Betraying the Sisterhood

As a bra-burner, I try and live by Amy Poelher’s mantra of ‘fine for her, but not for me’. However, some things that women do really hack me off. To avoid stepping on my own Birkenstocked feminist toes, I would extend this list of dislikes to all parents.

Things that should stop happening:

  • Parents having images of their children as their profile pictures.
  • The abbreviation ‘EBF’*. Mine would be EFFPF**
  • Referring to each other as ‘mummy’ and ‘daddy’. Most especially if the children are in bed / out of ear shot
  • Baby changing bags: makes you look like a novice- come back when you’ve got a backpack stuffed with Wotsits and too-small nappies
  • Talking to your child but really talking to the people around you: “Twinkle, don’t drop your quinoa cake: mummy spent ages making that in the Aga”
  • The phrase ‘Yummy Mummy’. I’m pretty sure everyone thinks this should be dead.


So yeah, I judge. But I’m also totally right.

*Exclusively breastfed

*Exclusively force-fed Petite Filous


Wadebridge Wanderings

Sometimes it’s hard to persuade Vic she made a dreadful mistake and should move back to Norfolk
 Kid-free and in Cornwall. AMAZING.

Mostly it’s being in the company of Vicki. She’s downright wonderful company. And everyone thinks we look like sisters.  Get in!

Can’t think why people say we look related.

Vicki is preggo and just had her last day of work as a social worker. Think I’m being a bit insensitive because I keep sighing and saying ‘it’s so nice not to have the kids’

Sal, did you want to stop going on about how kids are a pain in the arse?

Best things about being away from the kids:

  • Carrying a small bag and not carting around a tonne of crumb-infested crud
  • Not having to bribe anyone to do anything (although Vicki does need the odd Fisherman’s Friend and a cuppa to power through)
  • Having nothing but white-noise and happy thoughts trilling through my mind instead of ineedtomakesureivegotsupperonandpackabagforalexandrunabathetc
  • Nothing gets snot on

I don’t have to share these with anyone

Freedom tainted with unexpected sadness

Such was my horrific state last week that Andrew-the-Legend arranged for his parents to have the kids this long weekend while I go to Cornwall to see my number one most favourite person in the world, Vicki. 

I’ve  been light as air with joy at the thought all week, but when it came to saying goodbye to the two of them (children, not in-laws) I felt sad. 


I’m the woman who left her four month old in a crèche while she learnt to windsurf in Greece! I’m the woman, who not twenty sentences ago, referred to someone other than an offspring as my favourite person!

But look how cool they are?!  

Just go- we’re watching Paw Patrol

Day off

Having the best day. 

Both kids out of my face by 9.30. Pop to town and buy a necklace I love (but realise too late it may have unintended political messages), buy jeans that make my bottom look even more magnificent, scoot home for a workout, shave legs for first time since Christmas, chat to neighbour about equality in Indonesian government, clean car (rank), pack for weekend, mark 31 Macbeth essays. Still got an hour before sprogs return- might even have time for a poo ALONE.  

Loving it, but worried people will think I’m anti-Europe. #votestay

Hunger strike

Here is a list of the things Alex has eaten in the last two days- bear in mind these are typical and not exceptional:

-three Rolo yoghurts

-two creme brulees 

-a panne cotta

-two pancakes

-a bag of Wotsits

-1.5litres of gold top milk

We saw a dietician/nutritionist today after a referral from our health visitor. She gave his diet a thumbs up. She only advised trying to hide more butter in things. The kid is living my dream. 

The (very) little blighter is wedged on the 9th percentile for weight and not doing a great job of growing so we will continue to bathe him in mascarpone and deep fat fry him ’til he completes Project Pudge Up. 

With a bit of luck he won’t finish his next Choc Pot and I can polish it off.  

The trolley of shame


I have survived two kids’ birthday parties, conjunctivitis, three bouts of diarrhoea and vomiting, four sleepless nights and a cold sore. 

I am a freakin’ hero. 

My husband is a crime-fighting/enabling, sick bowl-fetching hero. 

Lowest point: driving the kids home at 8am in their pyjamas because I just wanted to be in my own bed if I was going to be awake all night.

Highest point: helpless with laughter in the bathroom as Andrew is elbow deep in sloppy poo and wiping William’s bum after another shart*:

‘I am a BARRISTER! I was in the national news yesterday!’ 

Diarrhoea: a great leveller. 


Dark days and desperate nights 

Doesn’t this just look like the best day? I left Alex with my parents and took William with my sister and her boy to Margate for a day out. Fair play, I thought the Tate was a load of guff, too, but the big wet cloud of misery was carried along with us through pizza at the excellent GB Pizza and through the 2p machines (at which both W and his cousin showed an inate skill at)  and on to an ice cream parlour at Herne Bay. I even put a quid on the ride on machine thing at the arcade and I NEVER submit to those. 

William was resolutely miserable. 

The pinnacle of the 24 hours was when Alex was awake and whinging from 2.30AM until 5. God love my mum who came and took him away from me at 4.30. I think she heard me sobbing and took pity. She’s ace.