Sun, sea, sand & sunburn?

I moved back to North Devon just before Xavier was born. As much as I loved London there were a few logistical issues with me there on my own with a baby. Firstly it would be doubtful that I could afford a flat big enough for myself, my baby, his pram and my shoes. Secondly, I would never go out because I couldn’t afford a babysitter. And also I have a phobia of escalators so there was no way I could cope with the pushchair on the tube, and I didn’t want to wear a sling. So, there were many reasons for my move back to North Devon, and not least because I needed my mummy.

Two and a half years on I am now beginning to settle in. I seem to have decided that my son will have this idyllic Enid Blyton-esque childhood; countryside, lashings of ginger beer, and of course the beach.

Undoubtedly one of the best things about North Devon is the selection of lovely beaches with their nice surf; although one of the worst is the weather. I quickly learnt that the minute the sun comes out we pack up the car and head to the beach.

That in itself is no mean feat; especially on my own. One hot Saturday I got us both ready. We headed for the beach. I had to carry a bag which held our beach blanket, buckets and spades, swimming stuff, towels, wetsuit, picnic lunch, sunscreen, nappies, wipes and probably the kitchen sink, as well as Xavier’s bodyboard. He of course would walk nicely beside me down the long steps to the beach. Except he wouldn’t.

When Xavier doesn’t want to walk he has developed the ‘Flamingo foot.’ He lifts one of his feet and holds it up. When he first did this with my mother she nearly took him to A&E as she assumed something was very wrong. The first time he did it with me I knew exactly what he was up to and we had a bit of a stand off. It turns out my child is as stubborn as his mother, as he held that foot up for ages. Of course, I caved in first.

So, off I struggled, wishing that there was such a thing as a beach Sherpa (is there? If there is please get in touch), trying and failing to coax my child to save me from injury by walking. We arrived on the sand, totally exhausted, and suddenly ‘Flamingo Foot’ is no more as Xavier ran off and dived into the nearest rock pool, fully clothed. Luckily my kitchen sink bag did contain a change of clothes.

I dragged him out of the rock pool to put his swimming stuff on (better late than never), and reapplied his sunscreen. He ran back to the rock pool with his toys settling down for the duration. I lay out the blanket and although it was a sunny day there was quite a strong wind so I had to collect rocks to stop it blowing away. I thought back to when going to the beach was relaxing; I would read a book or doze off. Oh those days were long gone.

Now, I was a lifeguard, rock collector, suntan lotion applier, the sandcastle builder, (and of course Xav looked disdainfully at my efforts and carried on eating seaweed despite me taking sandcastle building very seriously) and feeder. I gave him his lunch, before realising I hadn’t  brought anything for me.

I looked on enviously at the perfect families that surrounded me with their full picnic baskets and more than one adult to carry things, as I nibbled on raisins and organic crisp-like snacks that tasted of air.

After our lunch ( Xav’s lunch), I poured him into his wetsuit and headed down to the surf with him and the bodyboard. He decided once again not to walk as he sat on the bodyboard and expected me to pull him. And it was a long way to the sea. Once there, Xav dragged me straight into the waves. He loved it, and his shrieks of laughter made me forget my tiredness, my hunger and my lack of wetsuit.

In my swimsuit (which to be honest was more suited to the South of France and a bit too skimpy for a windy beach in North Devon) I jumped into the waves with him, and it was a little tiny bit cold. We stayed in for what seemed like hours, me shivering as I held on tightly to my fearless child, before unable to endure more I dragged my child and his bodyboard back to the beach. Xav was kicking and screaming and I knew exactly how he felt.

After a bit more playing in the rock pool I repacked our big bag, got Xavier dried, and changed ready to go home for tea. He was tired now so I had no chance of making him walk. Like a worn out pack horse I lugged everything back to the car and home.

Later that night, after I’d put Xavier to bed, I showered wearily thinking about wine. As I dried off I wondered why my back was agony but when I looked in the mirror I saw the reason. It was angrily red; there had been no sunscreen on my back. A two and a half year old wasn’t going to apply it for me after all. Another thing I hadn't thought about. I tried to contort myself to rub some aftersun on, before giving up and just heading for the wine to numb all my aches and pain.

My trip to the beach might sound like a bit of a nightmare, and actually in many ways it was. I ached from all the carrying, I was still recovering from standing for hours in the sea and it was going to take about three weeks to get rid of the sand which was everywhere. On top of that I was hungry, and sunburnt. But Xavier had such a lovely time that I knew I would do it over and over again (British weather permitting). I am just hoping, that like everything else, I’ll get better and better at it. Otherwise I’m moving back to the city.

Jam Making for Beginners: Toddler Group Survival Guide

Jam Making for Beginners: Toddler Group Survival Guide: "Motherhood, parenthood, is a battlefield and I am usually on the losing side. But there’s one place where it literally is a battlefield; tod..."

Toddler Group Survival Guide

Motherhood, parenthood, is a battlefield and I am usually on the losing side. But there’s one place where it literally is a battlefield; toddler group.

When Xavier was tiny and we went to baby groups it was great. He would either sleep, or sit in a ball pit or play on a mat while I looked on, drinking coffee and gossiping with friends. But then something happened. My baby was no longer a baby, we graduated to toddler group and those words imbue fear and have me quaking in my nice shoes.

So, to be brief, why should a room full of toddlers be scary? Not just because toddlers are scary, not just because of the noise levels, but it helps to have studied Sun Tzu’s ‘The Art of War’ before venturing inside.

One Toddler group I went to was particularly terrifying. Not only were there a number of thuggish toddlers (they made the Mitchell brothers look soft), but some of the parents were particularly good at not noticing. I didn’t expect these little girls and boys to be well behaved. Goodness knows mine isn’t. He went through a phase of relentless hair pulling. He was like the slickest hair puller ever, managing to pull hair where there didn’t even seem to be any. But the point was that if he did it before I could stop him, I would tell him off. And I was mortified at him making another child cry.

Typical Toddler group: a child was pushed from the top of a slide while the mother watched; a couple of little boys had a full on fist fight over a train and a gentle voice piped up, ‘don’t do that, that’s not very nice,’ from the sidelines, whilst not actually parting the fighters; one boy threw things at my friend’s little girl, while his mother wasn’t watching, and she managed not to watch for nearly the whole two hours;  a bigger girl came up to Xavier and deliberately shoved him sending him flying. I heard myself saying, ‘why did you do that?’ to her, and her mother came over, picked her child up and shot me a filthy look, as if I was the devil. Of course I apologised profusely.

Interestingly, there was a sign up at this group saying ‘No stilettos or spurs to be worn.’ I had accidentally worn stilettos, but at the time I wondered what parent would wear spurs to a toddler group; in hindsight they could have come in handy.

Back to the point, toddlers are toddlers and are learning, testing boundaries; they don’t understand sharing (actually thinking about it I’m not sure I do either), but of course they aren’t inherently bad. I’m hardly the poster girl for the perfect mum but when it comes to teaching my child right from wrong I have tried to do it from the word go.

Now we go to a less hazardous toddler group. There is no need for a sign banning spurs that’s for sure. Here my child happily plays while I drink coffee and gossip with my lovely friends.  The problem is that although it is still noisy and there are incidents, it’s kind of made me put my ‘Art of War’ to one side, in favour of an extra cup of coffee and a chocolate digestive.

Last week we went there as usual. I was wearing a black and white striped dress; Xavier was in his new red and white striped Ralph Lauren polo shirt. This place has a craft area with a little sink. Xavier loves the sink but doesn’t really seem interested in the craft. Anyway, I kept a bit of an eye on him and when he went off to the craft area I dashed off after him. He was just standing at the sink trying to turn the taps on, but I took him back into the main room where I could see him. However, he kept going back and I kept getting him and to be honest, I was getting a little fed up.

‘Don’t worry, drink your coffee for five minutes,’ my friend said. So I did and started to talk about something or other when I heard a mother call for me to come. I bolted over, (wearing wedge heels); worried and feeling like the worst mother for leaving him alone for two minutes. Then I saw what he’d done.

He stood at the sink, covered, head to toe in red paint that he had managed to get from a sponge. It was in his hair, on his face, all over his top, even in his mouth. Oh and on the walls and floor. I grabbed him and started the clean up; the mother who had called me helped. We cleaned the wall, got the worst off him, (it was on his feet for goodness sake), and sponged down his clothes. By now the red paint had also transferred itself to my dress. I finally carried him back round the corner, having severely learnt my lesson. Sometimes coffee just isn’t meant to be drunk and Ralph Lauren isn’t meant to be worn.

‘Look,’ I said, to my friend.

‘Oh if I’d known he was wearing Ralph Lauren I’d never had told you to leave him,’ she replied. I laughed at the absurd sight we both made.

We got home. I put Xav in the bath. It took a few days before the red was completely gone from his tummy. And as for the clothes, well the red and white polo shirt is now red, white and a bit of pink and my black and white striped dress has met the same fate. I’ve learnt my lesson; I will never leave him even for a minute, and I might not attend the thuggish toddler group anymore, but the battlefield will follow me wherever I go.

When I remember that I am a daughter

I take my mother for granted.  She’s amazing; an unpaid babysitter who does my ironing and a lot, lot more. I can’t list it all because not only would it take too long but also the guilt might fall on me like the sky.

I moan to her. I cry about sleepless nights, teething, tantrums (the toddlers and mine), and I get sympathy and help. I don’t take into account that I did all this to her back in the day, oh no, I am of course the only person allowed to go through all I am going through.

She had a special birthday coming up and we knew that she really wanted to go on the Orient Express. It was something she hoped to do with my father but unfortunately they didn’t before he passed away. So, my brother and I booked a lunch on the Orient Express from Plymouth. We couldn’t quite manage Venice.

It wasn’t really my brother’s thing and being a huge fan of Agatha Christie I was the chosen one to go with her.

My mother burst into tears on her birthday when presented with the gift. She was so excited, talking outfits, getting her hair done and I felt so glad that we had actually made her cry with happiness for once.

On the day we set out early. I fed Xavier breakfast in my vintage dress (luckily no porridge damage), and then when his babysitter arrived we drove to the station. I wasn’t worried about my boy; he was in great hands with a lovely lady who looked after him at nursery, so I could concentrate on making the day magical for my mother. I vowed not to be cross with her or impatient; I would be nice Faith for the whole day.

We arrived after a wobble with the sat nav, which took us to a main roundabout and declared, (rather smugly I thought) that we had reached our destination. We had to stop and ask someone, who to I thought was drunk but mum said was very nice, and we did get there in the end.

After parking the car I changed my shoes and my mother immediately made friends with a couple smoking outside the station having correctly guessed due to their attire (he was wearing a bow tie), that they were on our train.  When I joined them, they immediately fell in love with my handbag. This handbag is vintage, brown with a watch fob attached to the front, and I adore it. They adored it too, asking all sorts of questions. I clutched it a bit tighter.

I needed coffee and we sat in the station surrounded by a lot of men in bow ties and women in floral frocks. I tried not to panic despite my brother always saying that men who wore bow ties nearly always turned out to be serial killers.

Pushing that aside we made our way to the train which was as magnificent as we hoped; I immediately felt transported back in time as the staff took our photos and mum beamed excitedly.

On boarding the train we were shown to our table; mum had been given a birthday card and the table was dressed beautifully, with promises of Champagne, food and wine. We set off and both mum and I were giggly with the sense of occasion. We were given a glass of Champagne whilst the menu was explained. Basically we were pretty much going to eat for five hours which is genius. The train interior was stunning, and I especially admired the loo which I wanted in my home.

Just before the starters were served my mother went to ‘freshen up’ and I waited. And waited. The food arrived. I waited. I went to the loo which was only a short walk away and it was empty. Finally I had to send the steward off in search of my mother.

‘This happens a lot,’ he said. She was escorted back having taken a wrong turning and ended up at the wrong end of the very long train.

She had also met up with her friends from the station. The woman also had a birthday card and mum noticed it was addressed to Lady –; she said ‘goodness you’re titled.’ They smiled and told her that they’d bought their titles off the internet for £30.00. They then tried to buy my handbag.

We had a gorgeous meal. My mother had the lion’s share of the wine because I was driving. She nodded off at one point and I had to wake her and remind her that it was rude to fall asleep at the lunch table. I refrained from reminding her how much it bloody well cost.

The ‘titled’ couple came to visit us before the journey ended to try to negotiate again the sale of my bag. I was resolutely refusing to sell.

When we arrived back at the station, there had been no murder despite the plethora of bow ties, which wasn’t terribly disappointing; not only for moral reasons but my babysitter was charging by the hour so I couldn’t have afforded the delay.

So one day of being a great daughter, was all I gave, but I took away so much more. I remembered how wonderful my mother was and how she deserved to be spoilt more often. I thought as I hugged my child that I wanted him to want to spend time with me when I was older. So I made a vow that I would appreciate my mother more. I would remember how much my mother went through with me. Not only am I now trying to be the perfect mother but also the perfect daughter too.

Or at least a bit more perfect than I clearly am. My to-do list just keeps growing...

The Perfect Mummy

When I found out I was pregnant I vowed to be the perfect mummy. I got off to a good start. I was the perfect pregnant woman; ate healthily, didn’t drink alcohol, rested a lot and talked to my bump about important world events, (EastEnders and Heat magazine). I wasn’t planning on becoming mumsy; I would be the modern day perfect mum. I would be loving and kind, well-dressed with good hair and nice shoes. I would of course be a whiz in the kitchen, cooking delicious home-made fare, and of course, hence the title of this blog, I would not only bake but make jam, chutney and aim to reach the heady heights of Marmalade.

When I found out I was having a boy my quest for perfection continued. I would give him a good name (I think I managed that with Xavier, although there are variants on how it’s pronounced so that could be debateable); I would learn how to play football if necessary and I would dress him very well. For example my mother wanted to buy him dungarees.

‘Oh no,’ I replied, ‘he’s not a 70s Feminist.’

Although of course he would be a modern feminist, like his mother, the perfect mummy would not bring up a chauvinist.

I built his cot and changing table all by myself, chose a pram (which drove me to tears), and I was sure I was the perfect mummy. I just didn’t actually have a baby yet.

Any actual parent will tell you that it’s probably not as easy being perfect when you have a real live baby. Because you say a lot before you actually have a child and then most of it flies out of the window. For example, I said that I wouldn’t be one of those mothers who put the TV on all the time. Well I don’t actually but when I was feeding my baby in the night we did both get a bit addicted to ‘Girls of the Playboy Mansion,’ which I’m guessing isn’t really appropriate.

Parts of being the perfect mum came easily to me. I loved my baby unconditionally and hugs and cuddles and laughter weren’t a problem but on a practical level, perfection took a bit of a dive. When my baby wouldn’t sleep, when my breast milk dried up (I was never very good at breastfeeding which I found devastating), when he cried, it was all my fault. When I left the house with odd shoes on or my top on inside out. When I took my baby out with his bottle ready, but forgot to put the teat in so it leaked everywhere and I couldn’t feed him. Oh I could go on but I won’t.

As he got older, my focus changed. This was where I would really come into my own. I started feeding him real food (well pureed vegetables and fruit), so in the kitchen I would become the perfect mum.

I spent hours in the kitchen armed with my Annabel Karmel cookbook, looking perfect, wearing heels, a cute little apron and a full face of make-up. I was like the archetypal 50s housewife without the husband. Well that was how I was in my mind anyway. Some things shouldn’t be ruined with reality.

To cut a very long story short, my boy mainly rejected my cooking and on advice I tried jars (at least they were organic), which he devoured. As I threw my ice cube trays into the bin I thought I was throwing my perfect mummy status in there with it. 

Two years on I’m still chasing perfection. I have learnt how to dress with my clothes on the right way round and I never go out of the house without make-up, (although that’s more to do with scaring people). I still moan about tiredness but after a bad night I try to make my grumpy toddler laugh, despite my lack of energy. I still cook most of his meals from scratch; I still throw a lot of it away.

I have started baking. Xav and I make biscuits and cupcakes and although they look a bit strange, sometimes they taste good. I still do the DIY (well most of it) in our house, he has a gorgeous room and oh yes, he is a very well-dressed toddler, not that he cares of course.

I work, so there is guilt; surely a perfect mother would spend every waking hour with her child? No, actually we have much more fun because I get the chance to miss him a bit and the time we spend together is ‘quality’, apart from when I do just stick the TV on. Which he would say makes me perfect because he loves television, (I blame Hugh Hefner).

It might have taken me two and a half years to fully realise that perfect I am not. Although it might take a lot more years before I actually stop chasing it. But if there is one thing I’ve learnt about motherhood it’s this; there’s no such thing as the perfect mum, or parent, just lots of people trying their damn best.

Although, of course, my jam making dream continues.

My glamorous life

I decided to start writing this whilst in London visiting my closest girlfriends. We were in the heavenly Gilbert Scott bar in the relatively new St Pancras Renaissance hotel, decadently sipping British ‘Champagne’ Nyetimber as we admired the chandeliers. We reminisced about when I lived in London (not all my friends approved of my moving to Devon and one even thought Devon was in Cornwall) and wrote a dating column among other things. We laughed about how much fun we (they) had through my disastrous dating escapades. Then I reminded them that times had changed.

Oh how times had changed. If you were looking at this snapshot of my life you would think it was quite glamorous. The venue definitely was. My friends certainly were, even I was; dressing well was important to me at all times so in my frock, heels and red lipstick I didn’t look too shabby. But this was a temporary thing (apart from my appearance); this weekend I was taking a break from my busy, permanent job as a single mum. I had left my child in the safe and doting hands of my mother, and taken myself off to catch up with friends and quite simply have fun. Something every hard working parent deserves.

And fun was in abundance. I was with my inner circle:  a TV personality, an Interior designer, two Writers (including me), an Artist, an Astrologer and an Actress. And what was interesting was that we were all single. Among my gorgeous, talented, successful friends not one man by their side was to be had. And while we didn’t dwell on this all night or even seem bothered by it to be honest, we inevitably discussed dating and what we were looking for in a man.

‘I just want a man to put the rubbish out,’ I said.

They all looked at me as if I was insane but actually it was pretty much true. I could have wanted a man to take me to gorgeous dinners, a lover to whisk me away to hotels such as the one we were in, or someone to escort me to plays or the Opera. I could have asked for a man so handsome he took my breath away or made me laugh until it hurt, but no, I just wanted someone to give me a break from putting my rubbish out. Oh it would be great if they also cooked, did the laundry, loved DIY, and did the supermarket shopping.

Because since becoming a mother, since moving to a little cottage in North Devon with my little boy, I had done all of the above. And so much more (I even have my own tool box, which at least is pink). My closest friends would vouch for the fact that I wasn’t known for my practical abilities. I used to frequent supermarkets so rarely that I actually found them exciting. I could mix a Martini, but not make a cake. My freezer used to house a bottle of Vodka and a bag of frozen sweet corn that I put on my ankle when I hurt it (after a few of Vodkas). My idea of having friends round for dinner was ordering a pizza delivery. Domestic I was not.

So whilst we laughed about my lack of ambition when it came to men (I should have at least asked for a rich man who also put the rubbish out), I was so busy in my new found domesticity, and so tired of never getting on top of my chores, that I had forgotten about those lovely things like companionship and passion. Basically I wanted a handyman rather than a boyfriend.

My day to day existence was anything but glamorous. As I said, how times had changed.

When I left the bright lights and my lovely friends I was a little bit sad but more excited to see my little boy again. And when I arrived at my mum’s house and he gave me the biggest smile and the biggest cuddle, I realised that despite everything I had to do this was the only man and all the glamour I needed right now.