside my head.

#Once upon a time - Alchemy. Part Two.

Once upon a time .....

I followed him up the stairs. He didn't smell too good, smelt of fags and ash; over his top lip, strands from his moustache - a fat wiry brush - hung, curling, tinted in a colour swatch of nicotine yellow. A long term smoker. Forty a day probably. Every other step, a cough and a wheeze, an asthmatic rattle all the way to the top. I remember only counting twelve steps.

'So this is it, ' he said, clearing his throat in the ball of his fist, 'take a look around.'

First a bed room, strange angles. Then the bath room, nice size, loving the position of the window. Another bedroom, this will be the master. And through a final door into a vacuum of space and light. That's when I knew, decided right there on the spot. Why wasn't Younger Partner with me?  The roof had been scooped out like a pumpkin; wooden beams crossed the ceiling and where suitcases and roof racks and boxes of bric-a-brac would once have been stored was a mezzanine kitchen. An eat-in kitchen in the roof? Now I loved that idea...  

A first property bought together. The first night; glasses of champagne, fish and chips out of the paper, a gift of chocolate cake from the neighbours downstairs. The joy of discovering a new area; Chiswick, Shepherds Bush, Turnham Green. The best Thai restaurant on Askew Road.

We lived here for seven years.

This wasn't any ordinary flat, this was a crucible made of magical stuff; where gold was fashioned from waste basket junk, where sapphires poured from the bathroom tap, where dreams bubbled in fairy wisps of kettle steam...

I shed my skin a dozen times. I ditched the DJ'ing, spent five years retraining as a psychotherapist. I never worked so hard; the late nights at college, weekend workshops, seminars, clients, personal therapy, essays, case studies; all juggled with full time jobs, those soul sucking rent payers. I found myself under proposition one warm July evening. A Friday. 'Would you marry me?' Younger Partner asked, propped on the edge of the chair opposite; his expression earnest, puppy dog eyed, a tad nervous. 'Pardon?' I replied, 'could you say that again?' 'Will you marry me?' he repeated, this time his cheeks burning lanterns, 'Er... er... yes, yes of course I will marry you.' I exchanged Ms for Mrs. Under the living room beams, early March gliding through the panes, my best lady and I were plucked, pruned, kneaded and painted; two wedding dollies immaculately sculptured for a big big day. I grew a bump, solid with fluctuation and hard movement. The day I carried her over the threshold, into the living room, it was if she'd always been with us; right from the very beginning. I battled the closing walls of post natal illness; our home a muted sunken place; my life pre-baby, a flaky shadow, alien, a distant memory. I began writing. This. A blog. A new existence; words, words, words... and I bade farewell to my thirties; hello to middledom and swathes of silver hair. (and cake).

There were parties; Younger Dad's infamous thirtieth. The beer stains. The bass. A five course New Years bash. A first birthday, a second...

And almost a year ago, after the sign said sold and the paperwork cleared, we moved.

So much change, different people.

If you like my writing, you could do two wonderful things for me (pretty please);
1. Vote for me in the MADS (best writer). 2. Preorder my anthology, Seasons Of Motherhood (published in March). Thank you.

Whoopee

Christmas was going to take some ingenuity. Nearly four, and she was already questioning the tricky logistics St Nick had ahead of a perilous night's present dropping. 'Mummy, how's he going to get down our chimney, he's so fat?' 'Mummy, how does he know who's house to go to?' 'Mummy, do you think he got my letter, and the elves are making my marbles?' My one, consistent response, 'don't worry, Christmas is magic, and you'd be amazed the tiny holes Father Christmas can squeeze through, quite simply astounding.' That seemed to satisfy her curiosity...

...and it turned out there was enough room in Santa's sack for a pot of The North Poles finest; glass marbles of all sizes and colours, some with a pearly sheen, others with swirls of colour, like Jupiter. Like Willy Wonker sweets. (thank you John Lewis).

Grandma slept on a blow up bed in the spare room, Younger Brother slept on the futon in the lounge. They arrived on Christmas Eve, appearing late enough in the afternoon as to spare me an extra twenty minutes for a few well chosen yoga stretches - the tiniest envelope, a moment's serenity - before the festivities began in full glass chinking swing.

'The meat's already cooked,' Younger Dad said, alarm clear in his eyes. Shaking his head, he stuck the thermometer in for a second time to be sure, 'no, it's definitely cooked.' The last of the vegetables weren't prepared, or the Yorkshire Pudding. A sheet of foil was placed over the strip loin of beef, the very one I had stood waiting impatiently for the previous day, in the rain, a bright pair of raspberry Crocs offering nothing in the way of protection against damp or cold, with no umbrella, or mobile phone, in a long motionless line outside the local butchers. For two hours. Apparently, half of Croxley Green had begun queueing at eight in the morning.

Twenty minutes later, a decision - not mine - had been made. 'I haven't time to cook the parsnips.' said Younger Dad. 'What?' I asked, 'you mean we won't be having the maple syrup parsnips?' Younger Dad pressed on, 'I need to serve the food now.' 'But you can't, I'm still ironing the table cloths.' I had spent weeks planning and procuring the detail, the colour, for the Christmas Day dinner table; there was no way it wasn't being made. And so it began, our festive altercation. Table vs The Food. Grandma as referee. Oh Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without one merry clash...

Needless to say, Table won, and the beef was still perfect. We all sat down to candle lit magic; silver glittered stars, snowflakes, and delicate beading coiled it's way down the pale blue runner, catching the light of the flames. Crackers. And napkins in holders, and specially bought place mats for the occasion. I even went as far as name cards... The Yorkshire Puds, soft on the inside, crispy on the outside, over and above the required West Riding standards, the meat mopped up with tart red cabbage, creamy potatoes dauphinoise, buttered carrots, and the richest gravy.

During dessert, Grandma had a little accident, she sat down on a strategically placed whoopee cushion, and it burst. The oh so weighty implication... Little A thought it was hilarious. And thankfully so did Grandma - her good humoured response permitting full bellied laughter around the table.

And after all the mince pies had been devoured, and the wrapping paper ripped and strewn across the living room floor, these were the things I learnt from Christmas 2013....

1. How wonderful family traditions are. On Christmas morning, we all tucked into Younger Dad's special festive breakfast; his family have made it every year for as long as he can remember; white toast layered with smoke salmon, sour cream, cress, and mock caviar (lump fish), washed down with Bucks Fizz. On Boxing Day, we made our special breakfast, the one reserved for birthdays and other important markers on the calendar; buttermilk pancakes soaked in butter and maple syrup with crisp streaky bacon.

2. Seriously, I shouldn't take myself or Christmas so seriously (see above). It's a dinner table, not the end of the world. 

3. The finest moment was snuggling in bed together on Christmas morning - me and my family of three - and opening our stocking presents one at a time, the pale winter light filtering through the gauze of the net curtains.

4. I have developed a passion for lounge wear. I blame it on the yoga, not that I'm comfortably middle-aged.

On New Years Eve, Younger Dad and I braved the drivel on TV, waving a half hearted hello to 2014, surprisingly unmoved by the fireworks exploding over the London Eye. At ten past midnight, dressed in lounge wear, I climbed the stairs to bed, the enormous serving of curry three hours before still grumbling away in my belly. In bed, I thought about 2013. Busy, industrious 2013. The house move, words, writing festivals, Little A.... when my eyes opened in the morning, I had found my word for this year; believe.

Wishing you a wonderful 2014!

Festival of The Middle-Aged

Well this took me back. At least I had an en suite shower, eggy but functioning. Back in the day it was the communal washroom, a corridor of fifteen or so lecture-hardened women legging it for the last dregs of hot water each and every morning. I never made it. I blamed my daily misfortune entirely at the door of the banana skins I'd smoked the night before. But when you're nineteen years old, tepid will do, and anyway, the hang overs were worth it.

And here I was again - de ja vu - a student for three days. Not stoned but brain addled from motherhood and middle-age. No tie-dye or kaftans but neutral woollens and lycra-stretch trousers. The comfort factor. For two nights, I replaced memory foam for bed springs circa '87. I. Felt. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. And did I mind? Absolutely, categorically no! You see, I was in attendance at The Writers Festival, an event I'd been looking forward to for months. It didn't disappoint. Wine. New friendships. Fine dining in the student refectory - the mango and brie filo parcels were heavenly, and of course, cake and biscuits - a writer's staple.

It was wonderful to spend a weekend in the company of other writers talking about, well, writing. But I wasn't fooled by the mini courses and workshops or the presence of agents and publishers disguising the real agenda of the Festival, that we were all participating in a giant meeting of WA (writers anonymous)....

'It's a drug, I can't control it, I've been doing it for years, sometimes in the open, brazenly, in libraries, in coffee shops, but mainly behind doors, when no one's watching, no one else understands, but you do, that's why I'm here, to come out, as an addict I mean, this is so hard..... my name is Older Mum, and I'm, I'm, a blogger/writer, writer/blogger. Don't shoot me.' 

The average age of the festival goer casually rested on forty five years young. Sedate. Relaxed. Apart from Pam that is, a silver haired, 70's+ party wagon. I loved hanging out with her. She missed out on the Saturday of the previous year, totally hungover, rollickingly drunk on red wine the night before. She told me - little miss innocent - that people kept plying her with booze. I raised a questioning brow.

Then there was Tor, my life saving anchor for the whole event. Isn't it lovely when you just click? And someone who was writing magical realism and another who'd spent five years writing her post second world war crime thriller and another who..... it went on and on. And when someone asked me about my novel I was left scratching my head, 'it's about a DJ who, er, loses her record box...' I really know how to rock a pitch (not).        

But as it turns out, I received very positive feedback on my writing from both an agent and a book doctor (big-up yourself Older Mum). And that's left me in a bit of quandary....

Now I'm ever so determined to finish the first draft of Four Gigs. End of the year is my goal. I'm in an uncomfortable situation where it's novel vs. blog. What do I do? All that consumes me is the next chapter and what my characters are doing. I've even caught myself talking like the main protagonist! This has left no head space for ideas for blog posts. It's completely full at the inn. And I have to participate in NaNoWriMo this November, it'll give me such a push....

....So I might have to blog a little less.

Please don't shoot me! 
     

#One Week - Summer '13 - Not Vintage. Just Good.

I've returned from a holiday. Seven days and seven nights. It's never enough. I need more time... More sunshine. More sunsets. Ankle deep in warm waters and sands as fine as golden breadcrumbs. I'm not in shape for Autumn. After only two months of visible sun, the stock pile of vitamin D is low. I could do with an Indian Summer - a complimentary burst of happiness. One last hurrah.

It could have been the Algarve. It wasn't. We were in England. Lounging on The Lizard. And Carbis Bay was a delight. Palm trees. Clotted cream. Daily triple chocolate ice cream. An open view of St Ives and flat, turquoise seas from the decking.

But Little A was in a grump. Insistent whining. She just pushed and pushed....

"What's up Little A? What's upsetting you?" I asked kindly as we walked down a slope towards the beach.

"You're upsetting me mummy... you're annoying me."   

"How am I annoying you?"

"All you do is go blah, blah, blah."

Pardon? What had my three year old just said to me? Blah, blah blah?

Her cheek was out of the ordinary. I knew it, and I knew what it was. Anxiety. Apprehension. The lack of structure over the summer. That Younger Dad would be returning to working away from home the following week.

Little A has had a landslide of change thrust upon her this year. A new home. A new school. Younger Dad's absence five days a week - Sunday evenings regularly infused with bedtime dramas. And if she needs a target for her confusion, I will happily play the bulls eye to her angry darts, reassuring her that all is well in her world.

This summer has notched up a tally of new experiences.

Play dates with friends (that's Little A, not me).

An ant invasion. An army of pesky crawlers over the hallway and kitchen work tops, found behind cereal boxes, on top of the microwave, in between supermarket coupons. Younger Dad enticing them with noxious, sweet, sticky stuff. Then one day, they were gone.

Wasps. A first sting. Little A screaming for her Daddy. A remedying cocktail of vinegar and anti-histamine. Soft cuddles from Grandma and Mummy.

A little wooden garden house. Painted in sea grass and holly. A new secret hide-away. Home to special treat tea times and clandestine talks with teddies and rag dolls.  

A very steamy stroll through the rain forest biome at the Eden Project. Electric blue butterflies gliding like gulls.

I have salvaged a forgotten garden. Grown courgettes. Courgette tart, grilled courgette, chopped courgette in salad. Have harvested half a dozen plump ripe tomatoes. Charmed strawberries, lettuce and sweetcorn.

And such precious time with Little A, a budding comedian and philosopher....

"Mummy we have to drink lots of water or our pee-pee will turn like Daddy's beer."

"When someone dies they go to the moon and stars."

And at last, she has reverted back to addressing me as Mummy again. Answering to my first name was starting to grate....

I took my blogging hat off over the summer and put my novelist's boots on. The words came marching out. I am not the fastest of writers, but I am pleased to say that I have now written thirty thousand words of Four Gigs. Getting there. And this weekend I am going to a three day Writer's Festival in York. I can't wait but I'm so very, very nervous as well #goingonmyown. Wish me luck!

I guess it's time to close the curtains on summer. The heating's already on. I've already worn the first woolly jumper of the new season. Summer 2013 was a good one. Not vintage I don't think. Just good. And that will do for me.


This is the third and final day of the seasonal linky One Week. I wanted to say a big, big thank you to all those lovely bloggers who joined in, and those who commented, and tweeted, in support of this project.

One Week will return this autumn 18-20 November. Get your cameras at the ready and imaginative hats on! For more details about One Week, take a gander here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full three days...

Badge Code ...

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Angel Clouds

Maybe I had too much hot chocolate. All that sugar.

Up. Up. Up.

Like a hot air balloon. Light headed and floating among angel clouds.

Excited. The anticipation. The expectation.

Will I make it? Will I see my name in lights?

I know what's going on though, this want of recognition. I am hoping this time they will take note.

It arrives.

The results are in.

I scroll down the page. My name. My name. Where's my name?

It's not there.

Two minutes ago I had wings, now I'm falling like a bomb.

But... but... but... all that hard work I did? All those colourful words I wrote?

Crestfallen. Disappointed.

And it takes me back to the nine to three and break times and the stiff grey uniform and being that girl the boy never fancied and red marker all over my carefully crafted work. A perennial B student. The middling to bottom streams. Unclassified in maths O'level. Unclassified in general studies.

One solitary A in English though. And captain of the lacrosse team.

Is competition - hot housed in those early years - a good or a bad thing?

I don't like the effect it has on me. Brings out the best and the worst.

But I'm not bitter. Absolutely not.

So pleased at how far I have come.

So grateful to be a part of this landscape of words and friendship and support.

If anything, it helpfully mirrored back my eternal motivation.

What lies beneath.

That after all these years, I am still trying to please mum and dad.

S.T.O.P.

The red traffic light tells me in plain language. STOP.

The slow cooker hints at a life in third gear, not fifth.

I've been told on a number of occasions now that I'm looking a little pallid.

The mirror confirms my skin isn't in the best of shape.

Yet again, I've neglected my wardrobe. Two pairs of jeans are in the bin, the third is cultivating a significant breach in the right knee.

Recently, I've fallen into a pattern of three posts a week. I don't know how this happened, although I suspect a latent desire for a surge in stats. I convinced myself writing practice is the overarching drive, which I'm sure, overall, it is. Or maybe superstition is tugging at my taupe jumper; I'm simply averse to the idea of an October tally of thirteen posts!

Still, something had to give. I can't keep up the pace I've unfairly set myself. So it was with sweet relief (and worry) that at the beginning of this week, I found myself clueless as to what to pen. My head, a blank. My imagination, in a stupor.

Between you and me, I was secretly pleased I was unable to join in this week's 100 Word Challenge as the prompt, a ghoulish recipe - in keeping with Halloween - didn't feel suited to the short story I'm telling. Then I did something liberating. I have a back log of memes I've been tagged in dating back to the beginning of this year that, embarrassingly, I haven't responded to, probably never will, and barring a chosen few, I just deleted them all. Yes, all. I do feel chastened by guilt at my impetuous action - and I am very sorry to those *bloggers who kindly thought of me - but it was the right thing to do. I felt relief. Maybe it's the time of year? Like nature in her current riotous dismantling, I'm offloading baggage. (*Please don't let this put you off tagging me, I just needed a clear out).

You see, this week, I've needed a little space, some downtime, some small separation from my laptop.

On Tuesday morning, whilst delighting at crisp blue skies, Little A and I decided an outing to Kew Gardens would be a jolly fine thing to do. There, we busied our time in the children's outdoor and indoor play areas. Apart from an alarming few moments where I thought I'd lost Little A, my feet frozen to the floor, waves of head spinning panic wracking my limbs, we had a deliciously wonderful mummy and daughter time together. We luncheoned on fish pie, ham sandwiches and a necessary slice of lemon drizzle. Little A befriended an older girl who clung to a cream teddy. And, to my surprise, she conquered the big curly wurly slide; "again, again Mummy, let me go again," she cheered triumphantly with rosy zeal in her cheeks.

But it wasn't until we strolled peacefully down paths lined with fiery autumnal bursts and the odd Japanese Pagoda Tree, that I found myself attuning to a more peaceful rhythm. And then, in the quiet, in the moment's chill, ideas for posts greeted me like welcome friends.

When my inner voice tells me to S.T.O.P, I need to pay a little more attention. Having a weighty expectation of how much I should or shouldn't write is no good for my creativity. "Just stop Older Mum", I hear the voice gently prodding. Okay, I will. Besides, I need to conserve energy for One Week!

So in an effort to trim my ambition, this will be my one and only post for the week.

Do you respond to every meme you've been tagged in?
When do you like to take a break from blogging?

Big World. Little Me.

Sometimes, just sometimes, it's as if Little A and I occupy two separate worlds. I, an infinite universe of dirty bowls, tea bags and mugs, faded bed sheets, and kitchen table clutter. My little flatmate, a social whirl of tea dances, dressing rag dollies, conspiratorial chats with blue ted, and exercising - walking - the bedroom door stop (it so happens it's the shape of a dog).

Little A's world is rich in its simplicities. Mine, by comparison, is scant in its complexities. I wish I could swap the ironing, the folding clothes, the potty emptying for a minute's immersion in my daughter's magical interpretation of life. Just a moment to see things through her eyes, unfettered, unpolluted, pure.

So in a vicarious bid to slip on Little A's shoes and view things as she does, I thought it a jolly good idea to start immortalising all those words, phrases, concepts that define her world before memory loses its grasp, and those quirky toddler gems are lost in the dust forever.

Welcome to Big World.Little Me. 

...an anthology, of sorts, of Little A'isms.

Moonix.
Back in the day, Little A was able to pronounce the word music with assured clarity and diction. Since then 'music' has morphed into 'moonix'. Now Little A adores dancing to moonix, whether it's running around and around our living room, or shaking her hands to the radical beats - dad rock - thumping in the family car. She is very partial to Mumford & Sons, Talking Heads and occasionally, a touch of Kraftwerk. She especially loves 'rocket moonix' (rocking music). The other afternoon in the kitchen, Little A taught me the 'see saw dance',' the folding arms dance', and 'the dizzy dance' to the sounds of chill out moonix wafting from the radio. Another DJ in the making perhaps?

Bobby-in-a-mow. 
We were once a family of three. Now we are a family of four. I don't know the exact moment Bobby-in-a-mow graced us with his presence - I'm assuming he's a he - I certainly can't recall the formal invitation to take up residency in our home. But alas, Bobby-in-a-mow is here to stay, I can't actually see him, although I'm given daily assurances that he's floating about on thin air. As you've probably guessed, he's Little A's alibi and esteemed playmate. And when Bobby-in-a-mow isn't invisible, he's teddy, or bunny, or monkey, or dolly. Bobby-in-a-mow can often be located watching TV or dancing to moonix (see above). Once I asked Little A, "who's Bobby-in-a-mow?" To which she curtly replied, "he's just Bobby-in-a-mow mummy." Well that put me straight. Oh, and then there is the Bobby-in-a-mow song ....

Version 1.
Bobby-in-a-mow.
Bobby-in-a-mow.
Bobby. Bobby. Bobby. Bobby.
Bobby-in-a-mow.

Version 2. (mummy's remix)
Bobby-in-a-mow.
Bobby-in-a-mow.
Wibble. Wobble. Bibble. Bobble.
Bobby-in-a-mow.

Tootat.
I always forget that I have a tattoo on the top left of my shoulder. It's of Pegasus, the flying horse, but it's a little blurred these days, faded like my jeans. The tattoo is a reminder of my student days, a throw back to care free living, and copious bowls of vegetable pasta. I can't quite believe it, but smudged Pegasus is nearly twenty one years old. Is it that long since I sat my finals? Anyway, inquisitive as she is, Little A has a habit of reminding me of it, usually when we are bathing together. "Mummy, mummy, look, it's your tootat," as a stubby finger prods firmly against my body art. "It's a tattoo, Little A, a T.A.T.T.O.O.O.O." "Tootat mummy," she always responds, knowingly saying it on purpose. I never bother re-correcting her. Secretly, I pray she never learns to pronounce tattoo correctly; 'tootat' is so unbearably charming.

Normal Work.
"Are you going to normal work today Daddy, or are you going to work on an aeroplane?"

Little A isn't exactly clear about the concept of work. All she understands is that Daddy leaves in the morning, suited, black bag slung over his shoulder, and returns just in time for one last 'night, night'. Younger Dad travels abroad quite frequently with his job. So Little A differentiates between 'normal work' and 'working on an aeroplane'. On our last visit to the doctors it all got a little confusing...    

Doctor "So what does your daddy do?"
Little A "He goes to normal work."
Doctor "What does he do there?"
Little A "No, no, today he's working on an aeroplane."
Doctor "Is he a pilot?" (Younger Dad is most definitely not a pilot)
Little A "Yes." (I'm not sure she knows what a pilot is)
Doctor "Does he take you flying in an aeroplane?"
Little A "No, cos, cos, cos I need... a passport."

...I didn't see that punch line coming. But of course she's right, she'll certainly need a pass port if she wants to visit Daddy's sky borne office in the clouds. I didn't enlighten the Doctor to Younger Dad's actual profession, we left him thinking my husband's Biggles.  

Last Time.
At the moment Little A is going through a phase where she wants to do everything on her 'woone' and most times, there has to be a 'last time' for every activity. Only, last time doesn't actually mean last time, it means  the first of many... And this is all my fault. For the sake of an easier life, planting a solid rod in my vertebra, I have indulged Little A in her requests of 'again' by repeatedly telling her, "now this is the last time Little A." Only to return again and again. This very, very bad habit, on my part, is at its most prevalent at bedtimes with Little A's persistent demands of 'last gentle back', 'last cuddle', 'last water'... Last has regretfully lost all it meaning. When will I ever learn?

What are your little darlings' favourite 'isms?