In which Weaning Day arrives and the Little One has other ideas

We carefully sit the Little One in her brand new high chair as the momentous day finally arrives. 

NHS weaning session attended. 
Annabel Cartmel book well-thumbed. 
Baby-led weaning researched. 
Carrot pureed. 
Munchkin spoons washed. 
Vegetable sticks steamed. 
Highchair constructed.
Bib on. 
Baby wipes at the ready.

In which the little moments count

“How old is she?” (If I had a £1 for every time I’ve been asked that…)

“Seven months now!” (Said with usual tone of exclamation, as if the passing of time is normally an impossibility).

It was a fairly standard opener to any conversation these days. And then dad to one-year-old Millie simply replied “I don’t remember Millie being that age. I suppose I won’t remember her being at this stage soon either.” Nothing like a bit of matter-of-factness. I was reminded of this conversation on

In which the London Marathon ballot occurred

I won’t lie.  When the London “Marathon News: You’re in” magazine arrived on my doormat on Wednesday, my first reaction was not one of excitement. 

Back in April, the recent post-birth me was desperate to go for a run again, in that flawed human psychology way which makes you want something so much more when you know you can’t have it.  And so my crazy, sleep-deprived brain enthusiastically entered my details into the ballot for the 2017 marathon.  After all, it was fate that the iconic marathon should come along just as I reached the

In which the first level four poo occurred

Never be lulled into a false sense of security that your baby doesn’t do poo explosions.  Babies do poo explosions.  All of them. 

In the first weeks of the Little One's life I laughed along with the other NCT mums on our What’sApp group about middle of the day baths, poo up to the shoulder blades, multiple changes of clothes etc (amazing how much there is to say on the topic).  But these events just didn’t happen in our house.  Nappy changes were civil and contents well contained. I felt very secure (and maybe a little smug) that I did not have a pooey baby. 

In which I sign up to the childbirth secrecy club

“It’s simply your journey to meet your baby”, trilled my tiny pink-haired yoga teacher as we sat in a circle practising our breathing exercises.  For a short time I was swept along by the euphemisms and the number of second time mums who nodded enthusiastically when describing how helpful various yoga poses had been in their first labour.  The evidence was there in a full-to-bursting class: labour was gentle enough that deep breathing and rocking from one foot to the other would keep me calm, cool and relaxed when giving birth. 

But my cynical side fought back.  Much as I had resisted thinking too much about the whole giving