A new addition to the family

On Wednesday, Isla, monkey and I got home from a busy day in London to find a parcel addressed to Isla. We unwrapped it to find a green box with a gold seal embossed with the words 'The Official Seal of Santa's Workshop'. Carefully, we broke the seal to reveal another box entitled 'The elf on the shelf' and within it was a little red elf, with a red hat, red cheeks and a ruby red smile. Along with our mysterious elf was a story. The story said that Santa Claus had sent this little elf to Isla to keep an eye on her and every night he would fly back to the North Pole along with lots of other elves across the world to report back on their charges.  The book told us we had to give him a name, but mustn't touch him or he would lose his magic. And, every morning before Isla wakes, he would 'magically' re-appear in a different place from where we left him the night before.

We decided to name our elf Alvin. Getting him out of the box without breaking the touching rule proved tricky so I resorted to putting on my woolly gloves before setting him on the shelf in Isla's room. I asked her if she had a message for Alvin to give to Santa and she said, 'please tell him i would like an orange bike'.
Orange? Orange? Where the hell did that come from?
'Really, orange?' I said, wondering if I'd kept the Halfords receipt. 'I thought your favourite colour was pink?'
'No mummy' she said firmly, pointing her finger at me, 'my bike will be orange'.
Bugger.
'No, no, no. Actually, I want my bike to be pink'.
'Did you hear that Alvin? Pink! She wants pink!' Phew.
'Now Alvin is going back to the North Pole soon, so you must make sure that you stay in bed otherwise he will have to tell Santa Claus that you didn't stay in your bed and that will make Santa sad.'
And sure enough, I left the stair gate open and didn't hear a peep.

In the morning, Alvin was perched at the top of the stairs. 'Look mummy! He is back, he has moved! Can I touch him, pleeease may I touch him?'
'But if you touch him he will lose his magic and won't be able to fly back to the North pole'.
'But I will put the glove on and be really careful'.
And so, on went the glove and Isla tentatively touched Alvin's small red foot.
'I touched him, I touched him!' Suitably satisfied, Alvin was then left in peace.

It has only taken a couple of days for Alvin to become integral to our home and my somewhat lazy powers of persuasion. Typically, our conversations all go along the liens of:
'Isla, its time to brush your teeth'.
'But I don't want to'
'Alvin, can you tell Father Christmas that Isla won't brush her teeth?'
'I will, I will!'
Job done.

But, emotionally blackmailing your child on a daily basis, suggesting Santa will only visit her if she's been good, can't be healthy. All the modern-day parenting books say you shouldn't even use the word 'naughty' for fear of giving your child low self-esteem so God knows what mental scars I've inflicted this past week with my threats of the little snitch Alvin reportig back to the Big Man. Part of me thinks, its just adding to the magic of Christmas and can't do any harm but  I can't help feeling like I'm taking advantage of Isla's gullibility and total belief in all things Christmas. Because surely it should be me who's setting the example, teaching Isla about right or wrong, truth and lies, trust and honesty. And instead, I'm spinning her the biggest line of all.

This evening, when my parents dropped Isla home she rushed them upstairs so she could show them Alvin and told Grandad all about how he was going to the North Pole to tell Santa Claus all about Isla. On one level, it feels no different from letting her watch Cinderella and our fantastical childhoods are all too short and we should embrace them. But the other part of me can't help wondering if I'm setting us both up for one big fall when the illusion is shattered.

Loo literature

I have discovered that during this phase of toddler OCD and the great war of wills, you really have to pick your battles. More often than not I resort to any kind of cajoling and game playing to avoid the tantrums (not always hers) but my toilet tactics are coming back to bite me on the bum.

Isla virtually potty trained herself and my only contribution really was buying the pants. These days, I would kill for her bladder control and she regularly only volunteers to go once or twice a day. I tried force- feeding her water to get her to go more, but she was adamant she didn't need to, so I resorted to the 'let's see who can do the longest pee' game. I know, its bad.  But being my daughter, there's nothing she likes more than a bit of competition and without hesitation she's pants down, on the potty, letting it all out.

In the privacy of our own home, this seems fairly harmless but when you're in a public toilet and she's loudly exclaiming, 'well done mummy, that was a good one', you have to question your tactics.  This was made worse by the follow-up comment, 'mummy can i wipe your bottom now, please mummy, pleeease!' I just want to make it clear she has never ever done this, nor has she ever made such a request before but logically I guess she thinks if I can wipe hers, then what's wrong with her returning the favour. It's just unfortunate that we had to work through this particular conversation in a John Lewis cubicle.

In the last week, I have now been doing battle with trying to get her off the loo. She will sit on the potty and say to me, 'Mummy, I need my Prince & Princess book and my stool, thank you mummy'. I duly bring her the Royal Wedding issue of OK! magazine and her step stool, upon which she places her magazine and flicks through the pages whilst comfortably seated on her potty and providing me with a running commentary about which princess is her favourite (Kate closely followed by Camilla's granddaugher). Fine chatter on a lazy Sunday, not so good at 7.15am on a 'school' day with a train to catch.

It took me a while to realise that I could hardly get annoyed with Isla when this behaviour was a direct consequence of my own. Quite often while she's in the bath, I will sit on the loo (lid down, trousers up, honest), flicking through a copy of Hello!, while she painstakingly fills and empties plastic containers.  And so now, seeing as it was me who introduced her to loo literature, I am working on my next act of bribery to wean her off. The promise of 10 bounces on her bed seems to be working well so far ...

three in the bed ...

Ever since the prison bars came down from Isla's cotbed, she and monkey have sneaked their way into my bed in the middle of the night. When Isla was a baby, I was a militant routine mother, determined to have a contented little baby just like the one in the books. I spent hours leaning over the cot, stroking her back and making 'ssshing' noises, the theory being it sounded like the noise in the womb and in twenty minutes they'd be asleep. But if they woke up before twenty minutes you had to start all over again. Inevitably eighteen minutes in, the crying would begin, I could practically taste the glass of wine waiting downstairs but devoutly begun the whole process again. Later on I would try lying down on the floor next to her, by bum cheeks going numb in the winter air and gradually crawling out commando style in the vain hope she wouldn't stir. Instead of being addicted to the X Factor, my evening 'entertainment' meant eyes glued to the baby monitor looking for any flicker of red lights as she woke up realising I wasn't there. It didn't take long for me to decide I had better things to do with my time and let her cry it out.

But after two years of silent nights, Isla woke up to the fact that she had rights too. And, after one lengthy bout of screaming and a loud thud on the floor she also woke up to the fact that she could climb/fall out of her cot. So down came the bars and a cheeky monkey was unleashed. After doing the equivalent of a marathon going up and down the stairs putting her back to bed and more sleeping on the floor and bottom shuffling out the door, it was time for reinforcements. This time it was Isla's turn to sleep on the floor, as I transformed her bedroom into a cattle pen with the help of a stair gate. Exhausted by her own protestations, I would find her lying squashed up against the gate,  but it only took a couple of nights for her to decide the bed was in fact a more comfortable option.

Soon after, the gate became my bribery weapon of choice. 'If you stay in bed, i'll keep the gate open, but if you get out of bed, I will have to close it.' Inevitably, I would hear the creak of a floorboard and see two small feet padding down the stairs and hear a squeal of delight at her own mischeviouness. Consequently, the gate was always shut when she clambered back in to bed but with only a moments objection before she was fast asleep. But now it seems it is part of our nightly ritual. I kiss her goodnight, she tells me not to close the gate. I leave it open, she sneaks downstairs a few minutes later, I take her back to bed and shut the gate. The other night, on returning her to bed she said 'shut the gate mummy'. So much for bribery.

For a while I figured I should try and get her into the habit of going to bed without any props, after all its only a matter of time before she masters the gate. So, I took the advice of Supernanny, picking Isla up and putting her back with no eye contact and no words. Apparently, this is the best bedtime game a two-year old could possibly imagine. After a dozen times of returning her to bed, not only was she squealing with excitment but putting her arms up in readiness for the lift. Why do they make discipline sound so straightforward in the book, then try it in practice and you've just invented a brilliant new game?

Once she's asleep, leg dangling, mouth wide open, I always open the gate and invariably in the night I feel a pat, pat, pat on my arm. Without even opening my eyes, I haul Isla and monkey in, exchange whispered 'love you's' and then we all roll over and go back to sleep, happily defying every baby book ever written about sharing the family bed. But at 2am I come from the 'path of least resistance' school-of-thought more than that of Gina Ford.

So this morning, when I woke to find that Isla had stayed in her own bed all night, I gave her a congratulatory sticker but couldn't help feeling a twinge of sadness knowing that in a few short years I will be lucky to snatch any cuddles at all let alone wake up to the cheeky smile and cheery cry of 'mummy, its sunny time!' each morning.

like mother like daughter

This week, after much anticipation, Isla had her first ballet lesson. Having seen her twin cousins go last term, she spent the whole of the summer saying 'I go when I am bigger' and now the time had come.

I was working, so Nanny (as in Granny, not the Jo Frost variety) took her along and I arrived half way through the lesson. I felt a huge tug on the heart strings as I saw Isla shyly hovering at the back of half a dozen girls all lined up copying Miss Emma pointing her toes. The other children, all roughly the same age and also new to the class, were happily joining in, holding hands and following the instructions. Isla on the other hand was hiding behind her fringe, sucking her thumb and cuddling monkey. She tried to be brave and hold her position when she saw me but within seconds had cracked and ran across the hall to bury her face in my leg.

When I asked her what the matter was she whispered, 'I don't love it'.
'Are you a bit scared?' I asked. She nodded. 'Do you want me to come with you?' She smiled, and nodded and took my hand and we rejoined the group.

I crouched down to look less conspicuous among a sea of toddlers but this made Isla crouch too, so I had to stand up again. From the corner of my eye I could see the other mothers smugly sitting at the edge, giving me the accusatory 'mollycoddler' look. But if I wanted Isla to join in, I knew that I would have to as well. And before I knew what was going on, I was sitting there doing my 'good toes, naughty toes, good toes, naughty toes'. (Of course, naughty toes is not just a case of flexing the feet, its a full on wagging of the finger as you very sternly tell your toes off.) I decided it was time to draw the line when they started running round in circles pretending to be ponies. To my relief, not only did Isla join in but she was first up and off clip-clopping behind Miss Emma.

By the end of the lesson she came running over with a huge smile and when I asked if she wanted to come back next week she excitedly said 'yeah, yeah, yeah!'

But seeing her with the other girls who had no qualms about running around and doing their curtsies while she stood awkwardly by, was like watching a mini-me and I would do anything to protect her from those gut-wrenching feelings of fear and self-consciousness. It is nature? Is it nurture? I suspect a bit of both, but if there was one gift I could give my daughter it would be self-confidence.

The art of craft

I was inspired the other day by a fellow mummy blogger who said when her little one got up at 6.30am the other day she set him to work with a papier maché letter 'H', some glue and a torn up Boden catalogue. An hour later she uploaded a photo of a beautifully decoupaged 'H' to hang in his bedroom. In contrast, when Isla wakes up at 6.30am on a Sunday exclaiming, "Mummy, its sunny time!" I promptly park her in front of a Peppa Pig DVD for half an hour while I go back to sleep.

So yesterday, when I was in John Lewis shopping for some thank you presents for Isla's nursery carers, I had a brainwave.  I had been struggling to find a gift that looked more expensive than it actually was, but even being never knowingly undersold, John Lewis's price tags and the contents of my wallet didn't seem to be seeing eye to eye. And then I remembered Hobbycraft - the answer to every frustrated Blue Peter presenters dream. Two whole floors of wall-to-wall PVA glue, coloured pipecleaners and glitter. Isla and I could make some gifts for just a few pennies, which would be alot more personal than anything shop bought and my guilt would be assauged by spending quality time doing creative play with the wee one.

Thirty minutes and thirty quid later, I was beginning to realise homemade gifts is something of a false economy and the nursery girls would no doubt much prefer some Molton Brown soap than a crappy looking fridge magnet. Much as I like to think of myself as the next Tony Hart, somehow the finished product never quite lives up to the image in my head. Not that that has ever been reason enough to quell my enthusiasm and to this day I still can't understand why Isla's easter bonnet didn't win first prize in the Easter parade. Robbed.

So today, instead of enjoying the sunshine like most, Isla and I were hunched over the table with our papier maché heart-shaped magnets, surrounded by reams of tissue paper, ribbons and glitter. All Isla needed to do was tear up a few bits of tissue paper, stick them on the hearts in a haphazard fashion and job done. But a few mintues later glue was all over the floor, water was all over the table, the carefully torn paper was scrunched up into tiny balls and those few pieces that did make it onto the magnet, were stuck on upside down.

"I know, why don't you watch Peppa Pig for half an hour while I finish these off?" I said. And so for the next half an hour I sat absorbed making shabby chic magnets while Isla sat equally transfixed by Peppa and George jumping in muddy puddles.

I can't understand mothers who are able to sit back and watch while their toddlers stick things the wrong way round and upside down, mix all the paint up so everything ends up brown and exclaim how beautiful it looks when its 'finished'! I would have to be gagged and bound before I could stop myself from putting in my twopence worth. And as for that other mummy blogger - you can't fool me, if your two and half year old created that decoupage materpiece then either he is the next Tony Hart or you are even more of a control freak than me!

Mini me

The other day I came downstairs to find Isla lying on the floor with a blanket over her, sucking her thumb and cuddling monkey.
'Oh hello, what are you doing? Are you tired?'
'I don't feel very well, mummy'
'Oh, sweetheart, what's wrong?'
'I have spots all over my face. Doctor Brown Bear says I must stay in bed all day.' Just thirty minutes earlier Peppa Pig was having the same conversation with Mummy Pig and Isla was re-enacting the scene almost word for word.

I love watching her make-believe world. Hours are spent carrying around Baby, cuddling her, changing her nappy, giving her milk, putting her to bed, etc. And we are all told very sternly when we have to whisper because, 'baby's sleeping'. The flipside of this is seeing a reflection of myself through her eyes. Entire conversations we have are repeated with Isla in the role of mummy and baby in the role of Isla. Seeing a two year old getting so cross and saying, 'Baby, go to bed NOW!' and 'No, you MUST NOT do that!' sound disporportionately harsh. And I think, how terrifying it must be for such a small person to be on the receiving end of a tired, stressed out parent who hasn't always got the time or energy to try distraction, reward or bribery to get the deed done. And even though she has forgotten the incident two minutes later the guilt of those cross words stay with me all the way to Charing Cross, following me around like a shadow at the office until I enter the door at nursery at the end of the day, hear her squeal of delight and see her smiling face, 'its my mummy!' And I promise myself, I must try harder.

Our first family camping trip

Tent - check. Food stuffs - check. Camping chairs - check. Bedding - oh, I forgot the bedding.


I think it is true to say that my mind never really recovered from pregna-brain and so I frequently forget quite important things but forgetting the bedding for camping is impressive even by my standards.


So, after the tent was up with nothing to go in it, instead of spending the afternoon exploring the site we were off to Millets and the half price sale. Then on to Tesco to get the matches, cutlery and dinner which I'd also forgotten. The first drops of rain appeared just as we left the car park and by the time we got back to the site, the wood we'd left out for the fire and the chairs strategically placed around it were all suitably soggy. But a bit of rain wasn't going to deter us hardy campers. Out came the firelighters, on came the rain macs (except for the 'Dad' - something that he forgot instead of me) and soon we were eating flame grilled sausages and drinking vino under a canopy of trees at our idyllic spot next to the river.


We virtually had the place to ourselves and it was beautifully unspoilt with a few yurts hidden among the trees and some low-hanging swings which Isla practised launching herself off. The eco-loo on the other hand was a bit too rustic even by my standards and I had to block from my mind the vision of maggots crawling around under the loo seat rim.

It didn't take long for the novelty of 'damping' to wear off and we decamped to the nearest pub. Isla was in her element, not only had she been able to stay up late running around the forest and eating sausages, now she was going to the pub at night and being introduced to the delights of Connect 4!

Her riotous singing did get us later evicted and I suspect the few other campers didn't appreciate her shouting 'wakey wakey' when we returned, but snuggling down in our sleeping bags, listening to the rain falling on the tent roof and Isla's gentle breathing next to me, made me feel like the luckiest mum in the world.

It wasn't me, I swear!

The first time Isla swore, we were carrying out one of our favourite past times - hunt for Monkey. I was rummaging through yet another bag and said, 'well he must be somewhere' to which she replied, 'oh for f**k's sake!'
'What did you just say?'
'F**'s sake mummy, say 'f**'s sake', she said very matter of factly.
I told her she should never say that word and was straight on the phone to her Dad to lecture him about curbing his language in front of her. Not surprisingly, he sniggered like a naughty school boy while I had visions of her being the first kid in nursery with an Asbo.

A few weeks later, again having spent a day with Daddy, Isla was getting frustrated trying to do some colouring and out it came again. Same phrase, exactly the right context, perfect intonation. Me back on the phone to Daddy rapidly losing my humour.

Several months passed and that was one chapter in our lives that I hoped was well behind us when just the other day Isla dropped some food on the floor. 'F**k it', she said. Oh my God, will this man never learn? I thought.
'Where did you here that darling?'
'You said it mummy!'
And then I remembered, a few days earlier, I'd locked myself out the house and as we stood outside in the rain with me peering through the letterbox at my handbag and all my worldly possessions inside, just about every possible expletive known to man tumbled from my mouth. Isla kept on saying, 'Mummy sad' and I didn't think anything more of it. Little did I know that her little sponge brain was rapidly soaking up all the words to save for a special occasion. So now I live in fear of the diary entry from nursery - "Isla has been using some colourful language today which she said Mummy taught her and which she is now teaching her friends". I'm thinking maybe I could get away with telling them that her great, great grandfather suffered from Tourettes.

Bobo's brother.

We are now on Monkey Two.

Monkey One was lost somewhere on Holt beach when he was just eighteen months old. I'd like to think he was found and taken to a loving home but rather suspect he is swirling around in the North Sea, lost in a gigantic, salty washing machine.

It took a few days for Isla to come to terms with the new monkey but 'Bobo' is now her firm favourite, and Monkey Three is already in situ as Bobo's brother, should Bobo meet the same fate as his predecessor. We have had a few near misses but he is definitely the monkey who has nine lives.

There was the time when Isla dropped him out of her pushchair while out shopping. We retraced our steps from the previous hour and found him perched on top of the railings outside the library patiently waiting for our return. On another shopping trip he again disappeared to be found an hour later perched up against a sandwich board. His most adventurous trip was when we left him on the train. I immediately phoned Southeastern and an extremely kind operator got in touch with Ashford International where the train was terminating. Two minutes later she was on the phone telling me that a man was bringing monkey back on the train to Tonbridge and could I meet him on the 8.01 pm. And sure enough, out of his breast pocket came Monkey - if only they always offered such good customer service. And his closest shave was just recently at Longleat Safari Park where he was left to the lions until a safari jeep came racing up behind us asking if we were missing a monkey.

Today we searched the whole house for him but he was nowhere to be found (later discovered buried in the washing basket) and Isla was quite happy to leave home without him, taking Bobo's brother as a compliant substitute who was swiftly forgotten about once we arrived at Livi's party. Could it be that now 3 years is approaching that Monkey is slowly being abandoned? I'm not sure who will feel the greater loss, me or Isla, so I have had his photo taken and emblazoned on a t-shirt for her (me) to keep forever. For surely the surrender of a comfort toy is yet another chapter passed. The bottles have gone, the rubber band hands, the nappies and soon the most beloved creature of her first two years as my little girl gets bigger.