Unto us a child is born

Well trust me to be difficult.

To cut a long story short, despite my due date being the 10th December 2008, Little Miss P, following in her mothers a) stubborn nature and b) tendency to lag behind, decided not to make a show. So the medics got involved and gave her a helping hand (to put it mildly). Two weeks later, after a very dramatic birth, out she popped.

If you do the maths you'll figure out that she arrived, pipping Jesus to the post, on Christmas Eve.

(For the record, I made it to my mums for turkey.... apparently.)

Celebrating this joyous occasion has thrown up some questions.

Christmas is a wonderful time of year but surely a birthday would get lost in all the tinsel and fairy lights, her cards hidden behind those featuring robins and snowmen? Who wants to come and celebrate with us when there's a great party at their own home? Who wants birthday cake when there's mince pies? How can we expect birthday presents and Christmas presents? Do we have to buy separate wrapping paper or can we just use the Santa printed 5m roll? Is a whole year far too long for a little girl to wait for her special day, for it then to be topped by everyone elses joint special day - it'll send her into a spin. She'll have a celebration melt down.

Here's what we are going to do. Bear with me while I explain.

This year she turns one (good grief). To mark the occasion, we are hosting a birthday brunch on Christmas eve. An informal 'drop in' do, where friends and family can pop in as and when they can. There will be balloons, mulled wine, mince pies and birthday cake. This, I am hoping, will not encroach on anyone's Christmas plans yet we can still publicly acknowledge our own little miracle.

From next year onwards, we will celebrate the anniversary of her Christening day (and our wedding day - 2 for 1, it made sense), which is in August. Little Miss P will get presents, a party and cake. On Christmas Eve, she will get birthday cards and cake. Christmas day will be business as usual.

Does this make sense? Are we barking up the wrong evergreen? Are we just barking?

Ten things I am/do that I was not/did not do before

1. I sniff babies bums. And not just those belonging to me. Going on the poop trail is a parents prerogative.

2. Cuticura anti-bacterial hand hygiene gel runs through my veins.

3. I spend an awful lot of time at ground level being dragged around whilst clutching, with pure determination, a popper.

4. My childhood spent with a slightly neurotic mother suddenly makes sense

5. I don't know which way to turn.

6. The owner of my local bakers is called Greg (oh the irony). He has three children but only one still lives at home. His wife recommends the custard tarts. He, on the other hand, prefers a danish. I have invited them round for Christmas drinks.

7. I do a very convincing Cock-a-doodle-doooooooo.

8. I have no shame, nor indeed inhibitions - I sing with full voice and read with exaggerated expression and always with accompanying hand gestures.

9. I smell of rice cake

10. I am never alone, even when no one else is in the room. Love, Love, Love.

Arty farty!

Ta daaaa. Our first piece of kiddi art has graced the kitchen wall (please don't judge me on the wallpaper, I told you the house needed work!).

At Messy Play, Little Miss P had a whale of a time splodging paint. And I had a hoot too, painting her feet to make foot prints. I observed how particular Little Miss P was. This was her first soiree into art and indeed, total freedom to make a complete mess, but she didn't splat the paint with wild abandonment, but dipped the brush and made very considered strokes.

Do we have a budding artist in our midst or has she inherited her fathers irritating need for order and petty detail? I guess time will tell.

I highly recommend a messy play session...but this comes with a warning. Babies eating the paint and getting themselves in a mess is a laugh a minute, until it comes to changing the nappy. Arms length, hold breath, wipe at speed. Arty Farty indeed.

In at the deep end

Oh god, its swimming today. How I sigh so heavily at this prospect. I usually love swimming. It is what kept me sane during pregnancy (along with hummus). I would go three times every week and swim up and down the pool for twenty-five minutes, non stop! Goggles, swim hat, Michael Jackson discography singing in my head, name ideas, thoughts and dreams, the magical feeling of weightlessness. I always used a hotel pool near my office, which was so quiet when another swimmer arrived for a dip, I'd snipe between strokes, "Get off my turf, this is my private pool". Such feelings of grandeur have well and truly left me now. Since Little Miss P came along, the one time I have had a chance to do some laps, I headed to the local lido, where men in all-in-one suits thinking they are training for the Olympics try to overtake me and women who don't want to get their hair wet hijack the lanes with their leisurely breast stroke (question: why get into water if you don't want to get wet?) No, the swim I dread is our weekly water baby class, which I signed up and paid for so enthusiastically but am now just as eager to avoid.

First of all there's the changing rooms. I don't expect to be provided with fluffy robes and a private cubicle but a changing table would be nice. Trying to get a ten month old into a swimming nappy and then costume, either laying on the floor (corn plasters and clumps of hair, need I elaborate), or on my lap results in extreme wriggling, which equals extreme frustration.

Then there's the actual class. Fellow mums in my group must feel the same dread as me, because the class is rarely full. In fact more often than not it is just Little Miss P and a kid called Luke, who is so keen I often fear his over excited splashing is actually a sign of distress. In moments of awkwardness, I chat to the teacher, all the while Little Miss P is turning a shade of blue. Cue bobbing her up and down a bit like you would dunk a biscuit in your tea. After fifteen minutes of gliding her through the water singing zoom zoom zoom, her little teeth start to chatter and her skin resembles corn beef so the class is cut short. I mean what did I expect? She'd be swimming laps aged one?

Its then the joy of trying to get her dry, warm and dressed, all the while I am dripping wet and cold myself. Inevitably I drop the towel or even worse her vest/ sock/ leggings which vendors them damp and therefore useless.

Then there's my costume. Hmmm. This is where I fear the real problem lies. I am too self conscious to wear a bikini now the stretch marks on my tummy make me look like Freddie Kruger tried to get in. A Speedo number makes me look 12 years old. And my usual costume, which used to look alright but now my boobs have disappeared post breastfeeding, just sags.

Sorry P, but next term, the only pool we'll be visiting is on the South coast.

It doesn't rain, it pours

Today, I am a glum mum. I wanted the day off. I don't mean from Little Miss P, rather I wanted a day to do something for me. No monkey music, no nursery rhymes, no edible paint or ball pools. I wanted to look around TopShop; treat myself to a bra now my boobs resemble deflated balloons since I stopped breastfeeding; maybe go for a sushi lunch.

It wasn't meant to be. First up, mid shower I got a call from Mr Scruff. His bike had broken half way to work, could I come and get it and drive him to a tube station. Ironically we arranged to meet at Brent Cross (my nearest shopping haven). I contemplated going along after but I was not ready (and by that I mean no nappies, plum baby pot or pram). So instead I decided to go for a mooch up to my local high street, look in some charity shops (I am on the prowl for odd bits of crockery - Jamie at Home style). On route, the heavens opened and to coin a Mr Scruff phrase, it lashed it down. Drenched, I retreated back home.

Then I had a dentist appointment. I mean really, could it get any worse?

Well yes, in a moment of insanity (er, hello Mummy Bear, every moment is insane), I decided to do the weekly shop. I should point out that throughout all of the days activities, Little Miss P grizzled and winched. With the trolley nearly full, Little Miss P decided once and for all she had had enough and a spectacular tantrum ensued. I won't expand further as its an episode I have decided to block from my mind (til the next time).

So deflated, depressed and slightly deranged, I got Little Miss P ready for her bath. Now every evening I like to give her a little airing. She tends to get nappy rash so before her bath, I let her crawl around as nature intended. Tonight, of all nights, she decided to take refuge under our bed and do a poo.

Just take me to bed and let this day end.

Have a cow, man

Look what we had for dinner!

Mr Scruff returned from a day working with John Torode (sounds more glamorous than it is, honest) with a hamper full of culinary delights. Cor! And I thought we were having pasta.

Following Torodes recipe, here's how Mr Scruff cooked them there plates of meat.

- Get meat to room temperature.
- Cut through and along the layer of fat and the sinew (the bit that connects the meat to the bone). This ensures the steak remains the same size as opposed to curl up when it hits the heat.
- Massage vegetable oil into your steaks and then some salt and cracked pepper.
- Heat the pan until it is very hot (don't add any oil - it will burn and taste bitter). Hold your hand about 30cm above the pan, when it gets too hot the pan is ready.
- Add the steaks and cook for 3 mins each side.
- Remove from the pan and wrap in tin foil. Leave to stand for ten minutes. The meat will be medium/ rare, which is ideal for all steaks (except fillet which should be rare.)
- serve with chunky chips and a hearty appetite.

We finished the lot. To quote Mr Scruff..."We are meated out."

"They grow up so fast"

Everyday Little Miss P brings a little something new to our world, but this week she has surpassed herself. Mr Scruff and I have made a pact that we will not be the sort of parents who turn their kids into performing seals, making everyone watch them as they count to ten, or the like. But I will indulge in a little acknowledgment of her latest achievements. On Monday she waved..big deal. Well, yes it is a big deal. I've been doing overly exaggerated waving motions for months now and she's stared blankly at me. On Tuesday she clapped. I mean, this came out of nowhere. There's not even been a hint of the hands coming together - they twist in the air, Bollywood style, and she is rather fond of cupping her ears, but never a clap. On Wednesday, when reading her 'Look There's a Baby' (a fantastic little book that came free with the library's bookstart pack), she touched her toes just like the baby in the picture. Today she just stood up. Just like that. She's been hoisting herself up to the sofa, TV, side board, high chair etc but today, in the middle of the room, with nothing to hold on to, she just stood right up and stayed bolt upright for a good 5 seconds.

"They grow up so fast." A statement has never rang so true.

Tea for two - update

So about the tea I was hosting today! Every mum canceled. It's true they all had very good excuses (an emergency flight to Toronto is a particularly good reason), but none the less I feel like the girl in the playground no one wants to play with. Well, Little Miss P, it's just you and me kiddo....fancy a walk in the park?

Barbuschka

Today Little Miss P is wearing an adorable navy and red dress from Gap (it's since been reduced in price - I hate it when that happens, and it always happens in Gap) and she looks like a Russian Doll. Her white leather shoes by No Added Sugar are embroidered with flowers and ladybirds and were a gift - they are too big, but I love them and by the time they fit, Little Miss P will be walking. I am wearing a denim smock dress and gray woolly tights - very Barbara Good. We should move to Muswell Hill, or Crouch End at least!

Sock it to 'em

I love Little Miss P's new moccasin socks. I found these gems in Mothercare for only £5. It seems they are all the rage with the baby bunch - when i was mooching around the very trendy baby shops in Muswell Hill and Crouch End I saw 'Moccis' selling for £20. The fact Little Miss P keeps herself occupied sucking on the soft suede sole is what makes me smile the most.

Tea for two?

I have invited the mum chums round for tea. This is a big deal for me. We have been meeting up pretty much weekly since our babies were born ten months ago (gosh), but I have never played host. You see for the first six months I lived in a poky top floor flat. Being a self conscious sole who never likes to put people out, I didn't want the group to carry babes in car seats up the three flights of stairs and then sit uncomfortably cramped in my front room. They are a nice bunch, and I am certain no one would have minded. But I did and so would visit their homes instead , laden with home made cupcakes and an embarrassed apology. But now I live in a house with a fair sized lounge with hardly any furniture (perfect for cruising kids). So I did it, I sent out the invite and waited for the replies. My 'group' are not shy at emailing so I am very saddened to say only two have replied. Was it something I said?

Being a new mum is tough and not just because of the obvious reasons. I am shy when it comes to meeting new people, yet you do have to force yourself forward unless you want to spend days on end pushing the pram around the park on your Jack Jones. So with this in mind, I will not be downhearted. Instead I will welcome my guests with open arms and freshly baked biscuits.

Since starting this post, another mum has canceled on me. This leaves just one attendee. Am feeling paranoid, but actually rather relieved. To save any embarrassment, I will suggest we go to Rhyme Time at the local library. A free sing song, which is guaranteed to lift the grayest spirit. I am always impressed with the turnout - the majority being local Eastern European mums who have picked up the words to The Wheels On The Bus brilliantly and sing with such enthusiasm.

Why have tea when you can have song.

My new blind!

Nothing pleases me more than crisp white linen embellished with hand embroidery. To quote a fellow fabric fanatic, Kirstie Allsopp "Vintage linen is my drug". I recently had an ebay spree and bought some amazing 1930's tablecloths with the idea of turning them into blinds for fairy cottage. I have opted for cut work medeira lace which will let the sun shine through.

The tablecloth for the upstairs hallway window was slightly too big but because I didn't want to lose the scalloped edge, a simple hem was not an option. I folded the fabric to create a pin tuck down both sides of the cloth and hand stitched them carefully so the thread was hidden underneath.

I stitched a band of wide white ribbon near the bottom edge for the blind weight.

I then sprayed the cloth with fabric stiffener (£4.95 from John Lewis) and once dry simply stuck the top of the cloth along the sticky strip along the blind pole (part of the John Lewis roller blind kit £11.50 for 122cm). Voila!

The effect I think is charming. Now I can dash from bathroom to bedroom without shocking the neighbours.

The Beginning by Rabindranath Tagore

“Where have I come from, where did you discover me?”

The baby asked its mother.

She answered half crying, half laughing, and clasping the baby to her breast.

“ You were hidden in my heart as its desire, my darling;

You were the dolls in my childhood games.

And when with clay I image of my God every morning,

I made and unmade you.

Then you were enshrined in our household deity.

In his worship, I worshiped you.

In all my hopes and my loves, in life

In the life of my mother you have lived.

In the lap of the deathless spirit that rules our home

You have been nursed for ages.

When in my girlhood my heart was opening its petals

You hovered as a fragrance about it.

Your tender softness bloomed in my youthful limbs

Like a glow in the sky before sunrise.

Heaven’s first darling, twin born with the afternoon light

You have floated down the stream of the world’s life

And at last you have stranded on my heart.

As I gaze on your face, mystery overwhelms me:

You, who belong to all, have become mine.

For fear of losing you, I hold you tight to my breast.

What magic has snared the world’s treasure in these slender arms

Blonde bombshell

I have a dinner date next week with two old friends and the nerves have already kicked in. Both are members of the fashion world, both leggy blondes, both party animals. We met at work and bonded over geography as all three of us were born and raised in North London (surely our paths MUST have crossed). I have always played the role of short and sensible friend but kept up with their partying ways and illicit conversations. Now, I am not so sure. The only parties I attend involve soft play. What will I bring to the table....news of little miss P's raspberry blowing? Oh god, could this be the last supper on our friendship?

The Very Hungry Caterillar

Whoo Hoo! At last today has arrived! A week ago, one of my new found mum chums (we bonded over labour pains), sent us an invite for a post Halloween fancy dress party. Now, I just LOVE a fancy dress party and relish the opportunity to transform myself into a favourite character. Imagine my glee when I found out I have a chance to inflict my obsession onto my helpless baby girl!

Naturally I have gone home made. The other mums all groaned when I proudly announced my intentions at our monkey music class. "Oh great," snapped one mum. "You are going to be one of those annoying women who bakes cakes and makes bonnets rather than shop buys." Well yes I am actually. I am not smug about it; on the contrary. My skills are too limited to be cocky but my enthusiasm is boundless.

Back to Little Miss P's costume. My initial thoughts were 'fairy', a natural choice as I love all things ethereal, but Little Miss P is more cheeky monkey than dainty wings. In fact, I looked into making a monkey suit but my sewing skills are, at present, too basic. So I have opted for the Very Hungry Caterpillar! Surprisingly easy but strikingly effective.

For the body, I bought a pair of green leggings and a long sleeve t shirt from H&M (a snip at £2.99 a piece), teamed with a pair of brown socks. If I had more time (and inclination) I could thread strands of yellow and blue fine wool along the back of the t shirt as caterpillar hair.

For the head, I bought 30cm of red felt from John Lewis (£2.32). With the fabric folded in half (wrong side facing out) and using one of Little Miss P's hats (with ear flaps) as a template, I drew around allowing a generous margin for error and fit.

Folding each half vertically (again, wrong side facing out), I stitched a dart about two inches long, to create a curve.

Then I stitched the two halves together. It is at this point that Mr Scruff announced that I could go into producing Mexican wrestling masks. He has a point, unhelpful though it is.

I cut two circles of yellow felt and two smaller circles of brown felt to make the eyes and stitched on to the head.

For the antennae, I stuffed two pop socks with cotton wool, rolling them in my palms to create a chipolata shape. I then carefully cut two slits in the head and thread through an antenna in each, stitching secure on the inside.

A popper around the neck, ensures Little Miss P, despite her best efforts, cannot pull the head off.
As a Brucie Bonus I am taking along a prop - a selection of woolly food. I cannot offer advice on how to make woolly food (the knitting set bought for me last Christmas when I naively thought maternity leave = time on my hands, remains unopened). No, the woolly food was a christening gift for Little Miss P from an eccentric friend who lives in Paris. La Chenille Qui Fait des Trous, indeed.

Bow knows diddly

My good friend, an influential style commentator, has announced on her blog that bows are over (or at least she is over bows). This upsets me for two reasons. Firstly bows are what bonded our friendship. We even themed lunch dates around them. I am miffed that she could discard them without considering my reaction. Secondly, I like bows and have just purchased a woolly ear warmer-cum-head band with a lovely bow detail. I have been out of the fashion game for a while and am now panicking that my new winter accessory, which brought such joy at the checkout, will make me look silly and out of touch.

The reason I am bringing this up is because I bought it from Anthropologie. A wonderful new addition to Regent Street. Anthropologie is every rookie domesticat's mecca. A landmark store in New York. I would happily endure the eight hour trans-Atlantic flight just to browse this heavenly home ware emporium. But now, and not a moment too soon, I merely have to hop on the tube to Oxford Circus.

The London store looks brilliant. Even Mr Scruff (we made it a family day out - a big adventure for us), who would have far rather been tinkering with his bike, marveled at the coloured glass chandeliers and foliage that hangs down the central staircase. Little Miss P who hates shops (a blip she will grow out of), was excited by the textures and bright colours of the stock - she squealed with delight as she destroyed the pile of angora knitted hats on display, and the patience and good nature of the lovely staff who tidied after us was noted. However, for me, who ran to the entrance, I was a tad disappointed. Since buying our fairy cottage I am often on the Anthropolgie website, earmarking the curtain fabric, door knobs, oven gloves etc etc I would like to buy, but none, or at least very few, were actually in the London store. Yes, it was crammed with beautiful and unique fashion (the mushroom printed cardi and Peruvian skirt caught my eye), but the home ware was a bit poor. I am hoping this is merely teething problems and the stock is on a ship somewhere north of Dover (or where ever it is they dock).

In the meantime I will have to continue to browse on line, updating my wish list whilst wearing my woolly bow.
Headwrap, £22 by Stratus at Anthropologie
It feels as soft as soft can be - and will be lovely and warm come winter


Bakers Bliss measuring spoons, £16apx
I LOVE these! They feel heavy and look like you picked them up in some mexican market. They did have these in stock in the London store but until I get my kitchen done I cannot justify such an extravagant treat. My kitchen, as it stands, is not worthy.


Brightbranch curtain, from £176.31, online only
These are the main reason we ventured into town. They could look amazing in our lounge, where we have large bleak looking seventies-style windows with no curtains. I have looked everywhere but this is the only print Mr Scruff and I agree on. It's a contemporary design but has the lovely handmade vintage feel we are after. However ordering curtains from the US without feeling the fabric or seeing the exact colour is way too risky. Fingers crossed they come into store soon. I fear no other curtain will match the expectation these have set.