For a few weeks now I’ve had a dilemma.   A pram dilemma.  I’ve been wondering how I can get around with a four year old, one year old and impending newborn with only one set of arms and with my sanity intact.  It’s time to look at the complex and varied world which is that of double prams.

I know I’m not the first to cross this minor transport bridge, but I’ve struggled to settle on one that is right for me.  When I had my second child the double pram thing wasn’t really an issue.  My eldest was 2 and heading on for 3 and walked everywhere on reins so no need really for a contraption to put them both in.  I needed a pram which moved around easily, that I could manoeuvre with one hand so opted for a Quinny.  Good when the baby was small.  As she got heavier it became more difficult for me to push around with one hand.  I also found it a real pain when the tyres went flat.  Quinny’s have tyres like a car that need pumping up every time you have used them really otherwise you risk getting a flat and are then stuck with two children and a wonky, virtually unpushable pram.  While I’m also on a quick review of the Quinny the shopping basket underneath is tiny and no where near big enough for my loading needs.  This may be why my tyres popped?  It does however have really comfy seat attachments that can last until about 3 years old, so it grows with your child.

So, what was I going to do this time?  I need a pram for two, that has plenty of room for me to put stuff, and that I can move around easily to keep a check on the 4 year old?  The research began.

I was amazed at just how many different types of double pram there are.  Phil & Teds, iCandy Pear, EasyWalker DUO, Oyster Max???   All manner of combinations of seats where one child is either higher than the other or kind of positioned underneath the other, some facing each other.   This was a big deal.  It was like choosing  a car, so many models and options.

Now, we do already have one of those prams where the smaller child goes behind the older child, and I just didn’t want that for a baby from birth.  I am a paranoid mother.  I like to be able to see my babies so that I can prod and poke them.  So that I can check that they are still fine, and also I just like to stare at them in their snug little blankets.  I don’t get as much joy in pushing a newborn around while looking at the hood of a pram.  They don’t stay little for long so I like as much pram time as I can get especially in those first few months.

That only left a carry cot, toddler seat combo of a pram for me really. One where I can lie the baby flat, see the baby and have my toddler at the side in a seat.  Perfect was my first thought when I saw the one that fit the bill.  HOW MUCH! was my second.

The pram of my dreams

The pram which fitted my remit to a tee was the Bugaboo Donkey.  It is a bloody good pram, but at a thousand pounds and over for what I wanted there was no way I could get one without taking out a small loan.  It has the carry cot and seat, is sturdy, room for shopping, and can convert into a single pram too with a handy storage compartment.  I wanted one.  I became like an obsessed child who wanted ‘that’ toy for Christmas.  All of a sudden I was 13 again and wanting a Mr Frosty only to be told I was too old for one.  It’s fine I thought, I’ll look on eBay I might find one for a couple of hundred pounds.  No chance.  They were still coming in at around 800 quid secondhand, and fair enough.  If I’d have paid the price of a small car for a pram I would want as much cash back as possible.

So I could take out a loan or marry a prince?  My Bugaboo cause wasn’t being helped by the fact that the future King or Queen of England had just been bought a Bugaboo.   Kate Middleton has apparently bought a Bugaboo Cameleon stroller for her new arrival.  They are the ‘in’ thing and people know it.  Gwyneth Paltrow, Elton John, Victoria Beckham and Sienna Miller have all opted for prams from the Dutch company so I was batting well out of my league.  The problem was I couldn’t get the carry cot, toddler seat combo out of my head.  Kylie dreams about men, I dream about funky coloured prams, sums up the place I’m in.

What was I to do?  I spent weeks searching for similar prams, ones that didn’t require the auctioning off of a kidney to buy.  And I found one.  A First Wheels City Twin.  Now, it’s not as compact or as  trendy as the Bugaboo  (which doesn’t bother me in the slightest).  I need a pram to carry children and things, not too act as a status symbol.  It has the same seating features and bigger shopping baskets – bingo!  Secondhand they were in my price range and there seemed to be quite a few of them around.

The answer to my quandary

I became like Chelsea and Kelly Su Crabtree from Psychoville.  The conjoined twins from the Steve Pemberton, Reece Shearsmith comedy who are obsessed with bidding for a stuffed crocodile on ebay.  My fix was the City Twin, I needed one soon, and I needed one within driving distance so I could pick it up.

I found the perfect one about 20 miles away and excitedly asked the seller for a buy it now price.  No joy, she wanted to let it run to auction.  Then then next day a message.  It said,” I’ve changed my mind do you want to come see it”.  Yes, yes I do I want that pram.  But, I replied too late.  Someone else had already got in there and she thought I wasn’t interested.  You pram gazumper!  I genuinely was gutted.  Then there was another, it looked good.  It’s in Leeds.  That’s not too far away I thought only about on hour from us.  I’ll go for it.  My obsession with the City Twin had started to blur my judgement.  I arranged a deal and proudly announced that we were all going to Leeds the next day to get this pram before it went.  With only 4 weeks until our baby arrived I wanted that pram, and didn’t want to miss out again.

My other half said afterwards that he felt there was no way he could object, or even suggest that we wait for one closer to home.  That I was so fixed on this pram in ‘Leeds’ that he didn’t dare say it wasn’t a good idea.  That isn’t like him, he speaks his mind and is not afraid to do so.   My obstinacy had reached a new level.

So off we went in the heat with a 1 and 4 year old to Leeds for the golden chalice of all prams.  Bugaboo who – I don’t need you.  (Although I still can’t hide my love for the Bugaboo).  On arrival it looked good, but wait there was a slight scuff on the carry cot. That wasn’t in the picture.  This was not in my pram plan.  I hadn’t just nipped around the corner to Tesco, we’d driven all the way to bloody Leeds in 20 degree heat with two small children.  I was examining the goods on a random woman’s front lawn and I wanted it to be perfect.  That’s ok said my other half we can sort that.  Everything else was fine, and we got the pram.  I guess after all that hassle, weeks of searching and the journey I was never going to say I didn’t want it.

My other half polished up the frame of the pram, pumped up the tyres (yes those inflatable ones again), and got our pram gleaming for our new arrival.  Prince William doesn’t have to do this, neither does he have to drive to Leeds.  Then as we sat in our front room something dawned on me.  I turned to my more rational half and  said, “I’ve just realised this pram is so wide it won’t fit through our front door.  It won’t fit through any of our doors, in fact it may not fit through some shop doors.  What am I going to do?”

“I know,” he said matter-of-factly, ” did you not think about this before you bought it?”  No, no I really, really hadn’t.  I thought about carry cots and seats and shopping baskets and donkeys and …… no!   “Why did you think she had it out in her front garden waiting for you,” he said.  ”I thought she was just being nice and it was sunny.”  Oh crap.  At this point many of you will think I am very stupid, and I will be the first to admit that common sense is not among my top qualities.  A Frank Spencer ability to stumble through life is.

I still love my City Wheels.  It has all the things I want and is surprisingly easy to push around.  I’m sure I’ll find a way around it’s size which doesn’t involve widening the doors of the house.  I’ll have to put the children in the pram outside, go into shops with big doors, and just run over anyone who won’t move off the pavement.  I’ll have to apply the same stubborn, determined will which got the pram to use the pram.  Either that or upgrade to a palace?

(First published June 2013)

It was a Friday, it was a small thing that triggered it, a thing that in retrospect was really not worth all the upset and the hassle.

The day I just couldn’t handle the testing of our four year old combined with the constant crying of a one year old and pregnancy hormones.  Too often mums and dads pretend parenthood is a breeze.  When asked how things are we say, “Fine”.  In reality, on a daily basis it can be extremely challenging especially to the rational logic of an adult.  Fine is the polyfiller of words, glosses over the cracks which you don’t want others to see.

My eldest is going through a phase at the moment of simply not listening at all.  She hears, but she can often ignore what is being said if it doesn’t appeal to her.  All children do this I’m told.  That means I would have done it, you would have done it, our angelic little cherubs will do it.  These words of wisdom do not help me deal with the fact that I am repeating myself day in, day out like a hot curry after a night out.

If any of you are old enough to remember the Charlie Brown cartoons I feel like an adult from one of those.  Charlie Brown, his friends and his dog Snoopy could all understand each other fine.  Whenever an adult spoke in the show the noise they heard was something like this,” wha wha wha wha wha wha”.  All the cartoon children would look at the cartoon adult puzzled, and just carry on regardless not having heard or cared what was being said to them.  This is how I feel, I’m being Charlie Browned every day.

It goes over their heads

My one year old is a screamer.  I haven’t had this before.  She can talk well already, but if things aren’t coming quick enough or how she likes them then she screams, and she doesn’t stop.   A stern, “ah ah,” which means no in our house just results in short, bursts of a pulsating scream.  She is not deterred at all.

So I’d had a full on morning of this, combined with severe tiredness, and raging pregnancy hormones.  I decided to put the children in the bath.  A change of room, scene, and environment may change their attitudes.  It all seemed to be going fine until ‘bathgate’.

I’d asked my eldest to try not to splash too much.  There is an adult, logical reason for this.  Some of the stick on tile things on the bathroom floor are coming away and I don’t want them to get too wet and come up even more.   I lift the baby out of the bath.  Dry her, dress her, and put her in her car seat with a bottle hoping she may drift off to sleep while I’m getting my little girl out of the bath.  Then I see it.

As I come through the bathroom door I see her tipping a full bucket of water out onto the floor.  Not accidentally splashing, but purposefully pouring loads of it everywhere. She looks at me, continues, and gives me a defiant smile knowing that what she is doing is not what I want,  Boom!  A small volcano erupted inside me, rose up through my chest and bursted out of my mouth.  ”What are you doing, no!”

Of course we all know what she was doing.  She was doing what I guess all children do.  Testing the water – literally.  Testing it to see what will happen if she defies the rules of the adult world.   It’s the Pandora’s Box syndrome….don’t open it, don’t open it – oh too late, disease, sickness and bad things have now flown out into the world – there they go.

I told my little girl off, but inside I was so upset that I’d been completely ignored again.  This is when I lost my ability to function like the adult of the house. “ Right out the bath now,” I said, “stand up”.  Then I swiftly realised I hadn’t washed her hair.  “No, erm sit down again I’ll wash your hair”. “ Right now out the bath”.  Then from the other room….scream, cry, scream.

This all resulted in mummy meltdown.  After drying my girl, taking them both downstairs and putting them in the front room in front of the tv I went into the kitchen and cried.  I knew it was pathetic.  I was crying over a four year old being a bit mischievous and pouring water on the floor.  But really I was crying at the lack of control I’d had all day.  I was crying because I was knackered, I was crying because none of my usual techniques of restoring order were working. I was crying because my pregnancy can sometimes take its toll.   I was crying because I just wanted all the mayhem to stop for a few minutes so I could just be me.

At this point my other half who’d been outside came in hearing all the commotion.  Luckily, he gets it.  He understands how frustrating it can be when you are being Charlie Browned and screamed at, and so he sent me to bed, abandoned his planned bike ride, and took over looking after the kids.

After I while of crying about the water, I realised how stupid it was.  If I’d have kept my cool I wouldn’t be so upset, and a calmer reaction with less attention probably would have sent a signal that the water tipping was a pointless exercise.  But when a mummy meltdown hits these rational thoughts are lost.

Thankfully, I’ve only had one of these big mummy meltdowns in a year and a half of managing two kids, so I think that’s ok.  I’ve been on the brink, and had less dramatic episodes, but only one like that day.

Maybe it is just me who is rubbish at being a parent. Maybe I’m not calm enough, open minded enough, and experienced enough.  Maybe I’m a ratty cow.  But if you find yourself in the middle of a mummy or daddy meltdown, try to remember that in the end it’s not worth it.

One day these little cherubs will be 16 and sitting their exams.  21 and going out on a date.  30 and getting married, and maybe having children of their own.  Is a bit of water on the bathroom floor really going to hurt anyone or shape how they turn out as adults?  I doubt it.  Is it going to affect these precious milestones in their life?  No.  Are they going to remember the meltdown?  No, not if they are infrequent.  Are you going to get stressed by it and remember it – yes.

So here is the advice that I am telling myself.  Try to stay calm and keep perspective on what is happening, what is important.  Try to discipline the children without getting too cross or too complex.  And if they do have children of their own when they grow up you can impart the advice that you’ve lived through, “don’t worry they all do that”.

(First published May 2013)

My two little girls have both had their share of baby tummy troubles which has not made sleep a straight forward process.  There have been hurdles in our way – colic, lactose sensitivity, reflux, wind.  That said I will also openly admit this.  Me and the other half are crap at routine.  We are rubbish at having a bedtime plan or even a bedtime, so it’s no wonder our children don’t count sheep for 12 hours a night from week six.

Tonight with baby number two at six months old and on a milk type which for the moment suits her, I have decided to bring her up to bed and try to get her to fall asleep in her cot, on her own.  “So what,” I hear you say.  This is indeed so what for us.  We normally let her fall asleep with one of us downstairs while the other is waiting till child number one is in slumber and then transfer the baby into her cot.  Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.  Again honesty prevails, most of the time it doesn’t.  She curls up like a woodlouse when she’s put down wondering where her mummy shaped hot water bottle has gone.   She automatically uncurls again when picked up.

So tonight at seven pm I went upstairs to our bedroom where baby’s cot is, armed with lovely warm milk and a lullaby singing dog which has a loop of songs lasting ten minutes.  This should work.  Baby is tired, rubbing her eyes and showing all the signs of entering the land of nod.  So why two hours later was that not the case?

Sleeping like a … baby

It took an hour for her to start drinking her milk properly tonight.  She was just pushing it around a bit, stretching, and sighing.  But every time I tried to move the bottle away thinking she wasn’t bothered the ninja hand of milk preservation would grab mine.  The tiny, but extremely razor like nails of the ninja hand would dig into my flesh only loosening their hold when the bottle went back into her mouth.  All along the ninja child showed no emotion on her plump, angelic face.  But the hand, the hand was poised.

After most of the bottle had gone our baby was very comfy indeed and sleeping.  “Fantastic,” I thought.  This should be simple.  A short transfer into the cot at the side of me and that will be baby settled until her next feed around midnight.  Just at the crucial point of transfer, child number one and her dad came upstairs declaring it’s time for bed.  Woodlouse.  Great.  That is one hour wasted and baby is now curled up in her cot laughing at me and rolling over.

She isn’t crying or upset, in fact she wants to play and so is using all her vocabulary to get me to interact.  “Hiya, hiya, hiiiiyaaaa, Da da, hiiiiyyya,”.  So I decide to ignore her and see if she’ll just miraculously be overwhelmed by tiredness and go to sleep.  Will she heck.  After a while of this, I peer over the cot to see she is hiding under the blanket trying to bite the inside of it, as she is teething like mad.  This is not helping my cause. As I pull the blankets away she tries to give my hands a gummy bite and when I tuck the blanket in out of reach she attempts the woodlouse again.  Bloody hell.

What next then?  Milk – failed.  Singing dog – failed.  Leaving her to fall asleep alone – failed.  Picking her up to settle her down – fail – she’s gnawing my collarbone.  So my next move is to feed her in the cot while propped up on pillows to stop her searching for something to bite.  It’s working.  Her body is relaxing, she’s drinking and making those sleepy sounds babies do just before they’re about to let go of their bottle.  I can probably take the bottle out now then and edge away a bit so I can move my arm from the awkward position it’s in feeding her over the cot bars.  Slowly, slowly I pull the bottle out….no….the ninja hand is waving around for something to grab like Bruce Lee on a fighting spree.  Shove the bottle back in and wait.  It doesn’t matter that my arm is numb and I’m losing feeling in my fingers just keep the bloody bottle still!  The ninja hand with its fingers splayed open stops and silently falls down to the blankets in slow motion.

Five minutes or so later, and her mouth is relaxed.  The Maggie Simpson style sucking has stopped and I as I start to pull the bottle away from my baby she decides to let go with a big pop and stays asleep.  It’s done.  I slowly move the bottle away, careful not to drop it or make a sound, then……move away from the child…..move away from the child.  Quickly, before baby radar kicks in escape so she doesn’t realise she’s fallen asleep and given up the control.

She is finally settled.  If anyone comes in now and wakes her up after all that effort I’ll set her on them with her ninja hand and her gums!

(First published May 2012 – updated may 2013)

Well I can say we had a truly lovely Easter with our little girls.  They were happy with the few eggs and chocolate bunnies we bought them, spiced up by the excitement of my other half knocking on the door pretending to be the Easter Bunny.  Our four year old ran to the door, opened it and brought in two baskets containing their chocolate treats.  ”Aw, he’s gone again!” she said as she looked down the street.  He is fast that Easter Bunny.  I tell her that he hops down the road leaving eggs for all the children, like a rabbit game of knock and run.  I have no idea where our little family tradition has spawned from as it isn’t something our parents did that I’m aware of, but it has stuck with us. 

Now here is where lesson one comes in, and these lessons are in no logical order.  I can’t draw rabbits.  I got home from work quite late on Saturday night, about 11pm.  My four year old had missed me and was sad, so my fiance left her sleeping in our bed so she could have snuggles with me when I got in.  This was fine, until the one year old woke up and wouldn’t go back in her cot, he got in bed, and my little baby inside started to kick very hard.  I was half hanging off the edge of the bed.  One child booting me inside, one trying to lie across my neck, and one trying to cling onto my arm. Couldn’t be done, I was shattered and so went into the toddler bed.  I’d been too tired to lay out the eggs, and leave messages from the Easter Bunny when I got home, so thought that when I heard them wake up I’ll run down and do it quickly.

Blurry eyed the next day I heard the baby wake up, then our little girl, and then my other half trying to keep them contained in the bedroom so I could carry out my mission.  I laid out the eggs fine, put some treats in their baskets to place outside the front door from the fictional rabbit, but stumbled on the Easter Bunny messages.

The ‘cat’ rabbit

Lesson One.  I just couldn’t draw one without it looking like the menacing rabbit from Donnie Darko or a cat.  Time was running out.  I did a hasty practice and still, the rabbit looked scary and slightly demented, not cute and caring.  This is embarrassing as I studied art at foundation level with a view to doing a fine art degree before switching to studying journalism.  Obviously the right choice.  It would have to do.  

It all passed off fine, eggs seen, door knock heard, more treats collected from the front step.  My four year old looked at her message and said, “Mummy look, hasn’t the Easter Bunny drawn a funny…..,” I waited to hear the criticism of my art work, “……letter o in my name?”  Phew.  

                                 The ‘Darko’ rabbit

Lesson Two.  When you see the eggs, buy the eggs.  My area seems to have had a shortage of them this year.  I saw a good deal on eggs a week and a bit before Easter, but was with my girl at the time so didn’t want to buy time.  We were going away for a few days, but back on the Thursday before Easter.   Plenty of time I thought – wrong.  When we came back, all of the ‘good deal’ eggs had gone.  I went to another big supermarket – gone.  All that was left were the eight pound a time eggs, or dark chocolate ones with truffles.  No good when you have to buy for eleven kids.  The next two days I was working so thought I’ll find some on the way to or from work – wrong.  The car wouldn’t start both mornings leaving me with a long train and tram journey into work and dependent on lifts home from work.  Luckily a shop near to the office had some left and their ‘good deal’ eggs had kicked in.  Saved.

Lesson Three.  Pinatas are though.  We went to my other half’s parents to see his family and exchange eggs.  We had a lovely time letting the children play, catching up, and tucking into a buffet lunch which included his Mum’s homemade cheese and onion pie.  I love her cheese and onion pie!  She also made sandwiches with one of my current cravings on too, egg mayonaise.  You can re-arrange these words to work out how I felt – pig, a, happy, mud, as in. Then we moved onto my sister’s house, where we had a lamb dinner, again the kids played, and we exchanged eggs.  This year she did a little Easter egg hunt and bought a pinata.  We hung it from the balcony with my scarf, blind folded the children and improvised using a mop to hit it with.  The only snag, it would not break.  Each child took a turn hitting the blue ball with the mop, and hitting it quite hard I might add.  

My sis and daughter before the mop snapped

My 16 year old niece attacked it so much she snapped the metal mop in two.  Still no breakage.  The little uns were getting a bit weary, I had taken about 20 photos to get ‘ the shot’ of sweets spilling out and joyous children running to collect them, half an hour had passed.  ”Give it here,” I said reaching for the mop, “this is taking too long now”.  Even a hormone filled, pregnant woman couldn’t do it.  Ready for another round of pinata bashing, it  was then my sister who joking around decided to give it a kung fu kick and shattered the rock hard paper ball while none of us where watching.  ”Oooo,” she said, “I didn’t think it would do that.” Next year, we’ll use the baseball bat instead, or threaten it with the Donnie Darko rabbit.