Boss Baby

Daddy has piles of papers all over the house that he never sorts out. Mummy doesn’t like nagging Daddy, but she doesn’t like piles of papers all over the house collecting dust and curling at the edges. Rebel Baby is on the case. A few phone calls, some creative filing and a liberal application of black biro.

Paperwork = sorted.

Thank you Boss Baby.

Shower needs

It is not always easy for Mummy to get ready in the mornings, as RB likes to glue herself to Mummy’s ankles as soon as the day breaks. But after numerous unsightly mishaps, Mummy now has carefully honed the skill of maintaining her balance and applying mascara whilst a small human swings from her knee caps, so all is well.

In the interest of maintaining Mummy’s sanity, Daddy is supposed to watch The Baby while Mummy has a shower… just like Mummy does when Daddy has a shower. Mummy has a shower every morning, yet every morning, Daddy will act completely surprised that Mummy wishes to clean herself again and – despite there being ample time for this oh-so-necessary of rituals – will look at his watch, huff a bit, roll his eyes and generally make it clear how very busy and important he is, and how everything else in his life is much more pressing than Mummy’s personal hygiene, so she had better be quick about it.

But no matter, for Mummy needs a shower. When Daddy has a shower, Mummy watches The Baby and plays with her and generally continues with life while Daddy has a shower. When Mummy has a shower, Daddy generally has a lie-in and tries to pretend The Baby does not exist. Much as Daddy loves The Baby, his love tends to kick in after about 10:00am and a strong cup of tea. As such there is much scrapping and scuffling, and Mummy’s shower is not quite as relaxing and precious as she would like it to be…


Sea-faring Baby

The deck is dirty and windy, and the deceptive sunshine masks a chill in the air. Other children are suitably clad in shoes and weatherproof jackets. Big Bro is wrapped up and shivering in the on-deck shelter, hood up, complaining about the cold and the wind. Daddy has done his five minutes of fresh air for the day and is looking longingly at the indoor coffee lounge. Mummy is trying to keep tabs on Rebel Baby who is as slippery as a fish, weaving in and out of people and dogs to get to the edge of the deck.

She would like to spend the entire duration of the sea voyage gazing out at the open water and swinging from the rigging, intermittently squealing loudly at the wind and waves, or cackling at seagulls.

There is a choppy bit of water and the wind whips up.

“Are we going inside now?” wails Big Bro from beneath his cocoon of jumpers and jackets.

“I think they stop serving coffee soon…” says Daddy nervously.

“Waheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.!” squeals Rebel Baby, who likes to feel the wind in her hair. Daddy can take Big Bro in for boring coffee. Rebel Baby isn’t going anywhere…

French children don’t throw food

Mummy has been reading a book kindly bought for her on the arrival of the small one called French Children Don’t Throw Food. It was generously gifted to Mummy by her French cousins, who presumably assumed Mummy’s inadequate English upbringing would result in her rearing a food-hurling Neanderthal, and that Mummy would need much help and guidance to prevent total disaster (they were right.)

It is written by a lovely American lady called Pamela, who has dedicated years of her life to discovering exactly why French Children Don’t Throw Food, and subsequently imparting this wisdom to the masses by means of a book.

Firstly, Pam informs Mummy, one should not acquiesce to The Baby’s every demand in the hope of averting a tantrum, but should teach delayed gratification by means of Le Pause. In short, The Baby should wait for things. This seems a remarkably simple and entirely sensible requirement, which Mummy decides to implement immediately in order to stop The Baby from throwing food. There are plenty of opportunities to implement Le Pause, because The Baby always wants something, reasons Mummy. It does not take long for an opportunity to present itself.

The Baby wants Mummy to pick her up, but Mummy wants to put on a bra first. Ah-ha! thinks Mummy. I will use Le Pause! *

The first attempt goes well…

…but Mummy does not lose heart. (In fact, Mummy has been using Le Pause on a frequent and daily basis since The Baby was born, because she is not a super human and sometimes babies just have to bloody well wait for things. Until now, however, Mummy has called it bloody well waiting and defined its purpose as because it won’t kill you to wait two seconds. It seems entirely more classy and educated to call it Le Pause and define its purpose as to teach the important skill of delayed gratification. Mummy has Pam to thank for that.)

At the local baby group, Mummy is talking to a fellow-mum who happens to be French, and happens to mention Le Pause. “Ah, oui!” exclaims French Maman. “This they must learn! But for the little ones it is not always easy!” She goes on to describe how her two year old clamoured for  a piece of her birthday cake at every opportunity… so much so it was put on a high shelf until she forgot about it and it could be proffered without demands. So long was Le Pause in this instance that, when the time came, the cake had gone stale and had to be thrown out.

Mummy is simultaneously impressed and horrified. The commitment to Le Pause is no doubt commendable. But she threw it out? All of it?!

“It could not be eaten,” explains French Maman. Mummy is completely confused. Maybe something has been lost in translation?

Mummy is now working on a book sequel entitled English Mothers Don’t Waste Cake. 



*DISCLAIMER: Pamela suggests using Le Pause to closely observe your baby for a moment, to become more in tune with their needs and thus able to better manage their requirements and avoid unwanted behaviours. Not to put on a bra. But Mummy finds it hard to be observant and think intellectual thoughts without a bra on.

Testing boundaries

Mummy and Daddy thought it would be a lovely and  fascinating thing to take the children on a narrated boat tour of the harbour. They had not banked on Rebel Baby’s mistaken belief they were taking a diving trip into deep water, and her determination to hurl herself overboard at concerningly frequent intervals. So hell-bent is she on plummeting fully-clothed into open water, that Daddy has to take the reigns and forcibly restrain her with both arms for the duration of the tour. Even this proves challenging.

RB has no sense of self-preservation and sees Daddy’s restraints only as an enjoyable challenge, meaning both Mummy and Daddy are wholly engaged in preventing her death for the full half hour and barely able to catch a glimpse of the fascinating sights they are listening to the captain describe. The whole experience is rather tiring and stressful for all involved.

At least Big Bro will have got something out of it,  thinks Mummy. He has been staring avidly out the boat from his seat beside the very loud speaker, unresponsive to attempts at conversation, apparently absorbed in the experience.

“Did you enjoy that?” asks Mummy as they disembark.

“Oh yes,” says Big Bro enthusiastically.

“Which bits did you find most interesting?” asks Mummy. Big Bro looks at her blankly. “The bit about the warships?” ventures Mummy. “Or maybe the story about the millionaire and the yacht?”

“Oh,” says Big Bro dismissively, “I wasn’t listening to any of it. I was looking at the water and thinking about what we’re having for dinner.”

“Perfect,” says Mummy. “£7.50 a head well spent.”


Mummy and Daddy are at the beach and Rebel Baby wants to play on the sand.

“You can play on the sand,” says Mummy, “but do not try to cuddle the sand. Do not kiss the sand, do not lick the sand, do not roll in the sand like a dog and – above all – do not lie on the sand moaning and gently caressing it like you did last time, causing at least two members of the public to express concern and ask if you need help.”

Mummy doesn’t know why she bothers. She does know, however, that she will spend the next five to ten days removing sand from every crease and orifice imaginable. Sigh….

A rude awakening

Mummy and Daddy have taken the children on holiday to the Isle of Wight, and are staying in a lovely holiday home. It is a lovely relaxing time. Squeezing four humans, two large car seats, a travel cot, a pushchair, high chair, four suitcases and a week’s supply of other essentials into a Ford Fiesta for several hours was especially relaxing.

Nonetheless, Mummy and Daddy awake upon their first morning of their first actual holiday feeling oddly serene. The minuscule holiday apartment is calm and peaceful, and the smell of damp only very distant now compared with when they arrived due to Mummy’s liberal application of bleach last night.

There is an odd noise from the living room.

“Did you get The Baby up?” asks Mummy, turning sleepily to Daddy.

“No,” says Daddy, “Why?”

“Oh… no reason,” says Mummy dismissively. “I thought I heard a sound that I thought sounded a little bit like The Baby was in the living room, that is all.”

“You must be mistaken,” says Daddy. “The Baby is in a very secure travel cot and asleep in her bedroom with Big Bro. She would have to get out of her cot, unzip the tent-cover which is zipped closed all around, get past her Big Bro and open two doors which I definitely closed, to get into the lounge. And she’s zipped into a sleeping bag so no way could she do that!”

Mummy laughs at the very suggestion. “Ho ho! What an amusing idea! How mistaken I must have been!” muses Mummy, “It was probably a gust of wind.” She and Daddy smile at each other and fall back to sleep for half an hour of sleepy bliss.

They are rudely awoken by a thud from the living room.

“Hmmmmm…” says Daddy, “That was a loud gust of wind.”

Mummy gets up to investigate.

Rebel Baby is in the lounge. It is evident, from the state of the lounge, she has been in the lounge for some time. She is in her sleeping bag. Apparently, she can crawl in her sleeping bag.

Apparently, she can unzip a tent cover, climb out of a travel cot, bypass an eight year old who is plugged into an MP3 player and is oblivious to a small human passing less than thirty centimetres from his nose, open two doors and let herself into the lounge, in her sleeping bag. Mummy is not sure she could do this in a sleeping bag. In fact, RB looks rather pleased about it.

So much for a relaxing holiday, thinks Mummy.

Mummy was too sleepy and confused to photograph the actual carnage that was the living room. But this was the look RB had when she was discovered. This look pretty much says it all.