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War and Peace: A Good Night Reflection

Every day is a constant battle.

"Keep still while I'm trying to get you dressed!"

"Don't throw your breakfast on the floor!"

"Hurry up and put your coat on. We've got to go! Now!"

"Don't snatch! Say sorry! Give it back!"

"Eat your fruit! No you can't have another biscuit!"

"Don't stand on the chair!"

"Don't play with the radiator!"

"Keep out of the bin!"

"Don't put that in the loo!"

"I mean it!"

"Keep still! Don't touch it! Stop doing that! Put it down! Now!"

"Finish your supper!"

"Don't splash the water out of the bath! Don't touch the taps! Brush your teeth!"

"Time for bed! Say, 'Good Night'! No more stories! Lie down! Go to sleep!"

"I mean it!"

Peace at last.

The white flag is raised.

That innocent little creature sleeping there looks so harmless. It must be friend not foe.

Why must we be enemies all day? Locked in this constant battle of wills?

If I could have this day again I'd be on your side. I'd laugh and play and join in the fun. I wouldn't lose my temper.

I almost want to wake you up right now so we can enjoy this truce together. Almost...

Good Night little one. Sleep well my love. Get your rest.

For tomorrow the war will rage on.

La La Land

"La, la, la, la", crackles a voice over the baby alarm. My daughter is awake and is performing for an audience of stuffed animals.

I look at the clock - ten past seven. Well, I can't complain at that alarm call. I steel myself to throw back the covers and roll out of bed, plod downstairs, make coffee and warm milk, before tackling the morning nappy.

On the radio a reporter is revealing the Bafta nominations. 11 for La La Land, which made the headlines the previous morning for winning big at the Golden Globes.

The musical about Hollywood from Whiplash's writer/director Damien Chazelle, starring Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone piqued my interest when I first wrote about it being cast back in 2015. But that all seems a world away now.

For ten years I worked as an entertainment journalist. My life revolved around premieres, parties and opening nights. My calendar year was charted out in awards ceremonies and reality TV series launches. I saw at least three films a week, I watched TV shows weeks before they were broadcast and I could pick and choose which musicians I wanted to hear live and what West End shows I wanted to see open.

These days I'm lucky to catch up on an old Netflix show in my pyjamas after I have put my daughter to bed.

But after just over a year away from the red carpet, it still takes me by surprise to be reminded the carousel keeps on turning.

The day I found out I was pregnant I went to a pre-Bafta party. It was sponsored by a gin company and all the drinks on the bar were themed cocktails. I had to ask the barman if I could just have some elderflower cordial, without the gin.

I stood at the side of the room, twiddling an enormous goldfishbowl on a stem filled with ice and elderflower cordial, looking hungrily at the platters of food that went by, piled with seafood and rare meat and unpasteurised cheese.

Nobody knew my secret. But as I watched celebrities arrive and pose for pictures and partygoers take selfies, it was already starting to feel detached from reality.

Now I live in a new kind of La La Land.

I still have to make sure I've done my research, dress for the occasion, avoid certain taboo subjects and handle diva-like tantrums. But as a parent my priorities have changed dramatically.

And when an occasional flashbulb pulls me back from the shadows towards that world, it seems hollow.

I was always on the other side of the velvet rope. But now I am totally blocked off from it, peering over the heads of the crowd on the other side, wondering what all the commotion is about.

The escapism of celebrity gossip doesn't even amuse me. I have seen too much of  the smoke and mirrors from the side of stage to be taken in by it.

Even when I was part of the pack, the real interest for me was the challenge of seeing past the paint and polish, to try and find a glimpse of what truly lay beneath.

Now, in this age where journalism faces so many changes and challenges, where fake news is everywhere and political unrest threatens my child's future, I feel more drawn to writing about real life.

I don't want to escape reality anymore. I want to grab it and stare it in the face. To shine the spotlight on its problems and try to find a solution.

It's hard when you have done something for a decade of your life to stand up and admit, out loud, that you don't think it is important anymore.

But being responsible for another life really puts the hype around awards season into perspective.

That's not to say I am not interested in speaking to Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone.

I'd like to ask father Ryan about sharing parental duties, Emma about the gender pay gap and both of them about how it feels to live in a country that elected Donald Trump as leader.

I'm just not that interested in who they will be wearing to The Oscars this year.

While the spotlight continues to shine on the glitz and glamour that is showbusiness, I make animal noises and play peekaboo.

The show must go on.

Five Kids' Christmas Presents You Wish You Could Give Back

The holidays are over, the decorations have been packed away, the last chocolate coin has been consumed and everyone is plodding back along into their old routine.

Except everything is not quite back to how it was.

Over the last 12 days a number of unsolicited items have been smuggled into your home, wrapped in bright paper and sparkly ribbons. You did not have prior knowledge of what these parcels contained, let alone a chance to grant them your approval.

And now, as the final flurry of wrapping paper has been cleared away, it is beginning to dawn on you that you have been invaded, and it's too late to do anything about it.

Christmas is a time for giving, and that's all very well and good. But there really should be a rule when buying presents for other people's children - you must ask yourself, "Can you go about your daily life with this being played over and over again in the same room as you?" And if you should even hesitate before answering yes, then DO NOT INFLICT IT ON ME VIA MY CHILD!

Here are the top toys heading to a charity shop near me before January is out.

1. The Talking Activity Gadget

On the surface it seems like a great present. A toy that talks to your child so you don't have to.

But why do they all have such irritating, high-pitched voices? Can your little one really be learning anything as they hit the button that makes it warble the alphabet erratically for the twenty seventh time in a row? And why, oh God why, is there no off switch?

Fortunately it uses £50 worth of batteries a fortnight, giving you an excuse never to replace them.

2. The Expensive Collectible

My offspring had been getting through life perfectly happily, blissfully unaware that there was a set of little animals that dress and live like people. That is, people who live in extortionately priced houses with even more ludicrously expensive furniture sold in little sets.

And then someone gave them one for Christmas and now they want to build the whole town.

All their birthday and Christmas and Tooth Fairy money forevermore will be squandered on yet another piece of miniature furniture worth more than any of the full size furnishings in our home.

Until they are introduced to their next fad, and the costly, half-complete collection is left to gather dust with the rest of them.

3. The Christmas-themed Cuddly Toy

As if we didn't already have more stuffed animals than a dodgy fairground attraction, the last thing we needed was another to add to the pile of neglected not-favourites that must bow down before her beloved bunny.

But of all the forgotten cuddly toys, the one with the red Christmas hat stitched to its head is the one I feel most sorry for.

It's almost as though it knew from the outset that its days were numbered.

A favourite teddy is for life, but a Christmas teddy only gets cuddled for a few seconds after the paper has been torn off, before it is quickly cast aside to make way for the next present.

It may get stuffed in the box with all the others, a few chocolatey finger-prints on its white fur indicating that it knew real love for about 30 seconds, but its red and white costume marks it out as the little toy that everyone forgot.

4. The Giant Floor Puzzle

We all had a present like this under our tree. The really big, extravagant one that takes up loads of room and has loads of parts. And requires loads of concentration to play.

It was really exciting when it first got opened. There were exclamations of joy and everyone started joining in and playing together.

But then they got distracted by food or television, or another present and it got left strewn all over the floor.

It gets in the way, it's a nightmare to hoover around, bits soon get lost and it rarely ever gets completed even once.

If it made a noise it would be top of the list.

5. The New Favourite Book

It seemed such an endearing story the first time they settled down on your lap to read it. The flaps were so brand new you had to help rip the perforations in the card to open them, and you were genuinely interested in how it ended.

But since Christmas morning you have read it over, and over, and over, and over again.

They may not be able to read yet, but by golly they can remember every word. And if you try and skip out even half a sentence they'll call you out on it.

"Why don't we read Dear Zoo tonight? You used to love that." But oh no, it has to be that new Christmas book again.

What a shame it seems to have disappeared...

Nursery Whines Is On Holiday

Have a very Happy Christmas.

We'll be back in the New Year.

Pictures courtesy of award-nominated artist Harriet Lloyd

Review Of The Year 2016

It's certainly been a year of change.

What with Brexit and Trump's terrifying take over. The demise of so many great artists including Bowie, Prince and Victoria Wood. Not to mention the crumbling of The Great British Bake Off.

And amongst all this global unrest, Nursery Whines has experienced many changes in our little bubble too.

We moved out of the heart of London to the very outskirts, and went from pushing a pram round art galleries to sitting on mats in church halls with a mug of Nescafé, all in a bid to get out of the house and find some adult company. The latter is much more welcoming.

Town Mouse Moves To Suburbia

In 2016 I found my wardrobe had become a capsule of stripes and leggings.

She'll Be Wearing Striped Pyjamas

And then I embarked on a conscious effort to... make an effort.

Strike A Pose

We began the year making strides with the Baby Bjorn, only for it to go horribly wrong when I took a tumble.

Burden Of Guilt

I'm a pushchair pro now though. I can even steer one-handed and drink coffee at the same time.

Pokepram Go

2016 has seen my daughter move into her own room and learn to sleep through the night.

Frozen

And move back into our bed.

Love Actually: Nauseating But True

I've gone from breastfeeding to weaning.

Six Baby Weaning Foods That Are Messier Than You Might Think

And reclaimed my body. Well, what's left of it.

Bouncing Back

I've found parenting can be lonely.

The Omen

Parenting can be competitive.

Baby Top Trumps

And parenting can be overwhelming.

7 Cult Films I Feel I Have Been Living In Since Becoming A Parent

Keeping a child fed and changed is one thing, but keeping them entertained is where the real challenge lies.

12 Favourite Baby Toys Tried And Tested By An Expert

Dishing The Dirt On Messy Play

And sometimes you will do anything just to get out of the house.

Parklife: An Homage

Over the past year I've come to realise that as well as being a mother I am still me.

Nothing Left To Lose

And I've learned to let go sometimes. Even if my daughter hasn't.

Please Release Me: A Separation Anxiety Parody

Perhaps the second biggest change for me in 2016, after parenthood, was that I started my blog. I have learned a lot about the blogging world - about link-ups and self-promotion and awards and conventions. The pressure to 'go self-hosted' and the burden of blogmin.

I have discovered some wonderful people and some fabulous blogs and they have helped me feel less out of my depth at this crazy new job that is parenting.

So, as one year comes to a close and a new one begins, with my daughter and I heading towards an ominous list of milestones, I am glad that I have the mummy blogger world for support and reassurance.

May 2017 bring you all you reach for.

Love Actually: Nauseating But True

It's 5am and I am sitting in a cold bath surrounded by plastic ducks singing Baa Baa Black Sheep.

I am suddenly overcome by an out of body experience as I find myself looking down at the naked, shivering, bleary-eyed woman with a child between her legs.

How did I end up here?

Rewind seven hours and a strange noise alerted me to the fact my daughter had just vomited up most of her supper in her cot and appeared to have gone back to sleep, lying in the putrid lumps.

That vomiting bug that has been going round had clearly struck.

I scraped chunks of cheesy baked potato and tomato off the blanket lining her cot and stripped it down before lying her on a clean towel.

Ten minutes later it happened again.

Hours later, as I awoke from a doze sitting awkwardly in a chair, my feet freezing, my bladder achingly full, covered in foul-smelling stains, with a hot, sticky little body curled up and snoring into my stiff neck, I thought to myself:

Richard Curtis - you were wrong actually. This is love.

Love is not big, overblown romantic gestures like standing outside someone's front door in the snow holding up signs that say you've (rather creepily) been secretly obsessed with them for ages.

Love is staying awake all night to rub someone's back and hold out your hand to catch their vomit and promise them they will feel better soon.

Love is not dashing to the airport to tell someone you think they're a bit of alright.

Love is managing to keep your temper when that someone wakes up at 5am and decides they are feeling much better and wants to sing Baa Baa Black Sheep and pat your face.

Love is not standing in the pouring rain until your shirt goes see-through while you tell someone you don't want to marry with them.

Love is, when you have got all hosed off and into fresh pyjamas and finally calmed that someone back down and convinced them it is still bedtime, not minding that the only place they want to sleep is lying on top of you with their head pressed into your oesophagus.

Love is not turning up at a press conference to tell some Hollywood star you want them to shack up with you in your zillion pound property in Notting Hill.

Love is cancelling your plans to see your friend before Christmas and staying at home all day because it would not be fair to drag a sick child across London. Even if they have stopped throwing up and they want to play the same annoying game over and over and over again.

All the rest is just romance. Parenting is real life, actually.

Please Release Me: A Separation Anxiety Parody

Separation Anxiety. It really is a bind.

Up until four weeks ago my 13-month-old daughter had become really independent. She was always crawling off without me and would happily stay with total strangers while I popped out of the supermarket queue to dash back for the milk I'd forgotten.

Now I am struggling to leave her with her father for 10 minutes while I jump in the bath.

If I'm in the room with her it's fine - she'll ignore me and get on with playing on her own or with someone else. But if she looks round and realises I've popped to the loo - boom! All hell breaks loose.

So I find myself borrowing the ballad of a famous crooner, Engelbert Humperdinck, as I her sing her this plea to soothe her.

Please release me, let me go
It's not that I don't love you anymore
To waste our lives would be a sin
Do you really want to watch me pee again?

I just have to pop to the loo my dear
And yet you always want me near

I've crossed my legs for far too long

My darling, my pelvic floor is not that strong

Please release me, don't you know -
I'll soon be back to be the one who tells you, 'No!'
Is leaving you with Daddy such a sin?
I just need to hoover and put out the bins

Please release me can't you see
You're missing playtime when you cling to me
Pulling my hair out just brings me pain
So release me and let me live again

I need the loo...
Let me gooooooooooo!

What are your experiences of Separation Anxiety? Please tell me it IS a phase?!

What Is In A Name? Top Baby Names 2016

When I was born, the midwife handed me to my parents - their first born - and said, "It's a girl! What are you going to call her?"

"Counceletta," they replied.

"What?!", exclaimed the midwife. "You can't call a child that! I am not giving you your baby until you change your mind."

This is the tale I have grown up being told and eventually begun to relate myself.

I am sure she was joking. But they did change their minds and I am not called Counceletta.

Only, they did still give me an unusual name.

Whenever I am introduced to people, have to give my name, or hand over identification documents, it is almost always commented on.

I have never had to follow up my name with an initial or precede it with an adjective to distinguish me from the others.

At junior school I was a little bit resentful of my name. I don't remember ever really wanting to be called something else. But I sometimes wished it didn't invite so much attention, unfortunate rhyming attempts and, well, name-calling.

But by the time I was 11 I had learned to fully embrace my name. Although I mostly chose to shorten it, I was no longer embarrassed of it, in any of its forms.

I even went as far as to tell my parents that I had decided our surname was incredibly dull and that the moment I turned 18 I fully intended to change mine to 'Rainbow'. 

I honestly was not as obnoxious a child as that might make me sound. But I hope it serves to illustrate that I was no wallflower.

I was not the star of the school plays, the head girl, the queen bee of the cool kids or the class hotty. But I am relatively confident and outgoing, and I believe I owe part of that to my name.

I suppose it is something I feel I have to live up to.

And so when it came to choosing a name for my daughter, it was important that I pass that challenge on to her.

By contrast, her father hates his name. He thinks it is boring and overused and has bad associations.

It is a name often given to the 'regular guy' in TV adverts, and always pops up in reality shows.

So it was really important for him that we give our child a name that was unique and interesting.

At the same time, we did not want to brand our daughter for life with a name that says, "My parents are pretentious bores and I will pay the price for their attempt to be 'quirky' for the rest of my life."

It is an extremely tightly-run gauntlet between picking a name that makes you stand out from the crowd, yet still holds gravitas.

We chose a traditional Edwardian name that has fallen out of fashion, which we think is pretty, elegant, and just unusual enough to be character-building.

It was to our horror that we realised Edwardian girls' names are having a revival, and so our attempt to be different could easily have backfired. But we have been relieved to see that our daughter's name has been absent from every Top 100 Baby Names list so far. And she has two middle names as back up...

I am not trying to do down the Williams and Kates of this world. Nor the Olivers and Olivias - as the Top Baby Names of 2016 turned out to be.

They have all got just as much chance of turning out to be brilliant and changing the world if they want to, and some of them will.

But having worked hard to be more than just an unusual name, I believe I am giving my daughter a good start in life.

And if she is a wallflower... she will still smell just as sweet.

Seven Skills I Wish My Baby Would Hurry Up And Learn

Fans of the hit TV series Mad Men may remember that when Don Draper's children were young - only about five or six - he had already trained them to mix cocktails. He and Betty would sit on the sofa looking hungover, yet fabulous, and the kids would whip up an Old Fashioned, like it was some kind of game.

Now I'm not saying the only reason I had a child of my own was to become my personal valet. But it certainly seemed to me like a perfectly harmless way of keeping them occupied, whilst also putting them to good use.

We have been so focused on our daughter reaching such minor milestones as walking, and talking, we have been missing the bigger picture.

Here are the tasks I will really be happy to see her capable of.

::Dressing Herself

It's enough effort to put together a reasonably clean and coordinated outfit for myself every day. Then I have to do it all over again for her as well.

Once she's old enough to choose what she wants to wear and put it on herself, she can legitimately go out dressed in a swimming costume, ballet tutu, pyjama-top-she-has-grown-out-of-with-a-hole-in-it, wellies and a tea cosy on her head, and I can just blame her... Rather than admit everything else was in the wash.

::Using The Roundabout

Why does the roundabout have to be her favourite thing at the park? (Well, after the swings, but there's always a queue, isn't there?) And why does it not seem to make her dizzy in the slightest?

I hate braving the merry-go-round with her on my lap. Going round is not merry, it is nauseating.

So the sooner she learns to hold on to that thing on her own, the better.

::Handicrafts

I am not artistically gifted. When I try to do homemade, it just looks shabby and halfhearted. But when children do handicrafts; wonky becomes cute and mistakes are just adorable.

All she needs to do is focus on colouring a bit harder, rather than eating crayons, and I can get her to scribble red and green all over a piece of card, shower it with glitter, then cut it up into gift tag sized pieces and my Christmas wrapping is sorted.

::Making Her Own Breakfast

Oh for the day that I can just leave out a Weetabix in a bowl and some long life milk on the kitchen table before I go to bed. Then come the morning just roll over and enjoy the lie in...

::Being A Public Voice Of Conscience

'Kids say the funniest things', as the saying goes. Not so funny when they're shouting, "Mummy, why are you wearing your pyjamas under your coat?", at the top of their voice in the supermarket. Or, "Mummy, look! That woman is REALLY old!"

But wouldn't it be brilliant if you could train them to publicly shame people who are doing you a disservice?

"Mummy, why doesn't that woman move her buggy so we can fit in the bus? We've been waiting for hours in the rain and there is clearly room for us too?"

"Mummy, look! That man has pushed in front of us in the queue!"

"Mummy, do you think the Pret people will choose you to get a free coffee today?"

::Basic Household Chores

As I stood hunched over in my front garden at the weekend, scraping up rotting dead leaves, suddenly aware that my builder's bum was on full view to the entire street, I couldn't help wondering... At just what age is it appropriate to start offering your offspring the chance to earn pocket money in exchange for doing odd jobs?

Just a bit of light housework - dusting, sweeping, sponging avacado stains out of the carpet.

Is 13 months a bit too young?

Baby Top Trumps

All parents are competitive when it comes to their children. Even those that would like to think of themselves as laid back - deep down they know their child is best and they're just smiling smugly about it on the inside.

Hanging out with other parents, talk naturally tends to revolve around your children. As much as this is about bonding and making relatable conversation, there is often a friendly undertone of one-upmanship. From how early your child learned to sit up/crawl/walk/recite Shakespeare, to their incredibly varied diet and excellent nap regime.

Even bad behaviour gets competitive.

Have a moan about how your child just won't stop trying to climb the furniture, and it is inevitable that you friend's offspring recently scaled a bookcase all the way to the ceiling. If I had a penny for every time I heard the phrase, "Oh, she/he does that too", I would be able to afford to dress my daughter in Bon Point.

So why don't we stop suppressing our inner competitive parent and make things interesting?

Everyone remembers Top Trumps - the data rating card game that is so simple and so versatile.

I'm proposing we play Top Trumps with our children in order to find some fun amongst all the hard work and effort that goes into parenting. And, at the same time, take back the name that has now become synonymous with the brink of disaster, and remember trump can also mean something good. (Or flatulence).

So here is my Baby Top Trump card. What's your winning category?

::Birth

How much of a hard time did the little critter give you on their grand entrance to the world?

I won't go into gory details but I'm scoring a high average for this one, I reckon.

75/100

::Sleep Deprivation

We all know parenting street cred is about how little sleep you have, not how much.

My daughter lets me down on this front, although she is terrible at napping, allowing me almost no time to myself, so I scraped back some points.

30/100

::Mobility

Here comes the science bit. The average age a child walks is between nine and 12 months. Start at 60 and add 10 for every month before nine months that your child learned to walk, or minus 10 for every month after 12. (For crawlers the average is seven to 10 months and sitters it's four to seven months.)

60/100

::Eating Habits

Does your baby just love to eat everything you do, or are you having to prepare separate plates of mush for every meal only to scrape it all off the walls afterwards?

Touch wood, I have a human dustbin on my hands right now, so I'm scoring big for this one.

90/100

::Misbehaviour

Because you need some good, "Such A Little Terror" anecdotes for your repertoire and perfectly behaved children are just boring.

Mine can be pretty naughty, throws terrible tantrums and just loves defying the word no.

80/100

::Cleanliness

The only people who are going to score 100 in this category are those with a child whose nappy has never leaked, who has never covered themselves in food stains and dirt and never had a runny nose in public.

If you have this child - can we do swapsies?

30/100

::Cuteness

Now I'm obviously not suggesting we directly compare our children's looks or loveability. We'd all have a Top Trump on our hands then, wouldn't we?

This category is for rating how good your child is in public, how well they perform their latest tricks in front of an audience and how nicely they play with other children.

80/100

Warning - Feeling Purple

I feel officially old.

This week I turned 35.

If I were to have another baby now I would be deemed a "geriatric pregnancy".

In market research terms I have left the 25-34 category and am now grouped with the 35-54s.

The newly elected President of the United States of America, Donald J Trump, has advised the world's male population that I have reached the age when they should, "check out" of a woman.

I am no longer one of the footloose and fancy-free, bright young things, who can do what they want, when they want. I am one of the sober, stressed-out, squeezed middle, who has responsibilities to consider and duties to carry out.

The other day in the supermarket I found myself standing behind a woman wearing striped knee-high socks, a bright patterned cardigan layered over a clashing patterned dress and a decorative hat. I could tell from behind that she was not a youngster, but when she turned her head I could see she was at least 60.

I was reminded of Jenny Joseph's poem Warning. "When I am an old woman I shall wear purple. With a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me."

I have always loved that poem. But I found myself thinking it won't be long before my daughter will reach an age at which she would be mortified if I took her to school wearing striped knee-high socks.

So I am old. But not old enough to wear purple and spend all my pension on brandy.

I can't have a midlife crisis and buy a motorbike.

I have to eat healthy cereal for breakfast, sitting up straight at the table, so as to set a good example to my daughter.

When I was a child I always wondered why my mother asked for such boring things for her birthday. A dishwasher, a sit-down iron, a Magimix. Why did she always ask for household gadgets and not treats for herself?

But now I realise these presents made her life easier and so they probably did bring her some small joy in that way.

And this year I asked for a Magimix for my birthday, to help me cook better and quicker meals.

Is this growing up? Is this what I have been waiting for all these years?

I spent my teens racing into adulthood and now I wish I had slowed down.

I want to watch breakfast telly in my pyjamas and eat chocolate biscuits in milk for breakfast and paint my toe nails and spend hours on the phone to my friends.

But I have to get up and get my daughter dressed and fed and try and remember to label the toys we play with so that she learns some words other than, "This."

I am one of the Grown Ups now, and I have to put in my years of being the sensible one before I can become a bright old thing.

Then, once I've paid my dues, I can go back to eating toast with butter three inches thick, going to the cinema in the middle of the day and spending all my money on eccentric outfits from charity shops.

But perhaps I ought to practice a little now. So that my daughter isn't too shocked, when I become old and start to wear purple.