Strike A Pose

It's London Fashion Week again and I couldn't feel more on the wrong side of the velvet rope if I tried.

Last time Kimye, Anna Wintour et al rolled into town I was imprisoned in a uniform of striped nursing wear.

Now, seven months on, my solid-munching daughter has dropped her lunchtime feed, and yet I seem unable to break free.

I went to a friend's birthday party at the weekend. She had a seven-week-old baby but had refused to let it steal her style - choosing to wear a glamorous dress with a sweeping floral cape at the front.

When it was time to breastfeed her daughter she excused herself, confessing she was going to have to go and strip off in the other room in order to access her mammary glands.

I, on the other hand, was wearing a red t-shirt dress with flaps at the front, in order that my 11-month-old daughter could dive in and help herself whenever she fancied it. And she wouldn't even need feeding until bedtime.

Somewhere during pregnancy I lost my style. And I still haven't got it back.

I don't mean that I was ever a particularly stylish or fashionista type of dresser. But I had clothes I liked and I wore them because they made me feel confident and I felt they expressed a bit of my personality.

But as the bump grew larger I began wearing bigger and bigger shapeless tents, before eventually abandoning dresses altogether, in favour of smocks and maternity leggings.

And that was it. The leggings enveloped me and I have been trapped ever since.

Leggings and stripy t-shirts with flaps in, leggings and oversize shirts, leggings and smocks.

Summer has seen me dig out a few dresses, but only ones that have easy-to-tear-open buttons at the front and are light enough to wear a vest underneath.

And since they end up covered in food and snot and I-don't-even-want-to-think-about-what-else, it seemed a waste of time to wear anything I actually like.

But as I stood there at the party in my wrong-kind-of-flapper-girl dress, I thought to myself, "I don't have to conform to the mother uniform anymore!"

I'll admit, it's a hell of a lot easier to wake up and pull on leggings every day. And some mornings I just don't have time to think about what would look good.

But still, I take the time to make sure my daughter's outfits are reasonably coordinated and attractive. So why not me?

I'm not saying I'm going to be Frow-ready every day. If you see me at the checkout in Lidl and I'm still wearing leggings, don't judge me.

But perhaps I'll dig out a nice dress next time I have somewhere to go.

If I'm going to end up covered in food and snot, then I might as well do it in style.

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

::Freaky Friday

1976, starring Jodie Foster and Barbara Harris and remade in 2003 with Jamie Lee Curtis and Lindsay Lohan. Teenage daughter and mother wake up to find they have swapped bodies and after a day in each other's shoes learn to understand each other.

One night I went to bed a wreckless young person with no responsibilities and my whole life ahead of me.

Next thing I knew I woke up and I have a child to look after and a house to clean and the weight of the world on my shoulders.

I feel like I have been thrown in at the deep end with no proper training or preparation and I'm having to make it all up as I go along in a desperate bid for survival.

Except there is no youthful body for me to swap back into, even if I could work out what magic spell would get me there. And all I really want is my mummy.

::Three Men And A Baby

1987, starring Tom Selleck, Steve Guetenberg and Ted Danson. Three carefree, successful flatmates find a baby left on their doorstep. Hilarity and chaos ensues as they attempt to get to grips with caring for an infant but can't help growing to love her.

I don't share their hairy chests or incredible Manhattan real estate, but so many times in the last year I have felt just like Tom, Steve and Ted. Whether it's getting pee-ed on, watching helplessly as my home is invaded by baby equipment, reading gruesome news reports from the paper in a cooing voice in an attempt to sooth, nodding off as she feeds or just generally feeling like this is really hard work that I wasn't in the least bit prepared for.

If only they popped round every now and again to sing her to sleep, Barbershop style.

::Baby Boom

1987, starring Diane Keaton. High-powered New York business woman is left orphaned baby by distant relative. She is forced to move to the country to start a new life, launches her own baby food brand and realises she wants more from life than a corner office.

If you have seen this movie you may remember a scene where Diane Keaton just can't take life as a lonely, exhausted mother and homeowner in the sticks any more and loses it - shrieking, crying, tearing her hair out and passing out, flat on her back, cartoon style. This replays in my head on a daily basis.

I don't want a corner office, I don't want to be asked out by a handsome and charming vet, but I do want to find a successful business venture to channel my creativity into and give me a sense of purpose in life. And I would quite like to have a mini-breakdown, just once, and let it all out.

::The Sound Of Music

1965 starring Julie Andrews. A young nun struggling to fit in at the convent is sent to try a new vocation as a nanny to seven children. She finds that pretty difficult too but attempts to make life fun with lots of games and singing. And then she ends up marrying their father and they all escape from the Nazis.

I like to sing and I seem to spend all day serenading my baby. But I'm certainly no Mary Poppins, as I am not Practically Perfect in any way and I don't have any magic tricks up my sleeve. So Dame Julie's other childcare film seems to resonate a lot more.

I do enjoy going swimming and to Messy Play with my daughter and generally joining in with her games. I'd love to be able to yodel and sew clothes out of curtains and dance around fountains.

And when I look into her big wide eyes and see that she loves me back, I do think, somewhere in her youth and childhood, I must be doing something good.

::Home Alone

1990, starring Macaulay Culkin. An eight-year-old boy is left behind when his family go on holiday for Christmas and at first he is delighted, but then he starts to miss his family. Meanwhile, two burglars are targeting the neighbourhood so he must defend his home.

At first it was great having the house to myself. I could stay in my pyjamas all day if I fancied, watch what I wanted on Netflix and eat junk food. That quickly got boring and I all I want is some company and a cuddle. 

But if Kevin McCallister taught me anything, it is to man-up, do the laundry, tidy the house and get a nutritious meal on the table.

And instead of a bad guy with missing teeth trying to invade my home, I have a bad baby with growing teeth trying to destroy it from the inside who I must fend off... without the bricks and kerosene.

::Gremlins

1984, starring Zach Galligan and Phoebe Cates. A boy is given a cute little furry creature as a pet, but after not sticking to its strict care regime it turns into a terrifying, uncontrollable monster.

I signed up to take care of an adorable and helpless little creature with big, blinking eyes and a sweet little mewl, who was so cute and cuddly.

Now I have a torturous, screeching, fanged monster on my hands who I can't control.

::Dirty Dancing

1987, starring Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey. Coming of age romance with some smooth moves, a fantastic soundtrack and some unforgettable lines.

Because, "Nobody puts Baby in the corner." As if she'd ever let me forget it!

Don't Fence Me In

"NO!", I shout for what feels like the hundredth time in the last five minutes.

My daughter has veered away from the oven door, which she had been intent on trying to press her face up against as she admired her own reflection. But she is now charging straight towards the bin with the speed and look of lust of Usain Bolt heading towards a scantily-clad model.

She stops for a moment in surprise, she clearly thought she hadn't been rumbled, and then a cheeky grin creeps across her face as she begins waggling her finger at me and shaking her head.

Her, "No, no, no", gesture is just a meaningless taunt however, as she promptly continues towards the kitchen bin and attempts to dive into it.

Since she became mobile I am fighting a running battle to keep her out of harm's way. And I am losing.

I have not yet got round to properly 'Baby-Proofing' my home. But I am starting to wonder if there is any point. What does 'Baby-Proof' really mean?

I see danger everywhere. Obviously, I can cover the plug sockets to stop her electrocuting herself and fit a stair-gate to stop her plunging headfirst to the bottom.

But how do I stop her slipping and smashing her teeth on the stone floor of the kitchen, or climbing into the washing machine and setting it to spin?

And the trouble is she is able to find danger where I never even imagined it could be.

I thought I had come up with a solution - prison.

The Royale Converta 3-in-1 Play-Pen Gate is basically six stair-gates joined together, and can either form a cage or be attached to walls to trap your baby behind bars, whilst, hopefully, keeping danger out.

But she has realised the restriction of life on the inside and has started throwing horrendous tantrums whenever she is sent to jail, and her anything-but-silent protests are more than I can bear for more than a few minutes.

So I let her roam around behind me while I try to make her meals, turning my head as often as I can without slicing off my fingers or searing my palms, to check what home hazards she has identified next.

If I am lucky she will just have just found the bottle of hand sanitiser I had forgotten was even in my handbag, and hasn't worked out how to get the lid open.

She seems to have relented tugging on the tablecloth that I have pinned in place with bulldog clips, but I'm sure she won't have given up for good.

The radiators hold a particular allure for her, with knobs to twiddle, pipes to bash and casing to try and prise open. But while they are currently relatively harmless, they will soon be potential burn inflictors and so I have tried to convince her that they are out of bounds.

After I chased her away from the oven and the bin, she crawled up to the radiator, stopped and waggled her, "No, no, no", finger at it.

I may have won the battle, but I fear this war has only just begun.

Dishing The Dirt On Messy Play

Messy Play is one of those things that you could not even have fathomed before you become a parent.

We first heard about one at our local library when my daughter was only about six weeks old and still sleeping through most of the singing and play sessions I lugged her along to. But even then I thought to myself, "I can't wait until she is old enough to go to that!"

The idea of Messy Play is that you do things with your kids that you would never dream of doing at home.

This can be because you don't have the space or the resources. But the main reason you don't do it at home is because it would take the rest of the week to clear up afterwards - and there would be bound to be stains and remains that never truly went away.

We've been to our share of Messy Plays in children's centres and libraries now.

And the truth is, the majority of them have been a little disappointing. Well, for me, anyway.

That first time I heard tell of Messy Play, I envisioned an entire room taped with bin liners, floor to ceiling, with buckets of paint everywhere, slippy slides dripping with cooked spaghetti and paddling pools full of jelly, where children - also wearing bin liners in my filthy fantasy - sloshed and splashed and slid about and had to be hosed down afterwards.

The reality is pretty much the same set up as a regular play session, but with a bit of paint or play dough on a table (Come one, that's just craft), a water table with some bubbles in and a few bath toys, and maybe a token tray of Rice Krispies with some spoons and cups.

The children still have fun of course, and just being able to paint some handprints and splash some water and not get it all over your living room is a lot to be grateful for.

But the staff hover uneasily over you with a broom and a roll of paper towel, and a pained look in their eyes that says, "I have to clean all this up after you've all gone home." And it all just feels a bit half-hearted.

Then the amazing Andrea moved to our local children's centre and it was like we had struck oil.

She filled paddling pools with cooked spaghetti and sandpits with flour and coloured water and actively encouraged the children to get in and roll around.

She added glitter and shaving foam to the water table and she covered another with cottonwool balls and paint.

Watching the children splashing about in the cottonwool goop she commented, "I really wanted to get them to throw it at the wall, but I don't think the janitor would ever forgive me."

I am sure this is some parents idea of a nightmare.

At bath time when we got home I found the folds of my daughter's skirt were stuck together with a wodge of purple dough, and there was glitter in her nappy.

Last week it was particularly hot and we arrived at Messy Play to be told by Andrea, "There are beans outside."

For a second a tray of dry beans popped into my head, but almost instantly I knew what she meant.

"Shall we just get naked?" I asked, as I rubbed suncream into my daughters arms.

A minute later she was wallowing gloriously in a bath of baked beans, wearing nothing but a sun hat and a nappy.

Nearby one of her little friends was rolling around in a pool of baby oil and blue paint.

As wholly inappropriate as it may be, I couldn't help the tune of Christina Aguilera's Dirrty coming into my head - the perfect soundtrack as I watched my daughter writhe around in baked beans, blue paint flecked across her face.

Andrea quickly added warm water to her rubber duck pool and put out piles of towels, helping to wrap up the oiled-up, blue babies before they slipped through their mother's arms.

We always think carefully about what not to wear when we know we are going to Messy Play now. I just need to start packing my own change of clothes as well....

This post is dedicated to Andrea, the dirtiest person we know.

Olympics 2016: Alternative Medals For Parents

I must confess, I tire of Olympics coverage pretty quickly.

Okay, so Laura Trott can cycle really fast, Simone Biles can smile and do backflips at the same time and Usain Bolt is apparently, 'immortal'.

But these sports men and women have been training for years. They devote their lives to crossing that finishing line first, clinching that medal and title for themselves and basking in the glory.

I'm by no means saying what they do is easy, but I object to them being called heroes.

True heroes, in my eyes, devote their lives to improving other people's. They are doctors and nurses, firefighters, teachers and humanitarian aid workers. Where are their medals?

Anyway, before I get stuck on my high horse, let me climb back down to my usual base level.

If pushing yourself to your physical and mental limit, devoting every moment of your time to achieving your goal and trying to be the best in the world at something deserves a medal, then there needs to be a Parenting Olympics.

Here are some categories I am ready to compete in. But never mind a medal, I'll be happy with just being recognised for taking part.

Baby weightlifting

My back is done in and my biceps more bulging than a very wet nappy. Carrying a small child takes its toll, and lowering a sleeping one into bed is an art form.

Long distance buggy pushing

Pounding up and down hill, navigating busy pavements and bumpy paths and weaving around supermarket aisles - an elite buggy pusher must train hard to be in peak physical fitness and hone their control and steering skills to be the best on the track.

Nappy changing gymnastics

It may be the baby who does all the backflips and lunges during this sport, but chasing after a child with a dirty nappy hanging half off or trying to finish fastening a fresh one onto a disappearing charge require some pretty deft moves yourself.

Household chore rugby

Whether it's trying to tidy up the sitting room with a wriggling tot on your hip or attempting to fix your own lunch with a suckling baby balanced on your breast, you need the agility of a rugby fly half and the strength of an entire scrum.

Toy hurdling

The supermarket delivery man is knocking and you have to answer before he stuffs his, 'Sorry we missed you', slip through the letterbox and races off to his next slot. But there are a pile of building blocks, numerous That's Not My... books, a stuffed lion and a baby walker between you and the front door. Can you vault them all and make it the finish line without a fall?

Baby dressage

Some may question whether this is actually a sport, but grooming your baby, dressing them up and then demonstrating their dexterity and obedience in front of a critical audience - we are all going for gold every day.

12 Favourite Baby Toys Tried And Tested By An Expert

This week I took a big bag of toys to the charity shop. They were all items that we had been given second hand that made annoying noises - some of which didn't even have an off switch - and if my daughter had ever given them a second glance, she had lost interest pretty fast. Something tells me those particular toys will never have a home for life.

A study in 2010 found the average child owned 238 toys but only played with a core favourite 12 on a daily basis.

This led me to ponder my ten-month-old daughter's favourite toys.

So here they are, in no particular order (her preferences vary anyway). Tried and tested by an expert - if you count a baby as an authority on what they like to play with.

1. My hair

Easily accessible, portable, good to chew on and great fun to yank and maul into a bird's nest. She never seems to lose interest in my hair. Except occasionally when she moves on to trying to poke at my eyeballs.

2. Glasses

Those on people's faces, but also sunglasses that have been left unattended and just out of reach. She relishes the challenge of getting hold of them and can then find opening the arms and trying to snap them off fascinating for ages. She has a toy pair of giant red glasses, but for some reason they don't hold the same appeal.

3. A plastic bottle

Her first significant crawl was made across the floor in pursuit of my water bottle. Give her a room full of toys and she will almost always head straight for the bottle. The ridged lids apparently give her more comfort than any of her teething toys.

4. The doorstop

The filthy, old, wooden doorstop that was wedging open our kitchen door when we moved in. No amount of scrubbing it with antibacterial wash will ever get it looking truly clean, and yet she'd rather put that in her mouth then any of the other toys I set out on the floor in a bid to tempt her. Time to buy a new doorstop...

5. My handbag

Whether it's just a yank on the strap or a full root through and unpack, my handbag is a bottomless pit of entertainment as far as she is concerned. Except for the toys in it - they are always the first things to be cast aside as she dives in for a pen or my wallet.

6. The bath plug

It doesn't matter how full the bath is of bright plastic ducks and buckets and bubbles, the plug is always there glistening at the bottom, drawing her towards it.

7. The Sudocream tub

You haven't lived until you've played Sudo Bongos.

8. The Lidl special offers leaflet

She loves to read, any book or paper will do. But the Lidl leaflet offers a special source of intrigue. She likes to peruse it slowly and in detail, perhaps planning next week's shop? Before shredding it up into a million pieces.

9. Mobile phone or tablet

Not to watch videos of Peppa Pig but just to gaze at, grab hold of and drool on. It is her biggest contender for our attention and so she is understandably enthralled.

10. A packet of wet wipes

She hates having her face wiped and will whine as soon as she sees me reach for the packet. But in her own hands it's another matter. It comes in as a handy distraction technique for stopping her grabbing my hair or rolling away while she has her nappy changed.

11. Socks

The answer to that age old question of, 'Why is there always an odd sock in the laundry basket?', is so obvious. My daughter threw one off somewhere between the bus stop and our front door.

12. Stones

No stone is too big, too small, too dirty or too far away. What at first seems a great free and readily available way of keeping her occupied as she rakes them up, throws them, piles them or rolls them, always backfires when she eventually puts one in her mouth. And the more she is told, 'No', the more tasty they become.

What is your child's favourite thing to play with?

The Crawling Dead

If this was a zombie movie my daughter and I would not make it to the end.

We would be the supporting characters who get bumped off halfway through - barricaded out of the safe house despite our desperate pleas, battering on the door, utterly helpless as the zombies plod in and devour us.

For we are contagious.

She came down with it over a week ago. A nasty cough that got worse, and teamed-up with a fever and snotty nose to keep her awake, miserable and inconsolable for a whole night.

After getting a bad back from lying at an awkward angle with a snivelling child clamped to my breast in exchange for no sleep, I arose to find my throat had become raw and my sinuses were all bunged up.

So we've both been shuffling around with streaming noses and hacking coughs, but not quite ill enough to just stay in bed all day and do nothing.

Only, where are we allowed to go? I suddenly find myself running the gauntlet of germ etiquette.

We were invited to a play date in the park. I reasoned that being outdoors, all the germs would disperse into the atmosphere, neutralising our contagion.

But then she started putting other people's toys in her mouth and getting all touch feely, and no amount of fresh air was going to make up for that direct transfer of saliva.

All of a sudden another baby's nose had started running and I began to feel as though we had big red crosses painted on our foreheads, like they did to the houses of Plague victims during The Black Death.

I thought other mothers liked germs.

I'd heard about legendary chicken pox parties, where everyone gets invited round to catch the lurgy and get it over and done with.

It all builds up their immune system doesn't it?

And apparently germs are at their most contagious before the symptoms even start to appear. So actually, it's all those really healthy looking kids you need to watch out for - they more than likely have a snot storm lurking inside them.

But when we got invited to someone else's house I felt obliged to send an advanced warning that we may be carriers of a vicious virus, and were fully prepared to be ostracised from all toddler activities and banished to an island for sniffling zombies.

I needn't have worried. The message came back that they had been infiltrated already - they all had runny noses anyway.

It would be pointless putting red crosses on the foreheads of germ-ridden children. Not only would it mean marking every single one, but the two strands of snot running down the top lip already does the job.

And as I looked around the park this afternoon the zombies already seemed to have taken over.

I don't think even Andrew Lincoln can save us now...