Working Mummy

Today, Mummy is at work. The Baby goes to baby swimming on a Wednesday and then goes to Grandad’s house, and this is how much luggage Mummy needs to transport to the car while also carrying The Baby. Mummy has already transported the car seat, the travel cot and the pushchair to the car. The car is already full. Why does one so small require so much equipment? Why?

Has anyone seen Rebel Baby?

Where can she be? She is just so good at hiding…

Except that if Mummy doesn’t pretend to look for her at length and repeatedly, she shouts at Mummy from her oh-so-secret hiding place. She shouts until Mummy notices and pretends she can’t find her. And then Mummy has to be surprised when she appears. Rebel Baby doesn’t understand hiding. Or, she just loves hiding so damn much, she wants everyone to notice her hiding. Go figure…


Mummy was hoping a nice warm, soporific bath would calm down the little one, who has been more than a little wired all day, ready for bedtime.

Mummy was wrong. Apparently baths are wildly exciting.

And towels. Especially towels. Towels are mental.

Surprise encounter

Today, Mummy discovered – much to the surprise and alarm of the poor lady in the adjacent cubicle – that a nine month old baby is both small enough and fast enough to crawl beneath the partition of a swimming pool changing room in the time it takes Mummy to put on a jumper.

She also discovered it is almost impossible to drag a determined nine month old baby back under the partition of a swimming pool changing room by one ankle, without risking damage. The only resolution, she therefore discovered, is to go round and knock on the neighbouring cubicle and ask for your baby back. And yes, you feel like the kid that kicked their ball into the neighbour’s garden.

Here is RB demonstrating her love of crawling into small spaces she can’t get out of. Look how bloomin’ pleased with herself she is. Luckily the poor lady she visited this morning had a good sense of humour.

Driving lessons

Mummy let RB pretend to drive the car. She thought it would be cute and fun. It was for about thirty seconds. Then RB started shouting at pedestrians out of the window and pummelling the steering wheel with her fists. Mummy is most concerned she has been watching Daddy too much…

Cake wars

Rebel Baby is at a family gathering, where there is tea and cake.

“The Baby will love to try cake!” says Grandad.

“The Baby will not try cake,” says Mummy. “She is my wholesome and precious child who I will feed only organic rainbows and home-grown sunshine. She will not eat cake.” Mummy knows that when the baby starts eating cake, she will have to share her cake with The Baby. Mummy does not share cake.

“It is delicious cake,” says Grandad. “It is lemony and crumbly with sugar on top. The Baby will like this cake.”

There is a very lot of sugar on the top, observes Mummy. “The Baby does not need cake,” she says.

Grandad feeds The Baby cake.

“Mmmmmmmmmmm!!!!” says The Baby.

“See!” exclaims Grandad, “The Baby loves cake!”

The Baby has never tried cake. Of course The Baby loves cake. Now, The Baby is trying to get Mummy’s cake. There is cake all over The Baby and cake all over the floor.

“No more cake for The Baby,” says Mummy. She is trying to wipe dribbly cake slobber out of the clean-on expensive John Lewis baby dress with its crumb-catching corduroy crevises, and picking it out of the pristine carpet.

“More cake!” announces Grandad, and Rebel Baby is delighted. She claps and smiles, and gets more cake.

Mummy takes the cake away. It is hard to prise cake out of the tightly grasped fist of a carb-loving infant who has just discovered refined sugar. Rebel Baby growls at Mummy, clasps her sticky fists even tighter and rams handfuls of the sweet stuff into her mouth.

Mummy spends the next half an hour picking individual crumbs of lemon drizzle frosting off the pristine carpet with her fingernails.

Rebel Baby spends the next half hour racing Mummy, licking crumbs off the carpet with her tongue and squealing with delight.

Grandad is laughing at Mummy.

Mummy makes a mental note to feed The Baby her special curried cauliflower purée next week before Grandad comes to babysit. It does produce some quite stupendous nappies.

Back to work blues

As the end of maternity leave creeps ever-closer, Mummy is finally having to come to terms with the fact that her post-baby body-bounce-back did not go entirely to plan, because… cake and sofa.

Reality hit last week when Mummy went back to visit work for the day and was determined she absolutely could squeeze herself into her pre-baby work wardrobe. After much huffing and wriggling and breathing in, Mummy eventually got the button done up on her oh-so-smart trousers, and punched the air triumphantly.

“Do you think I have a muffin-top?” Mummy asked Daddy, squinting at the ample rolls of baby-flab spilling over her waistband. Daddy didn’t even look up from his computer, having already memorised the correct answer to all such questions.

“Absolutely not,” said Daddy sensibly. Daddy knows that sometimes it is better to lie than to be helpful. Mummy is more than aware she doesn’t just have a muffin-top, but the whole muffin. Probably more like a three-tier Victoria sponge, in fact. She decides this can be covered with a floaty top and distracting jewellery, so as not to diminish the sense of success and achievement from actually getting the button done up. She may not be able to sit down, but that is ok. Mummy will introduce a new standing-desk policy and claim it is for efficiency and productivity, like they do in fancy offices on the telly.

Unfortunately, Mummy had to spend the whole day at work doing interviews. The interviews started at 9:15am. By 9:17am, Mummy no longer had circulation in her thighs.

Therefore, with a heavy heart, Mummy has ventured out today in search of a temporary work wardrobe, that she will only need in the very short term, until her body-bounce-back happens. Which it will.

“Can I help you?” asks the nice lady in the fancy clothes shop. It occurs to Mummy that she has worn leggings and Daddy’s jumpers for so long, she can’t actually remember what people wear in the normal world. She also has no idea what size she is, except that it is not the lovely size eight she had been her entire life up until a year ago. Mummy makes the mistake of admitting this to the lady in the shop.

“Ooooooh…” says the lady eyeing Mummy up and down, “I’m pretty good at telling what size people are.” The lady in the shop guesses what size Mummy is. Mummy is not impressed and makes to leave the shop, but she is being laden with clothes to try on and cannot escape.

“Oh, I do not think I am quite that size…” Mummy protests. She tries on the clothes anyway. They all fit. Bugger.

“Any good?” trills the oh-so-helpful assistant.

“Absolutely not, they are very massive and do not fit at all!” says Mummy, thrusting the clothes back and flouncing out of the shop, in search of somewhere that does vanity sizing.

Much trawling through high street shops proves fruitless, until Mummy stumbles into White Stuff, lured by the sale rail and promise of free biscuits (… for the children!)  It is here that she comes across the most brilliant and ingenious invention that possibly ever existed: smart work trousers with elasticated waistbands! Yes, it is likely that the target market is women over fifty, but Mummy does not see why she should wait that long to enjoy such a treat. She tries them on in a size ten and they fit like a glove. Vanity sizing at its best, thinks Mummy.  She glances at the price tag and realises she will have to take off at least twenty quid when she tells Daddy… but that is neither here nor there.  You cannot put a price on lower leg circulation, she decides.