Family Friendly Food at wagamama

Wagamama: Blueberry spice drinks. YUM!

Look: I know this is a review post; you know this is a review post; let's skip all the pretending-to-have-a-deep-point-before-luring-you-into-reading-about-the-product nonsense and get to the photos of food, okay?

Okay.

So. Recently, Steve, Matilda and I were invited to find out how family friendly wagamama is. And, in summary: we would totally take our toddler back there.

I'll expand on that: all three of us had a great time and a lot of good food was consumed.

Also drinks. Those are blueberry spice juices in the photo above and they tasted every bit as punchy and vibrant as they look. Matilda, meanwhile, had a cococino which she loved just as much as she always loves warm, frothy milk (that's a lot).

Wagamama: Cococino

Here's one big reason why wagamama is family friendly: fun kiddie chopsticks. They're sort of like wooden tweezers (sorry, wagamama PR people - that was the best I could come up with) and Matilda LOVED them. They were so easy to use that not only did she feed herself, she fed her parents, too.

(We took the bib along and it's pure coincidence that she's dressed like the wagamama branding)

Wagamama: Toddler chopsticks
Wagamama: Whatever I ate

Anyway: the food.

I had yasai yaki soba. I always have yasai yaki soba. I love yasai yaki soba. That's a picture of it up there. Yum, right?

Steve had... eh... something he really liked. OH GOOD GRIEF, I NEED TO NOT WRITE REVIEWS AFTER A GLASS OF WINE AND WHEN MY DINING PARTNER IS UNAVAILABLE FOR QUESTIONING. Anyway, that's a picture of it below and it looked tasty even to me, the vegetarian. Largely because anything with a fried egg on top looks delicious, right?

Wagamama: Whatever Steve ate
Wagamama: Dip thingy

He and Matilda also shared this dip thing. Oh, hang on - I can find this one on the online menu. It was pulled pork steamed gyoza. It was a hit with them both. 

They also had duck wraps which I failed to photograph and which Matilda mostly used as a blanket to keep her other food warm (she's considerate that way).

Matilda, meanwhile, had cod cubes; her favourite part of the meal was the sticky rice. Our waiter (hi, Declan!) was outwardly unfazed by how much rice she left scattered around her chair.

Not that it was a chair. It was one of those clip-on high chairs which are either clever or terrifying - I'm still not sure which. It was good for swinging in and kicking parents' knees from, anyway, and looked a lot easier to clean than the usual upright wooden ones.

Wagamama: Kiddie cod cubes meal

As our meal wore on, Matilda became so confident that she moved on to using real chopsticks. She did this more adeptly than me, and so ended up helping me to finish my food:

Wagamama: Even a toddler can do chopsticks better than me

Finally, we had dessert. I had a plate of three small cakes (all delicious) while Steve had mochi balls (below) which are sort of... ice cream wrapped in jellied rice?! Also delicious, anyway (obviously, I had one of each, for thoroughness of review; I did, somewhat grudgingly, let Steve sample my cakes, too).

So, wagamama: delicious food; fun toddler tweezers; clip-on high chairs. Also: colouring in for me the kids.

Yes, I think we'll back.

Wagamama: Dessert, Mochi Balls

Our Experience of Baby/Toddler Floor Beds

Our Experience of Baby and Toddler Floor Beds

A year ago, I wrote about our decision to move Matilda out of her cot and onto a "floor bed". One year on, I firmly believe that this has been one of the best parenting decisions that Steve and I have made.

(For those who haven't clicked on that link: we moved Matilda onto a single bed mattress at eight or nine months. She immediately started sleeping better; bedtime became about cuddles rather than crying; her eczema - which had been triggered by her foam cot mattress - cleared up, never to return)

We get asked a lot of questions about how/whether/why floor beds work, so I thought I'd pull them all together into a post.

Doesn't she fall out?
It can happen. The first few nights, she fell out two or three times a night; she fell out about once a week for a couple of months after that. But falling off a mattress is a matter of six or seven inches - when your child's asleep, they're floppy and very unlikely to hurt themselves (although you could pad the floor around the mattress, if you were really worried).

Since those first couple of months, she has only fallen out twice. In fact, it's so rare that, at fifteen months, we moved her onto a single bed and didn't bother with a bed guard.

Crucially, she can climb back in to her bed, which gives her an extra little bit of independence - and most of us know how much toddlers value being able to do things by themselves!

How do you stop her roaming the house in the middle of the night?
We have a gate across her bedroom door. We only ever close this at night.

How do you stop her climbing on her bedroom furniture/playing with sockets/otherwise endangering herself in the middle of the night?
The same way we would have done if we'd waited a year and taken the side off her cot at the standard time: most of the furniture in her room is toddler-height; the one high surface (her wardrobe) is not next to anything she could climb onto; there are minimal hard angles and no accessible glass. We get asked about sockets a lot so I'm going to take a moment to clarify that UK sockets have been designed to be child-safe; in fact, UK sockets are safer WITHOUT SOCKET COVERS - we have taught Matilda that they are not for playing with but that's just an extra precaution. So, basically: toddler-proof the room.

I could (and probably, at some point, will) write at length about how important I think it is for a child's room to be treated as THE CHILD'S ROOM, not just a convenient place to store nappies, vests and sleeping infants. Their room should be somewhere they can play safely, unsupervised and - as far as the layout of your home allows - as often as they choose.

How do you stop her getting out of bed?
We don't. When she wakes up and [believes she] needs us, she gets out of bed and walks to her bedroom door. But she is calm when she does this; she goes back to bed without objection. In her case, the alternative was for her to stand up in her cot, screaming and trying to climb over the bars - it was a lot harder to settle her back down when she was in the cot, both because she was less cooperative and because it was physically more difficult for us to reach into a cot than it is for us to kneel beside a bed (or - if we're really tired or she's really upset - lie down on it beside her).

As for getting out of bed to play with her toys or read books, her room is very dark at night and she can't reach the light switch, so it's pretty unlikely to happen. I do remember having an agreement with my parents that I could read for as long as I wanted, as long as I stayed in my bed, and we intend to take a similar approach with Matilda.

It also helps that she loves her bed. Properly loves it. Not the necessity of sleep but the actual bed. She climbs on it, bounces on it, plays on it (putting her toys to bed has been a favourite game for months, as is instructing other people to fall asleep on top of it) and reads on it - it's somewhere with positive associations for her so it's somewhere she's happy to be.

Can you sleep train with a floor bed?
I imagine you'd find it difficult - you can't force the kid to stay in the bed.

Is it hygienic?
I'd advise getting bed slats to raise the mattress off the floor slightly - it's preferable to have some airflow underneath it as there's a chance of mould otherwise. We didn't actually do that which is one of the reasons we moved her onto a proper bed at fifteen months.

Are there any downsides?
The other reason we moved her onto a bed was that I found it quite tough on my knees, kneeling beside the mattress all the time. However, this was still preferable to the back ache I was getting from leaning over her cot!

Are there any other positives?
Quite simply: it's nicer. I hated Matilda being in the cot - it was difficult for me to reach her, impossible for her to reach me, and the act of shutting her away behind cot bars was so far from the loving, cuddling, emotionally accessible parenting I wanted to do that it often reduced me to tears. Bedtime and night wakings are now calm, affectionate times rather than battles and there's no understating how happy that makes me.

It also saves you from having to transition your kid from cot to toddler bed, toddler bed to big bed, and it saves you the cost of a toddler bed and little sheets.

Floor beds are not for everyone. If you're intending to sleep train, they're probably not for you. And some kids may not take to them - or make not take to them at the time you first want to try. But I'm a convert. It's the perfection option for us.

Is there anything else you want to know?

What I've Been Reading Recently

What I've Been Reading Recently

The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd
Bestseller; tackles racism and sexism; celebrates female friendships; made into a film. Tick, tick, tick, tick. Should have been something I loved. But it felt hollow to me. The first half felt contrived - "here's the point I want to make; here's a structure with which to make it; forget whether or not it rings true for these characters". Come to that, the lead character felt two dimensional, too. I felt a bit icky about a white writer writing about a white character being absorbed into a wacky black family. And then there was the religious sect with all its made up mantras and rituals which, to me, felt like some sort of teenage silliness, doing magical spells to find out whether or not your crush was going to marry you. This book tackles such big issues that I hate to so completely dismiss it but it felt very clunky to me.

Shine On, Marquee Moon by Zoë Howe*
Okay, I read this book because it was by an established music writer who focuses on my kind of tunes - I was absolutely hoping for an insider take on the tour bus. And that's what I got. But. But... it seemed such a lost little book, not sure whether it was trying to be a comedy farce, chick lit or a gritty exposé of big egos and heroin addiction (and, frankly, discovering your partner is hooked on heroin didn't seem like great subject matter for a light-hearted comedy). It also irritated me that the whole book was written in the first person by somebody who wasn't in the room a lot of the time - how did she know what happened and what was said and the details of what other people thought?! It felt clunky. So... yeah... it was an okay beach read (tour bus read? on the train to a gig read?) but don't bother unless you can borrow it from a friend.

Carnivalesque by Neil Jordan*
Is every sentence in this book supposed to be as baffling as a mirror maze? I got tired of the already tired metaphors and the meandering imagery. I've no idea where the book ended up heading, which is a shame as it seemed like it might have been somewhere quite interesting.

In a Land of Paper Gods by Rebecca Mackenzie*
FINALLY! I was starting to wonder if it was me, not them, but FINALLY there was a book I liked this month. In fact, I loved it. Even if it did make me cry. Several times. It's the book I wish my book group had read instead of The Secret Life of Bees - and I say that because it involves a bunch of ten year old girls making up secret religious rituals as a form of bonding (and sometimes bullying). They're a bunch of ten year old girls whose parents are missionaries in China in the late 1930s/early 1940s; the girls are growing up in a boarding school set up specifically so the missionaries could carry on with their work, unencumbered by offspring. The book starts off with their almost comically childish silliness but, with each chapter, the lead character's loneliness grows; she's becoming alienated from her classmates at the same time as the Japanese invade China, their troops marching ever closer to the children in the school. Yes, this book is an emotional read, but it's deftly done - heartbreaking and beautiful, all at once. Highly recommended.

*Provided for review.

Things: A Stream of Consciousness

Great Aunt Lizzie's house from Teacup Travels, Edinburgh

Why, yes, I have become that person who poses outside Great Lizzie's House every time she visits Edinburgh. Three days later, when the opening credits of Teacup Travels rolled and I remembered to show the photo to Matilda, I was eyed with such incredulous awe. Totally worth being weird in the rain.

* * *

Anyway, Matilda is at our neighbour's house for three hours. I spent the first half of that sorting out my wardrobe. Properly sorting out my wardrobe. Not just flicking through the hangers but heaping everything on the bed, stuffing about half of it into charity shops bags, a small selection into the bin and folding and hanging the rest back into carefully thought out places.

It felt good.

And boring.

But mostly good.

The collection of things I can't stand to part with even though my no-longer-new maternal bosom won't fit into them has (probably) reached its final stage - it's small but much loved. And my boobs shrank roughly a cup size this week (won't google that; not ready to hear that I'm peri-menopausal and/or seriously ill, thank you very much) so I'm feeling optimistic about actually being able to wear them again some day. That, or raising a daughter who's very into vintage frocks.

* * *

Oh, yes, so there are one and a half hours left during which I could clean the toilet. Luckily, I've got a supermarket delivery arriving in the next hour and it would be such a pain to be in the middle of housework when that happens so - drat it - I'll just have to muck around on the internet for a bit then settle down with my book.

Hello! It's been a while, eh?

* * *

Fourth First up, thanks to everyone who's been asking about Steve's job. The good news is: he still has one! The title and description have changed a little bit but it still exists.

I don't think the world outside Aberdeen realises what a tough time the city's been having, scraping through the oil and gas crisis. Not that it wasn't predicted and not that the rich-poor divide in Aberdeen hadn't reached unforgivable levels and not that nothing could have been done to ease the blow and not that people around here weren't naively smug when the housing crisis didn't touch us.

But still: it's been tough and I don't think we know a single household which hasn't been affected by it. Even those people who don't/didn't work in the oil have been through redundancy or workplace closures, because the money which supported the rest of the city has suddenly disappeared.

Anyway, that's my long way of saying that we're very, very, very lucky to be one of the households which still has an income.

In other good financial news: Steve's student loan will be paid off in April which means we can stop paying for his bus pass out of our savings.

* * *

Speaking of our savings: we're still waiting to hear from the pet insurance.

* * *

And the savings took another knock when our corroded kitchen downpipe started spewing washing machine water all over the downstairs neighbours' windows. Sigh.

* * *

Yikes, this has gone mopey very quickly. TURN IT AROUND, SARAH, TURN IT AROUND.

* * *

Okay, so we've been doing a lot of cooking and baking with Matilda recently. She and Steve have a monthly cookery session scheduled in the calendar; she and I bake with a friend of ours once a month, too; and there has been a lot of allowing her to help out in the kitchen at random other times, too.

For a while, all she was really doing was stirring a few ingredients together then wandering off - we don't think she understood that she was taking part in a process, that what she was doing in any way related to the food which appeared a little while later.

But now she gets it. The squealing and dancing and delight when she saw her first loaf of bread come out of the oven was quite something - she kept touching it, like she couldn't quite believe it was real. Amazing.

* * *

She's also going through an arty stage. Arts and crafts were something I was really looking forward to doing with my child, so I'm loving losing whole days to drawing and painting and stickering and squidging play dough. I'm less keen on the ripping up of paper but accept that it's all part of her exploring the world around her...

* * *

Hand in hand with this is a loss of interest in afternoon TV. Which is great because I no longer have to choose between being the mean mummy who refuses to switch on CBeebies and the guilt-ridden mummy who's checking Instagram while her kid stands glued to the same episode of Teletubbies she watched four hours ago.

I will absolutely defend kids watching some TV (for a start: Matilda only eats carrots because they're Bing's favourite) but we had about a month there when it was a bit too high on her priorities list.

* * *

And finally: good grief, I'm getting a lot of PR emails about Galentine's Day at the moment.

I remember going to a friend's hen do, a few years ago, and thinking that I didn't have enough female friends to ever have one of my own (thoughts on marriage and hen dos and so on aside); recently, it hit me that I have enough women in my life that I would struggle to fit them all in one pub. Ninety-nine percent of the time, that makes me feel happy and secure; today, my period's due so obviously I'm convinced they all actually hate me and are only replying to texts out of a crippling sense of politeness.

Anyway, my point is: even when I'm feeling positive about my friendships, I can't think of many people who would embrace getting together on a Monday night because of a joke in a TV show.

Although, for the record: I would.

I wouldn't wear pink because it's Wednesday, though.

How about everyone else?

* * *

And more generally: what's the news with you?

Pets, Toddlers, Friends, Funds

My cat couldn't pee but at least he befriended the toddler

Last week, I had to rush Gizmo to the vet's because he couldn't pee.

He couldn't pee, it turned out, because he has spent too much time lying next to the radiator and too little time consuming water. A lifestyle of which I am in no position to judge. 

I feel the poor cat's pain, though - I've had cystitis and it was horrible. But, bless the NHS, at least it didn't cost me £736. 

Anyway, we don't currently know whether or not the insurance is going to pay out, but please do keep your fingers (legs?) crossed that they do. Because I'd quite like my family to eat this year.

In the meantime, Gizmo and Polly have launched a whole new turf war because he has been off on a big adventure which has filled him with courage and she has had two glorious days as an only cat which have filled her with a sense of entitlement. 

As if that wasn't battle enough, Steve and I now have to spend roughly an hour a day chasing Gizmo around the flat, armed with a syringe and a pill popper (super-clever plastic contraption, not 1990s trance fan), before force feeding him something which looks like a capsule full of Wotsit powder. Gizmo is big and heavy and strong and in possession of claws; the whole thing feels like a particularly idiotic game of chicken.

* * *

The hassle of trying to get Gizmo to and from the vet's was a good reminder of how lucky I am to have excellent people in my life. Carrying a yowling, struggling, one stone cat in a plastic box on a bus on a snowy day whilst trying to push a buggy might have given me a funny story to tell but it would also have been unthinkably awful. Luckily, a neighbour babysat Matilda one day, a friend the next, Emma gave Gizmo and me multiple lifts, and Steve's parents fulfilled both roles on day three. Huge thanks go out to them all.

* * *

Obviously, there are two adult cat owners in the Rooftops household. Last time Gizmo baked himself to ill health, Steve worked from home and did the vet runs; this time, he had to be at work because he was expecting to hear whether or not he was being made redundant. Same the next day. And the next. And the next. And today. And tomorrow. And possibly next month. It's dragging on just a tad...

* * *

In happier news: I met Ruth and I don't want to get all gushy but I'm ever so glad I did. It turns out she lives just around the corner, too - hurrah!

Matilda and Ruth's older son, L., also hit it off. So much so that we barely saw them for two and a half hours.

* * *

Which segues nicely into the huge change I can see in Matilda and her friends after the Christmas break. 

For one festive reason or another, we hadn't seen any of Matilda's toddler-aged friends since early December. A five week break. Which is probably another reason I was feeling so tired.

Anyway, over the past couple of weeks we've been meeting up with them again. And what a difference! Suddenly they're playing together. They're coming up with ideas together and building on them together and having fun together; it can take several hours for them to become tired and possessive and liable to shove each other off bits of furniture. 

And it's lovely.

It's lovely because my kid is having such a good time!

And it's lovely because the grown ups can have a cup of tea and multiple biscuits and a proper conversation which lasts for several hours and includes the phrase "soon we'll be able to drop them at each other's houses for a morning (and have some time to ourselves)".

* * *

Not only that, but suddenly Matilda and Gizmo have bonded, too. Ever since he came home from the vet's, he's been letting her sit squashed right up against him, bury her fingers in his fur and rest her head on his belly. I can only assume that this new friendship is based on the fact that not one of the times she's chased him out of his safe places has resulted in him having a pill shoved down his throat.

Whatever the reasons, I have a loudly purring cat and a very happy little girl.

Those things are right in my world.

What I've Been Reading Recently

What I've Been Reading Recently

The Bear and The Nightingale by Katherine Arden*
Inspired by Russian fairy tales, this is the story of spirited young woman, Vasya, who realises that the fate of her village lies in her hands. There is good versus evil, new religion versus ancient beliefs, female strength versus restrictive tradition, and a whole lot of magic. It's apparently adult fiction but, to me, it was a book for feisty girls in their late teens who want to seize control of their own lives. It did feel a little slow to me, but that might just have been down to my own life - it took me a whopping two and a half weeks to read what my Kindle reckoned was a six hour book - but I also wanted to keep going until I found out how (surely how rather than whether?) Vasya saved the day.

Hurrah for Gin: A book for perfectly imperfect parents by Katie Kirby
I bought this right after writing this post about how tired I was feeling and it was pretty much exactly what I was needing. There are quite a few books at the moment in which a parenting blogger writes with humour about how hard looking after toddlers is yet how awesome interacting with them can be. This is one of them. And it made me laugh. A lot.

A Christmas Cornucopia: The Hidden Stories Behind Our Yuletide Traditions by Mark Forsyth
Why do we celebrate on 25th December? Who is Santa? Is Christmas a pagan/Victorian party mash up? Mark Forsyth answers (almost) all of your festive questions in a simple, witty style. The blurb says that everything you believe about Christmas is wrong - and, in my case (much to my surprise) that was almost entirely true. Fascinating stuff.

The Happiest Mommy You Know by Genevieve Shaw Brown*
Journalist and mother-of-two, Genny, has a theory that mothers would be a lot happier - and, by extension, better parents - if they treated themselves with the same love and care that they show to their children. In this book, she writes about her attempts to put that into practise. To be honest, other than having created offspring, I don't think Genny and I have much - if anything - in common; we're coming at parenthood from very different places and, as a result, have different strengths and weaknesses. That didn't stop me from agreeing with her premise and it didn't stop me from enjoying her (witty, honest, open) writing. She acknowledges that she's in a very privileged position - having supportive family around to help out and plenty of money to pay for things - but she also has a son with Down Syndrome and a demanding career so her life isn't entirely straightforward nor prioritising her own needs easy, and her attempts to pursue happiness made for entertaining reading.

A Girl Called Owl by A.J. Wilson*
At thirteen years old, Owl is desperate to know who her father was. Then she starts to develop amazing frosty magical powers and discovers that the truth is more incredible than she could ever have imagined. Early on in this young adult book, I was ready to roll my eyes - did Owl have to be a bit rubbish at everything except doodling owls? did her guide into the world of magic have to be a hot boy? where was the female empowerment?! - but it all fell into place as the story unfolded. I enjoyed this a lot as an adult and I would have absolutely loved it at twelve or thirteen.

How to Talk So Little Kids Will Listen by Joanna Faber and Julie King*
This should be handed out to parents at their kids' two year health check. So much common sense in one little book: why 2-7 year olds act in the [challenging? uncooperative? rebellious?] ways they do; why the traditional punish, reward and constantly remind approach doesn't work; and what simple measures parents can take to improve things. I've read similar pieces elsewhere but none of them laid things out in quite such a clear, persuasive manner. It also includes specific advice for looking after children with additional support needs. Parents of toddlers: read this now.


*Provided for review

Some Non-Resolutiony Thoughts at the Start of the Year

The first snowdrop of the season (and how I'm feeling about the changing of the year)

And so the holidays are over. The decorations are not just down but are stowed away in the attic; Steve is back to work; and, from next week, the toddler groups strew their primary coloured plastic balls across community centre floors once more.

I'm glad to get back into something resembling a routine. I used to tut at mums (always mums) who complained that life was harder when the dads (always dads) had time off work; I thought it was some sort of outdated nonsense about men not knowing which end of the baby was which. But I kind of get it now.

I would always rather have Steve at home with us. Always. Not just for the times when I get a lie in, but for the times when the three of us run around the garden squealing. Life is better when we're all together.

But... Matilda and I have such a calm, easy morning routine (the "Daddy go-ed to work" discussion over breakfast; a cup of tea behind her back while she watches Bing; heading out the door by half nine) that we can start our day on autopilot; having Steve here throws the schedule into disarray and that results in the cats not being fed on time (sorry, cats), Matilda clutching her outdoor things impatiently while her parents stumble around, flipping coins to see who showers first, and me having to use my brain before lunchtime. It wasn't until the very end of the holidays that any of us seemed to adjust.

Add to that a busy social calendar, more booze than usual and so many dirty dishes that we still haven't cleared the draining board and it's no wonder I was feeling so tired.

So I'm happy to be back to something more closely resembling normality.

Anyway, I blundered into this post planning to talk about toddler growth spurts (I spent Hogmanay hastily washing larger clothes and everything Matilda wears now looks comically oversized), back molar teething (bless Mini Milks and all their sugary coldness) and maybe Humans (oh my goodness!), but instead I've got the new year on my mind (because that's all that's in my Feedly at the moment).

To me, it doesn't feel like anything significant just happened.

I mean, you could argue that nothing significant did just happen. Dates are just a way for humans to organise our lives; shifting from 2016 to 2017 just means that people will spend weeks typing the wrong date and reminiscing about cheque books; blah blah blah.

But we're supposed to place significance on the new year, aren't we? We're supposed to think about all the ways in which we've been rubbish over the past year, spend lots of money on the stationery, gym memberships and diet shakes we deem necessary for changing ourselves, and talk expansively about our goals and resolutions.

And, although I don't really go in for resolutions (because January seems like a particularly masochistic time to inflict perfection upon ourselves; because procrastinating about making a change until a cute date suggests that our hearts aren't really in it; because I worked in marketing long enough to resent being sold a magic bean), I have always spent a little time looking back over the past year and looking forward to the coming one.

And this year I skipped that entirely.

It didn't even occur to me until I started reading what other bloggers had to say on the matter.

But I'm happy with my attitude to life; I'm surrounded by people I care about; I like where and how I live; I don't fancy creating goals for my blog.

I spent the past year parenting, not going out to work and elbowing in time with my friends; this coming year, I expect to do more of the same. There's only so much thought I can put into continuing on as I was.

So the changing of the year, to me, was entirely nothing. And I can't be the only one who felt that way? Is anybody else entering this year not trying to change who they are?



More here: the one resolution we should ALL make (I stand by this); 31 things to do in January which won't make you feel bad about yourself; and that bit when I was still coming to terms with my "stay at home mum" status.

P.S. One thing I have done at the start of this year is switch my photo-a-day blog to private. I didn't want to be worrying about showing Matilda's face or the view from our living room window. It only had about ten readers, anyway, and I expect five of those were robots. So Elise, Emma and whoever the other three were: that's why it's vanished from your reader. I'll come up with some way of sharing my favourite photos here.

Fat.

Why You Shouldn't Call A Toddler Fat

It's that time of year when it seems that all anyone can talk about is weight, calories and diet plans. And, you know: if you'll genuinely feel better for changing your shape, I'm not here to criticise your resolutions (as long as you have a fun one on your list, too).

But I am here to complain about people saying "fat" to my not-quite-two-year-old kid.

To her.

Not in her presence (which I also disagree with, come to think of it; please don't talk about your diet in front of a toddler). But to her.

"Look at your fat little belly!" they coo. "Look at your chubby little legs!"

This is particularly confusing given that my daughter's a beanpole. She's top of the height charts and way down the weight ones; she has a typical toddler tummy but I would describe my child as slim.

But that shouldn't matter. She could be the tubbiest kid in the neighbourhood and I still wouldn't want anyone telling her she was fat.

I know it's not meant as a criticism; people think it's cute that little kids carry rolls of baby weight. And it often is. They get these dimply little arms just before a growth spurt and it can look adorable.

But. BUT. Kids should be pretty much oblivious to their appearance. They might prefer the sparkly tights to the white ones or the yellow boots to the blue, but they shouldn't be giving a second thought to whether or not the person wearing those things is cute.

The thing is, Matilda's at an age when she's starting to classify things. She can tell you that oranges are orange, stars are shiny, trains are fast and cats are soft; she listens when we use adjectives and notices what we apply them to. If people - and we're not talking one or two people of a certain gender or certain generation; we're talking lots of people, a lot of the time - are pointing at her slim body and calling her "fat", she's going to learn that that's how a healthy size should be classified, that anybody who isn't startlingly underweight can be accurately described as "fat".

And if people are constantly telling her she's "fat", she's going to accept that as a fact. Before she knows what "fat" means, she will know that "fat" is a word which applies to her. 

And it won't be long until people start telling her that "fat" is a bad thing.

And she starts looking at her body with disgust.

So please, please, stop telling my beautiful child that she's fat. Tell her that she's strong; tell her that she's determined; tell her that she makes you smile and makes you laugh; tell her that you love spending time with her; tell her that she's beautiful, too - I don't mind. 

But don't teach her the terminology of self-hatred; teach her the confidence she's going to need when she ventures out into the world and comes across other people's impossible ideals.

Tired

Tired: Life With A Toddler

I'm going into 2017 tired.

This wasn't the plan. The plan was for Steve to have two weeks off over Christmas and New Year; we crammed the first week full of social activities and intended to leave the second week blissfully empty. The second week was cancelled when redundancy loomed its insensitive head once more.

So I haven't had the refreshing break I had planned.

And I'm tired.

This parenting lark, it's the best thing I've ever done. It's the funniest and the most fun and it's more rewarding than a 2p per hour pay rise or an empty workplace inbox. I wouldn't change it for a fancy job title or all the platters of meeting room pastries in the world.

But it's tiring.

It's twenty-four hours a day.

It's being woken in the middle of the night, albeit for ten measly minutes, because your child needs you to know that they're still wearing socks. It's getting up at whatever unreasonable hour they decide they're done with nighttime. It's having less wine than you would like in the evening because you can't deal with parenting hungover; missing films because they start twenty minutes before your child falls asleep; racing through your *ahem* couple activities for fear of being interrupted at an inopportune moment.

That's the night shift.

And now the naps have gone. Gone. Replaced by a wobbly, slightly emotional hour or two before bedtime. So there is no lunch break; there is no toilet break; there is no sneaking off for fifteen minutes when the boss isn't looking. It's all day, every day.

And that's fine. I prefer life without naps; I prefer being able to plan activities for the early afternoon and rarely finding myself pushing a buggy round and round the block in the rain because I can't get my toddler to drift off in any other way.

But I'm tired. So tired.

Matilda is a good kid, an easy kid, a calm kid, a happy kid; she's able to play by herself some of the time; she rarely throws strops; she's entertaining to interact with; and I love her more than I could ever have imagined.

But, cheesy pasta, I'm tired.

I'm tired of repeating the phrase, "Just wait a moment until Mummy's finished her cup of tea." I'm tired of reading Peck Peck Peck thirty million times a day instead of any of the hugely enticing books I received for my birthday. I'm tired of not being able to look at my phone without somebody demanding I switch it to Kids Mode. I'm tired of debating whether or not the monkey bars are safe in icy weather (they're not). I'm tired of drawing spiders in every conceivable shade of crayon. I'm tired of Justin Sodding Fletcher.

And, come the evening, I'm tired of the cats wanting their turn of my energy and attention and comfy lap because, if they'd go near the toddler, they could have all the cuddles they wanted and I could have thirty minutes to myself.

And I kind of knew all of this, when I ditched the contraception. And I don't regret it. And I feel so lucky to be in this full-time parenting position.

But I'm tired.

I'm so tired that my mum - thinking nurseries in Aberdeen would be as cheap and flexible as nurseries at her end of the country - offered to pay for Matilda to go to nursery a couple of mornings a week. Only to have to retract her offer when I laughed and showed her some local websites - a minimum of four mornings per week starting at £390 per month? a minimum of two full days per week starting at £500 per month? ho ho no!

So... playgroups? Playgroups being those groups at which children can be deposited and the grown ups can turn tail and leave (as opposed to toddler groups, at which the grown ups must stay and make exhausting amounts of conversation). Matilda is eligible for playgroup from this summer. But the nearest one would involve us spending an hour on the bus getting there, me spending two hours loitering in a strange part of town, trying not to spend any money, and then both of us spending an hour on the bus getting home again. It's not an option which offers me a break, and the city centre creche comes with the same set of problems.

So I'm tired.

Not always.

Sometimes I feel energised.

Sometimes all I need is for Steve to take Matilda to the park without me. Sometimes all I need is one of Matilda's monthly visits to our neighbour (which I feel very lucky to have). Sometimes all I need is my book group or coffee with a friend.

But today, right now, the long, dark days of January are looming and we have nothing in the calendar; I can't find a pilates class at a time or location which works for my family; I can't figure out how I'm going to get to the cinema to see that Emma Stone film; I've run out of creative craft ideas for toddlers; and I can't remember when my daughter last slept through the night.

So today I am tired.

And I'm not sure which new year's resolution I could use to resolve it.

Three New Things I've Done This Week

Trying Something New: Trapeze Class

Swung Around


I did it! I went to the trapeze class! And it was fab! 

I say "trapeze class" for simplicity but it was actually a two hour class divided between static trapeze (so: no chucking partners through the air) and aerial silks (wrapping yourself in fabric, up high). 

I loved, loved, loved the trapeze (which wasn't very high off the ground at all and had a huge crash mat underneath it). A lot of the moves were things I used to do on the swings as a kid (in fact, some of them were things Matilda already does) but, to a grown up who can't do a pull up for longer than a split second and is incapable of any kind of press up no matter how many knees I put on the ground, they all looked very daunting. But then I got up there. AND I DID THEM! And I felt like the most graceful, nimble, Swan-costume-wearing ballerina-esque sprite ever. Amazing.

The aerial silks I wasn't as sold on - they didn't seem to agree with my hips at all - but my friend really enjoyed them; she was doing all kinds of fancy things by the end. I, meanwhile, can confirm that you're unlikely to injure anything other than your pride if you fall off.

I can't justify spending £15 a week on the classes but my friend and I do both plan to go back now and then - we both had a great time, and the instructors did tell me that there are people who just do one activity or the other, should I want to stick to trapeze. For any locals who fancy it, I did the class at Inverted and I highly recommend it.

Drove In


A friend and I went to a drive in showing of Elf at the local football stadium (actually: in the local football stadium car park, but that sounds a bit dodgier, doesn't it?). 

There was a screen at the front of the car park showing the film, the cars were carefully arranged in a fanned out pattern so everybody had a clear view, and we all tuned our radios to a specified frequency to hear the dialogue. It was a bit odd, watching a film with one mate in a car park - it felt more like watching TV than going to the cinema; we were completely disconnected from the rest of the audience - but we got hot chocolate from the tuck shop and worked our way through a huge bag of Celebrations so, all in all, it was a pretty fun way to spend an evening.

Actually, it was the first time I had seen Elf, so I guess this post could have been called "FOUR New Things I've Done This Week". As for never having seen Elf before: I KNOW. What sort of blogger am I?! This is particularly shocking given that Steff loaned me her copy a year ago. I wasn't all that sure if I would enjoy it (sorry, Elf-lovers) but, other than the ickiness of the Will Ferrell/Zooey Deschanel age gap (13 years), I thought it was loads of fun, largely because it made no attempt to be a grown up movie whatsoever.

Toddled to the Theatre


Matilda, my mum and I went to The Lemon Tree to see WHITE, a show aimed at 2-4 year olds.

This wasn't Matilda's first theatre trip - Steve and I took her to a baby show called Duvet Day when she was eleven months old and tottering around looking stunned by everything. But this did feel like a first. This was the first time she went to the theatre and understood the story.

To be honest, I wasn't sure we were going to make it through more than five minutes. We had had a rough night of teething and Matilda seemed to be struggling with being in a strange place surrounded by strange people for mysterious and no doubt strange reasons; she was unusually clingy in the waiting area. 

But then the show started. And she was noisily captivated ("White! Hats! Birds' houses EVERYWHERE!").

The premise was simple (the world is all white; colour starts to appear and that is scary and bad; but, actually, isn't colour rather lovely?; yes, it is!) and the dialogue was all words and phrases Matilda already uses; she seemed to understand the story and, by the end, she was positively beaming. As were my mum and I. It was wonderful. Well worth the five moments of trauma beforehand.