Photo Opportunity

When Little Tot's howling echoed through the streets at 8.15 on a damp, misty morning, I knew it was going to be one of those days. Not only was he howling, he was writhing. Not only was he writhing, he was clawing. I tried to lock him in one of my best motherly embraces, but I think we all know that it has to be one hell of an embrace to prevent a toddler from howling, writhing and/or clawing.

At least we'd reached the middle of the queue now. It had crossed my mind to cut my losses and leave. Of course, I would have breezed past the other parents in a manner which suggested I really didn't care and that I had something better to do when I was actually inwardly doubting my abilities as a Supermum and on the brink of a major sobbing sesh.

Was it really that important to get a photo of the Tots together from Big Tot's school photographer? Didn't I already have hundreds of perfectly good photos of my two gorgeous boys? Yes of course I did. But being a true Brit I didn't want to miss out on a free photo session so I'd turned up to stand in the drizzle on a Friday morning.

Looking around I couldn't understand why none of the other toddlers were acting in a similar manner. Couldn't these kids show even an ounce of boredom to support Little Tot? I'd reached the point in the queue where it was necessary to discard buggies as they weren't allowed in school so Little Tot was stuck with me. I couldn't let him down on the ground due to the aforementioned shitty weather (remember he was dressed up to the nines for the photographer) and because he was still predominantly crawling everywhere.

Things were getting very cramped. Big Tot had been kicked in the head twice (his head was at optimum kicking level as far as his brother could see) and now I had two howling boys to deal with. Oh what I would have done to be one of those calm, serene looking mums with their calm, serene looking tots just happily perched on a hip. My children have never perched on my hips. Ever. For starters I seem to produce giant babies which tend to turn into giant toddlers and secondly they seem to be possessed with a character made entirely of fire and brimstone. This is not conducive to happy hip-perching.

Anyway, my own fire and brimstone incited me to stick it out until the end and we finally made it into the makeshift photo studio set in the school library. The caretaker (oh what a lovely man) had helped me with coats and zips and snotty faces and suggested that it might all work out fine, the bright lights might distract Little Tot into smiling for the camera. He even crossed his fingers for me.

As we approached, the photographer tried to hide her alarm but her raised eyebrows betrayed her. Little Tot was utterly appalled at the positions we were trying to wrestle him into and by this point too far-gone into the tantrum spectrum for us to get any type of 'natural' shot. Big Tot, bless him, tried his best to goad his brother into the spirit of things. But as he was lacking in any promising toy offers or chocolate-themed goods, Little Tot was having none of it.

And then I remembered that Big Tot's Cool Rule Book was a little treasure chest of beautiful photos. Beautiful because they represent everyday life for us and where we are right now as a family. They're not set up, they're not forced. They are real. And not only do they help Big Tot understand our family rules and expectations, but one day I will look back on them and fondly remember all the tantrum-taming I did. Won't I?

Nevertheless, it was with a heavy heart that I dropped Big Tot off at school and trudged home with a disgraced Little Tot. A stack of custard creams and a strong coffee were my first priority as I got through the door and then an equally strong word with myself about the day so far. You are not a bad mum. You tried something you knew would be challenging and it didn't work. Big deal. Get over it and move on.

And move on I did. Because later in the day my hubby and I were called into school to collect Big Tot who had fallen in the school playground and apparently broken his foot.

Now therein lies another blog post.

But let's just say that the day was not short on dramatics. Or emotions. Or custard creams.

Oh, and just to make myself feel better I made sure I was the first to write on Big Tot's plaster cast. Well, nobody else was going to say it for me, were they?

Go well,

Abi


Find out more about The Cool Rule Book and a whole range of other fantastic products to transform day-to-day living with a toddler by visiting Abi's brilliant website, www.thecoolrulecompany.co.uk

The Cool Rule Song and an Ironing Board

Just now, whilst I was receiving Tweets, drinking coffee, planning dinner and filing some papers, I looked up the word, 'Multitask'. Of course I know what it means.What parent doesn't? But I was curious. Can they possibly define such a term without mentioning the vocation of parenthood?

It appears not. For Oxford Dictionaries Online defines it as follows:

Multitask:  Dealing with more than one task at the same time
Parenting skills such as multitasking and concentrating amid distractions are easily transferable to the workplace

Hands up who's good at multitasking. I bet you're not as good as me. I bet I'm the winner (too much time with Big Tot, sorry). Honestly though, sometimes I find myself doing so many things at once I consider finding the nearest circus so I can borrow a glittery leotard. And maybe a head feather or two. It would certainly give the Tots something to talk / burble about.

I mention this, not because it's a particularly new or interesting thing. Let's face it prehistoric parents probably had a few things to juggle what with the attacking of beasts and picking of berries. It's just that recently, I seem to be taking multitasking to a whole new level.

The other day, after setting up the train tracks for Big Tot and presenting Little Tot with a plethora of soft play options which might distract him from ripping apart said train tracks, I decided the growing mountain of ironing could be ignored no longer. I set up a little workhouse in my tiny, tiny kitchen, firmly locked the safety gate and set to work.

Now I like ironing. There's something about the curling, rising steam; the rocking, rhythmical creak of the board; the soothing flowered scent of just-washed clothes. But lately (I probably mean for the past four years), it has been harder to enjoy such simple pleasures. Because I am constantly interrupted by the alarming cries of a toddler who can't find a toy or a baby who has eaten an entire pot of soil, I see ironing as a task rather than an activity. And by that I mean a task that can nearly always be put off until another day. Well, this was that day.

For some time now I've been trying to think up a Cool Rule song to sing with Tots at local toddler groups as a means of shamelessly plugging The Cool Rule Book to their parents and carers. A girl's got to earn a living. And, as I worked my way through that ironing pile my creativity must have got a boost because after a mere two hours of smoothing the family fabrics, I'd nailed it. The Cool Rule Song was born.

The amazing Cool Rule Book!

Yes the composition process was interrupted by toddler toilet trips and broken train tracks, but, as the dictionary definition outlines, I was able to 'concentrate amid distractions'. Big Tot asked repeatedly, "Why are you singing that song? Why don't you know the words?" and I gently explained that not only was Mummy an "Entrepreneur" (which he can now just about pronounce) but also a "Creative Genius". I could have added "Domestic Goddess", "Super Mum" etc but I didn't want to complicate matters.

So, if you know the tune to "Down in the Jungle" you'll be able to pick The Cool Rule Song up straight away. Oh, and you must adopt the appropriate grin, perform funky dance moves and use props where necessary. Here we go:

CHORUS
I've got a book that I think you should see.
It's got Cool Rules in it and it's special for me.
If I follow the rules, well you wouldn't believe,
How it makes us all feel happy!

VERSE
I can  . . . 
Brush my teeth - Cooool Ruling!
Brush my teeth - Cooool Ruling!
Brush my teeth - Cooool Ruling!
How it makes us all feel happy!

OTHER VERSES YOU CAN USE
I can . . . 
Share my toys
Eat my food
Hug my friends
Sleep all night
Remember I'm loved

So now that you've recovered from the shock of how damn good this song actually is, you can appreciate, I'm sure, what a feat of human endurance it was to compose it whilst performing a domestic duty such as ironing.

Hold off on the Nobel Prize nomination though, because the real test will be during my visits to local toddler groups. As we all know, toddlers know how to give an achingly honest critique. If The Cool Rule Song supported by a variety of soft toy props doesn't cut it, then quite frankly I am back to the drawing (or maybe the ironing) board.

Wish me luck,


Abi

If you want The Cool Rule Company to visit your parent and toddler group, nursery or library, get in touch now to hear how we can offer not only The Cool Rule Song, but also a positive parenting craft activity. info@thecoolrulecompany.co.uk

In Search of Supernanny

Please forgive me if I need to prop up my aching feet. Or if I need to rapidly replenish my hydration levels. Big Tot might be feeling the strain too because he's been my loyal companion on this epic journey. I didn't realise the two of us we were capable of travelling such a distance or bearing such a heavy load. And the journey, although long and winding and perilous and tough, is not yet finished.

So, just to recap, we started our adventure in the humblest of places, our living room. It was Saturday morning, the only time of the week when Mummy gets the monopoly on the telly. Supernanny was on. My absolute favourite. I'd set up my little arrangement of cushions, a cuppa, the remote and explicitly warned the Tots that Mummy was not to be relied on for anything for the next hour. Ironic that the only time I spend  ignoring my children is when I'm avidly watching a parenting guru, but such is life.

Big Tot and I had spent the first ten minutes having our usual argument about why Pokemon was strangely vacant from this morning's viewing. And I had the subtitles flashing away so I could at least read what was going on even if I couldn't hear it. And that's when inspiration struck me. I needed Supernanny's help.

And not in the way you might imagine. I wasn't yet desperate enough to make the emergency plea for Supernanny's parenting expertise as I could shamelessly swindle that off the telly. I needed her words. Her trusted, expert, dependable words. I needed her to endorse the Cool Rule Book.

Now I know my gorgeous, photo book creation is the answer to every parent's dreams. And the parents who've already bought it know that too. But the people who have not bought it, and have a rather demanding yet very wonderful toddler at home, need to know it too, don't they?

And that's where Supernanny could help. Or Jo Frost as she is more formally known. If only I could send her a copy of the Cool Rule Book, then surely she would be happy to emblazon it with some kind of statement of total admiration. Something along the lines of 'every family needs one'. Not too much to ask, is it?

Anyway, that's how the journey started. I leapt up from my cushioned arrangement, fuelled by my motivation to find Supernanny. Big Tot got carried away with it all ("I'm going to win! I'm going to find Supernanny before you!") and we began travelling the globe via the magic of the internet.

Was she in England doing her extreme parental guidance? No! Was she in Beverly Hills where oddly enough she seems to have an agent? No! Did her Twitter fan page have any idea? No! Did her website give anything away? Of course not! Where the flip was she?

And that's when we stopped for snacks. Refueling was important.

Did her Facebook page even belong to her? It appeared not! Hang on, what was that? That flashy pop-up type thing which Big Tot insisted might be a new season of Angry Birds. That was no angry bird. That was Jo Frost herself insisting that I come along to her brand new show which was - wait for it - live! Oh yes, we wanted to go, we wanted to go. Big Tot was going to take his plastic motorbike and I was going the take the Cool Rule Book and it was going to be a perfect end to a perfect adventure. Where was it?

Oh, er . . . Australia.

And that's when we stopped for more snacks. And more or less put the whole journey on hold.  No point bothering her Down Under now, was there? Surely it could wait until she returned. Now I just have to figure out where, exactly, she will return to.

And can you believe Little Tot missed out on all of this? He'd been on an adventure with far crazier heights and more extreme thrills than we could have imagined. Because scaling furniture is exciting stuff when you're fifteen months old. Maybe next time we'll join him.

But I'm not giving up on Supernanny. Not that easily.

Go well everyone,

Abi


Find out how brilliant The Cool Rule Book is before Supernanny does at www.thecoolrulecompany.co.uk and celebrate happy living with your little one today!

Secret Tactics

So the other day I was casually flipping through the family calendar when I realised something that made me very cross. I realised that if you count the days from when Big Tot had his last day at nursery right up to when he starts going to 'big' school he is actually off for seven, not the widely presumed six, weeks for summer.

Seven weeks. That's forty-nine days. And that was enough to make me feel momentarily sick. It was a proper lump-in-the-throat, rapid-heart-beating, fiery cheeks kind of moment. How was I supposed to keep this going for seven weeks? No holidays planned. A dwindling overdraft. Two Tots expecting near miracles from me every single day for forty nine days? How could I find a number for the complaints hotline at the local education authority?

I peered into the living room at the Tots. Big Tot was lying under a blanket on the sofa playing with an electronic alphabet game and making loud, over-enthusiastic vowel sounds. Little Tot was making a dash for it into the garden of delights. Those delights being muck, muck, water and muck. Truth be known, they didn't seem to having such a bad time.

But what about me? Am I having such a bad time? Apart from my reaction to the the six week cover-up scandal, Is my summer really going that badly? Of course it isn't. Here I am, lucky enough to have a huge wedge of quality time to spend with my Tots, and a new business I can weave around full-time kiddy care. Things could be a lot worse.

Honestly speaking though, the summer holidays can be intense. There are times when I truly am out of resources, ideas and that mythical stuff called energy. I have secret tactics though. And they are lovely and life-affirming. Oh yes. My secret tactics totally rock.

And the best thing about these secret tactics is that if you are a parent, you probably do them anyway, without even knowing. But if you can become more aware of them, and practice them regularly, then things really do start to change.

Live In The Moment
You've seen your toddler do it. The total concentration on a snail's slimy movements or the unwavering dedication to the pages of their favourite storybook. Even the screaming meltdown in the sweetie aisle at a supermarket. Toddlers are experts at living in the now. So sometimes I get to it. I could be breathing in the sweet, just-washed scent of Little Tot's hair (even if he's whinging for his supper) or suddenly be in awe of the soft, reassuring grip of Big Tot's hand in mine as we cross a road. I have even mastered mindful nappy-changing. Oh yes. By being so committed to Little Tot and his gorgeous, dimpled bottom no other part of it bothers me. Living in the moment happily discards anything else that might be bothering you.

This too, will pass
I don't know who first coined this phrase, but when I first heard it, and related it to being a parent, it rocked my world. Sometimes it's a beautifully encouraging phrase. My child will stop being such a fussy eater one day. Soon my child will have have their hair washed without sobbing. But it can have a ring of sadness to it too. Perhaps one day my child won't want morning kisses. What if my child decides she doesn't want storytime before bed? But for me, just knowing, without a shadow of a doubt that 'this too, will pass' helps me to focus on the now, indulge in it, be grateful for it and embrace the ever-changing nature of this life we live. And here's hoping the Tots pick that up too.

Sit and smile
I'm loving this one. I read about it in Elizabeth Gilbert's 'Eat Pray Love' where she zips off to Bali, anticipating some mysterious lessons in meditation and actually just gets told to 'sit and smile'. You do run the risk of appearing to be a loon, mind you. As I well know. I have been known to sit and smile whilst Big Tot is having a meltdown on a naughty spot I have created in a supermarket. Or sitting and smiling whilst rocking a screaming Little Tot's buggy in a busy shopping centre. The possibilities are endless and the outcome is that you usually feel at least a teensy bit calmer, or at least able to find a funny side. Can't be bad, can it?

So there's three of my secret tactics. Why not go for a cocktail of them all? It's the only kind of cocktail I seem to be able to get my hands on these days. And I have to admit the high I've got from practicing these beats any Raspberry Mojito anyway.

So, with all of that in mind, I will press on through these summer holidays no matter how many days I may ultimately be faced with. The local Education Authority can breathe easy for now as I shall not be making that complaint after all. Not this year, anyway.

Go well,

Abi

Visit my site to find The Cool Rule Book - a tip top way to celebrate all that is cool with your toddler as well as getting to grips with discipline: www.thecoolrulecompany.co.uk

For more on 'living in the now', try 'The Power of Now' by Eckhart Tolle, available on Amazon
For more of 'this too, will pass', try 'The Illuminated Rumi' by Jalal Al-Din Rumi, available on Amazon
For more of 'sitting and smiling', try 'Eat, Pray Love' by Elizabeth Gilbert, available on Amazon

Olympic-Stylee

It's here folks. It's finally here. No, no, not the Olympics. You may think Michelle Obama is travelling to the UK for this Friday's opening ceremony. And she may think so too, but she hasn't yet heard about The Cool Rule Company and when she does she might just rethink her schedule.

I mean the build-up's been second to none. A whole year of dramatic events. Let's take a re-cap:

• Highly-strung three-year old (Big Tot) spins his tantrums into whole new orbit when his baby brother (Little Tot) comes along

• In a final act of desperation the exhausted, exasperated parents involve Big Tot in making a scrapbook of rules, consequences and photos of his world

• Said scrapbook adapts nickname of 'The Cool Rule Book' and becomes Big Tot's favourite thing (apart from Super Mario)

• Exhausted, exasperated parents become slightly less so

• Said scrapbook becomes aid to celebrate everything Big Tot can do well and a tool to help him learn what else is expected of him

• Said scrapbook attracts 'oohs' and 'aahs' from other equally exhausted parents

• Feeling all entrepreneurial, slightly-less-exhausted-mum shamelessly wrings dry all of the business support offered by local enterprise agency

• Wringing-dry of babysitting favours also occurs

• Blogging begins

• Business planning begins

• Slightly-less-exhausted-mum creates prototypes for other tots and runs a trial across the country

• Highly dramatised logo saga begins

• Trial gets outstanding results and indicates slightly-less-exhausted-mum should really take this idea to market

• Business planning nearly kills slightly-less-exhausted-mum (who is now exhausted again)

• Highly dramatised logo saga ends with very cool logo (energy restored)

• Overdraft is feeling the strain but slightly-less-exhausted-mum ignores it

• Business planning finished

• Website launched to the world

• Celebratory hot chocolate / wine / anything consumable to hand

And there we have it. The Cool Rule Company is officially up and running (Olympic-stylee) and ready for business.

The Cool Rule Book is my first flagship product. It is a gorgeous, glossy little book and it can transform the life you lead with your toddler. Honestly. It's that good.

It includes twenty-seven rules written with love and humour as well as spaces for your own personal rules. When you add photos of things your child will recognise, it becomes all the more meaningful. The categories cover all aspects of a child's life before school and are followed up by spaces for your own consequences of what happens when your child follows or breaks the rules.

The website tells you loads more (www.thecoolrulecompany.co.uk) and you can have a wee peep at some of the pages. It comes as a Standard Pack (with a special guide for the parents to get the most out of the book) or as a Bumper Pack (with the special guide as well as everything else you need to get started).

May I say you've been most patient over the last few months, as I have point-blank refused to reveal what my business venture has been all about. But now you know. And I hope you keep up with the Cool Rule Antics as they develop. And develop they will my friends. Develop they will.

Go Well,

Abi

Bring on the Whys

I'm finally there. I thought I might have bypassed it. I thought I might have tiptoed quietly enough past it. I thought that perhaps, with a focused, concentrated, maniacal determination I might have defied the very thing that all other parents in the history of parenting have been unable to defy. I thought I might have escaped that infamous, infantile stage of  . . . "Why?".

And, ironically, I ask myself why? Why did I think I might get away without having to answer all of the questions my child might have about the world? And more importantly, why would I want to?

To be honest, I thought Big Tot was so fascinated and consumed in his own existence that asking why wouldn't ever occur to him. He rules the world you see. Oh, didn't you know? Yes, my son is in charge of everything. From what direction we should be walking down the street to which colour spoon he (and everyone else) should eat their yoghurt with. He seems so sure of his position as Almighty Ruler and King of the Cosmos that I couldn't imagine him asking how something works or - God forbid - for somebody else's opinion.

But nope. Today he has wanted to know why over and over again. (NB: This is a heavily edited version of events)

Why No. 1
Why are men coming to our house today? Why do they need to put special material in the loft? Why does the house need to be warm? Why is it one of our needs as a human being?

Why No. 2
Why should I eat all my lunch? Why do I need to be strong? Why do I need to be a big man? Why do I need to live a long, happy life?

Why No. 3
Why was it mini-olympics at nursery today? Why did I do really well? Why did we all get medals? Why do we need to feel special?

Why No. 4 (my personal favourite)
Why are you coming in the bathroom? Why do you need to wipe my bottom? Why did I only need two wipes when I've done such a big poo poo?

The parenting experts tell us toddlers ask why because their minds are expanding quickly, they're starting to understand cause and effect, and want to engage you in conversation. That's all fantastic stuff. They also recommend that you note down their more challenging questions and go and research the answer together. So does that mean that after the toilet incident we should have dashed to the laptop and Googled 'Two Wipe Poos'?

Maybe not. I must admit though, I do love this stage. It can be tedious and sometimes exhausting. But it can also be energising, fascinating and massively amusing. Who else, other than your own child, could take you through all of those feelings in one day? In one hour? Or sometimes in just a few minutes?

Who else could ask me, just the other day with eyes as big as saucers, as blue and clear as a spring sky, "Why are you taking me to a Mummies' Business Club? Why are you being a Tronapenur?"?

So in my head I'm saying this: "Why? So I can safely pop you into the conveniently provided toddler play session, have a chat with other entrepreneurs who are mums, network, share ideas, progress my business, discover new avenues (not to mention have a cup of tea in peace) whilst taking steps towards building a successful, international, web-based business which will potentially finance an overseas property and secure the future of you and your brother as well as your dad's and my retirement."

In real life I'm saying this: "Why? Because there are cakes there. Because being a Tronapenur is fun." Oh lordy. What would the parenting experts say?


Oh who bloody cares? Big Tot and I are having fun with this one. Bring on the whys, that's what I say. My answers aren't always sensible or even credible. Sometimes I turn the why round on him and get the most amazing answers which inevitably lift my day and my spirit (e.g. "because that's why my poo poo was a clean one because Spongebob Squarepants was in my belly and cleaned it first. That's why.").

My hubby and I are getting into it too. We've had late-night philosophical discussions about why asking why is so controversial, so fascinating, such a potentially enlightening thing to do. Think about your average conversation. How much would it change if you asked 'why'? How much more would you find about the person you're engaging with and how would it change their view of you?

Of course, it's probably best done with a smile on your face and a genuinely interested tone. Try to avoid looks of disgust and incredulous gasps if you can. Don't take your cue from a toddler here. A whining 'why?' does not invite an interesting answer from anyone. Including a parent.

And I'm fully aware the whys will get more challenging. More difficult. And perhaps sometimes upsetting for Big Tot. But I'm armed with an open mind and a full heart and I will do my best to answer him. And failing that, I've always got the other Mummy Tronapenurs to give me their expert advice over a cake and a cuppa.

Go well everyone (and don't forget to sometimes ask 'why?')

Abi


Anyone interested in the 'Mumpreneur' sessions, based at Steel House in Consett, call Anne or Gillian on 01207 585802 or visit www.dida.co.uk

Planet Birthday

I have just been to the most amazing place. A place where all other obligations and concerns are set aside. Discarded entirely actually. A place where housework does not matter, work is a thing of the past and you can give yourself up to one single, gripping and head-spinningly addictive focus. I took a trip to Planet Birthday.

Not my birthday. That involved a humble hot chocolate with five marshmallows and quiet musings about my existence. But the birthdays of my two sons, Big Tot and Little Tot, which are conveniently distanced exactly two weeks apart.

Little Tot was first, his being the landmark first birthday and so plenty of inward congratulations to myself about keeping him alive for an entire year. And then was Big Tot's definitive fourth birthday. And that's when I realised I was inhabiting a different planet.

For about four months now I have been using his intense desire for a Super Mario birthday party as an anchor to evoke good behaviour and ultimately get what I want out of him. I believe it's called blackmail. Shame on me. For as the event drew nearer I worked out that I had to deliver. And deliver good if I was going to use that ever-popular parental strategy again.

I didn't willingly go to this other planet. But got sucked in by the sheer amount of consumer choice of Mario-related paraphernalia and also totally entangled in my own creative tendency to think up elaborate and potentially ridiculous schemes. Oooh, we could make Mario cupcakes. We could all wear bushy Mario moustaches. We could build a Mario Kart out of discarded wrapping paper. We could wear dungarees, wave plungers and spanners and run around shooting "Wahoo, Mario time!" at each other.

Or not. I told myself I must get this in perspective. I must consider the financial implications. I must remember the minute scale of my house in relation to the number of children invited. And I must, above all else, get the cake right.

Which is precisely why I decided to get someone else to make it.

Cue my mate Claire who runs a marvellous business called Magic Mummies. She works as a kind of undercover agent, discreetly supplying mums with things they haven't got time to do so they can 'spend less time juggling and more time with the people who really matter'. Or in my case, more time making a 'Pin the Moustache on the Mario' game and blatantly ignoring any real work I had to do.

And because I simply cannot keep my mouth shut, I did not pass her work off as my own. Actually, I was so excited by her business that I couldn't resist using the beautifully adorned (and blooming delicious) Super Mario cake as a means to publicise what she does. She even sourced the Mario figures we stuck on top of the cake and made sure that it was definitely chocolate (requested by the birthday boy) but not too rich or filling for a toddler's tummy. Job done.

So thanks Claire. And thanks to Big Tot and Little Tot for whisking me off to Planet Birthday for a few weeks. The giggles, the balloons, the sticky fingers and the moustaches have all been a beautiful distraction from every day life but sadly I must now return. With a view to visiting again in about a year from now.

Now it's back to being a Magic Mummy myself. Magically interweaving taking care of the family  with being an up and coming, 'one-to-watch' entrepreneur with a hell of a business about to be launched.

And just to dangle a seductive little carrot for you all, you might have noticed the funky little logo at the top of the page. Yes, that's it folks. The final logo for my (slowly) emerging business. Cool or what?

Go well,

Abi

If you want to take advantage of Claire's tremendous secret service, visit www.magicmummies.co.uk

Leap of Faith

Ask me what I did last week. Go on, ask me.

Well, by my standards (and please consider at what level these might be) I did something overwhelmingly exhilarating. It involved a dip into the good old overdraft. It involved my reluctant hubby. And it involved an athletic leap of faith.

Over the past month or two I have been spending a large amount of time on the internet, a.) looking for tickets to see Derren Brown's latest show, 'Svengali' and b.) kicking myself that I did not know about the show before it bloody well sold out. Clearly I am not the number one fan I thought I was.

And if psychological illusions aren't really your thing you might not even know who Derren Brown is. Or maybe you do and you don't think much of him. Well I do think much of him. And I think the stuff he gets up to is mind-twistingly beguiling. In fact, I can often be found of an evening (my laptop pulsing in the corner with work that really should be getting done now the Tots are in bed) glued to the telly where I've come across a channel which is thoughtfully repeating a Derren Brown programme.

So why the flip didn't I know he had a show coming up? The prices of tickets on eBay were clearly surpassing my (imaginary) budget so the chance of a night out was not looking good. No babysitter. No money. No tickets.

However, being a massive believer that positive thoughts attract positive things, and having an amateur but irrevocably enthusiastic interest in Derren's very own mind tricks, I decided to give it a go. I focused my mind. I pictured the scene. Tickets in my hand. Drinks before the show. The awesome curiousity I feel as he performs. And, to hell with it, these are only thoughts after all, what I say as I meet him backstage.

Tickets. Drinks. Awe. Backstage. Tickets. Drinks. Awe. Backstage.

And it only went and bloody well happened. Thanks to a gorgeous daughter of a friend who babysat the Tots, and thanks to a hard-working hubby who was doubtful of my visualisation techniques, it only went and bloody well happened.

The show was marvellous. I mean really marvellous. Derren did request at the beginning that nobody tell anybody else the content of the show. That we should keep it a secret so as not to spoil it for anyone else who might be attending. This was a clever trick in itself. It made us feel special. Part of a secret club. It drew us together as an audience and gave us a special bond with Derren. What a clever man. That, my friends, is how you get an audience on your side.

So no juicy details about the show. But I will tell you that hanging around the stage door afterwards had its rewards. And the drizzle was a blessing in disguise as we got pulled indoors a few people at a time to see the man himself. I got into a little chat with him about NLP (Neuro Linguistic Programming) and was also tempted to ask him to recommend a few techniques to mind-warp and thus calm an unruly four-year-old, or hypnotise a baby into sleeping through the night. But I bit my tongue. Maybe that's a conversation for the next time.

A few days later when I was flicking through my uber-glossy 'Svengali' programme, I came across a DB quote that resonated with me. And the resonation had nothing to do with psychological illusions or mind trickery. It had to do with parenting. Of course it did. That's what I do now. And here it is:

"I am often dishonest in my techniques but I'm always honest about my dishonesty."

Parents. You know what I mean.

Have fun. Go well.

Abi

Party On Dad

Why the nation was avidly watching The Voice, Britain's Got Talent or a heady, back-to-back, Sky Plussed version of both last Saturday night I do not understand. For there was a heated finale playing out in my own living room worthy of any slickly choreographed light show or swaying gospel backing choir. The. Final. Logo. Decision.

Yes, I did it. After going through a whole block of Post-Its and bullying anyone within spitting distance to give me an opinion I finally went ahead and formed an opinion of my own. After all, it's me who's got to be happy looking at it several years ahead when my business has dramatically morphed into a multi-million dollar empire. It's me who's got to slap it on everything related to my professional identity. And I am happy with it. I am excited about it. It is the only logo candidate that made me actually feel something. Whether a logo should do that or not is potentially a thesis all in itself but, being a girl who follows her heart, I have done just that.

So now is about the time I should be publishing it to the world, isn't it? And while we're on with it, why not actually tell people what my business is all about? Erm, well, no, actually. And there are two reasons for this:

1.) I am going to apply for a Trademark for my logo so nobody can nick it, meaning publishing it before that point, to all you good people, whilst I trust you all implicitly, would be rather dumb.

and . . .

2.) When I'm ready to go I want to be really ready to go with all whistles and bells and frills and cherries on top and a slickly choreographed light show and a swaying gospel backing choir etc etc. Considering I have yet to print a business card or buy a domain name, all of this may have to wait a few weeks / months.

Oh, and there's a number 3.)

3.) Big Tot and Little Tot don't appear to be going away.

Not that I'd ever, ever want them to, of course. But the fact remains that they are a wonderfully permanent fixture in my life and I must learn to mould my professional life around my domestic pursuits. Mummy first and dynamic entrepreneur second. I am not the first busy, run-ragged, rapdily-ageing parent to do this and I will undoubtedly be the last. And thank goodness because some of the most fantastic business ideas have been born out of the inspirational role of being a ma or a pa.

And whilst we're on the topic I'll raise a glass to my own inspirational pa who passed away last September. What a man. It would have been his birthday today so I'm celebrating with a whisky and diet coke (he was a single malt kind of guy and would not be amused by my cheap, uneducated palette). He was a whizz with graphic design and I could do with some kind of divine communication right now to get a few hints and tips on all my business-related design conundrums. Although I'm sure he's much too busy partying on up there with Steve (Jobs), Jimmy (Stewart), Duke (Ellington) John (Lennon) and Marilyn (Monroe, of course) to engage in any immaculate communication with me. Exactly how it should be.

So I will just be happy that I've inherited his eye for design and carry on as I have been. A whole lot of parenting, a healthy dash of marriage, a drop of business planning and a good slosh of being my Dad's daughter.

Go well,

Abi

Because Life's A Puzzle

The final four logo candidates are going everywhere with me. They are my new best buds. They hang out in the changing bag, all laminated and glossy and quivering with graphic potential. They skip out of the bag on demand and flip themselves into the unsuspecting path of any friend or foe and buzz with a 'Pick Me!' kind of vibe. Their backs are adorned in clusters of multi-coloured Post-Its scrawled with reasons why people like or dislike them. They're taking all the criticism very well. I'm impressed by their commitment to the cause. I just hope the winner can handle the giddy heights of success.

I had let loose the very same candidates only two days ago, across a friend's shiny kitchen table. We stood over them, supping coffee, gazing down, discussing the merits of each one as my nearly four-year-old son (Big Tot) and eleven month old baby (Little Tot) dashed in and out between us and a pile of Transformers on the living room floor.

My friend, otherwise known as Auntie Carol to the Tots, or Babysitting Guardian Angel to me, slapped a Post-It on her favourite and offered me another coffee. I was tempted but knew the dinnertime clock was ticking so told Big Tot he had five more minutes to play with Optimus Prime. Not practising Mindfulness very effectively that day, my mind was racing ahead to the usually clumsy event of preparing dinner in the world's smallest kitchen with Little Tot around. He apparently thinks we are the very same being and we must not, at any cost, be more than an inch apart. Whilst I'm told this is a normal stage in his development, it does not mix particularly well with hot pans and whirring ovens.

Auntie Carol suggested a safety gate at the kitchen door might solve the problem. Blooming genius. Why the flip had I not thought of that before? Living in a bungalow I'd kind of written off the whole safety gate thing and, of course, I have many dead brain cells due to producing babies and I am unable to think up such genius plans for myself. Excellent. The next day I would go out and purchase the finest safety gate imaginable and normal standards of catering would resume in my household.

Or maybe not. That night's offering didn't even make it to the plate as I spent pretty much the rest of my day at the Burns Unit with a very distressed and sore-pawed Tot. The poor thing had seen a chance and taken it. For all of five seconds that I was dumping a washing basket in another room, Little Tot had army-crawled his way over to the closed oven door, pulled himself up on it and pressed his little nose up to the hot, hot glass. I've never heard screaming like it. I felt like my heart was going to combust. Luckily it did not and I found the sense to submerge his hands in cold water whist I worked out something resembling a plan. Car. Drive. Hospital. Now.

I'll spare you the details but there was a babysitting rescue team involving the famous Auntie Carol, long waits to see doctors, blister examining, blister popping, blister cleaning and blister bandaging. There was also a huge blistering of my ego which I'm still tending to. As you can imagine.

So now I know his burns are only superficial. And now I know he's capable of eating a custard cream with only his thumbs. Now I feel a little calmer.

So, naturally, there's also now a safety gate in place. A beacon of safety for the home. A white, slatted, metal metaphor for mindful transition between domestic realms.

And quite clearly an outrageous tripping hazard as demonstrated by yours truly sailing through the space between aforementioned bloody safety gate and kitchen unit and crash landing on my left knee resulting in burning pain and huge, bruised, bumpy swelling. Safe? Gate? Grrrr.

Apart from slapping some high-vis tape onto the hilariously named 'step-over' bar on the bottom of the gate, I don't really know what else to do. Nurse my knee a little? Breathe deep? Slow down? Muse on some beautiful philosophical parenting concept?

And that's when I remembered Auntie Carol's Post-It on her favourite logo candidate. And decided to cut myself some slack.





















Go safe, go well,

Abi

Like A Baby

Well, the birthday came and went, as birthdays do, and I am entering the realm of the mid 30s with what I am describing as a mindful acceptance. I'm doing everything mindfully these days, on account of the five-week mindfulness course I've just completed in - of all the places in the world - Consett Industrial Estate.

Actually, it was a marvellous experience teaching me about being in the present moment and developing a more conscious connection with the body. The idea being that if you're focusing on your breath or your posture or the spot on the end of your nose then you're more able to deal with whatever the present moment is throwing at you.

I've dabbled in the whole meditation game before, but I must admit I lost the philosophies somewhere between squeezing two babies out and taking on the mammoth roles of housewife / mum / general superhuman being. So now I can safely say I've reclaimed it. Thanks to a gentle but firm reintroduction, I've rediscovered that by taking care of what's going on right now, I am able to move boldly into the future with compassion, humour and love.

Can't be bad, can it? Even if my friends are tapping their feet as I speak unusually slowly. Even if my husband is wondering why I keep disappearing so I can squeeze a meditation in between sterilising bottles and cooking dinner. The little ones are certainly enjoying it. What with bubble-blowing at bathtime, yoga on the living room rug and proper, from-the-tummy laughter, they've definitely got the best part of the deal.

Maybe this new approach to life is why today's morning business meeting took a grand total of three and a half hours. And why it entailed back-to-back cups of tea and an oil burner on the go. Or maybe it was because it was with possibly the most pleasant graphic designer I've ever met who agreed to come to my house so I didn't have to find a babysitter.

Carrie is her name and she's designing me a logo for my new business. What fun we had. In between (mindfully) changing nappies and using CBeebies iPlayer to within an inch of its life, we whipped up a multitude of possibilities to pitch to mums and dads and pretty much anyone who'd give an honest opinion.

At times the entertaining of the children got a little intense and I'm hoping Carrie understands that I don't usually plant my 10-month old in his highchair with pizza and chips and Tommy & Jerry on widescreen . . . only on the most important of business occasions.

So watch this space. The logo will be revealed in a matter of weeks for all to enjoy. But, please, don't look forward to it too much. Look at what's happening now and like a baby be mindful of each moment. Chew your chips. Swing your legs. Laugh at cartoons.

Until then, go well.

Abi

You can find Carrie's graphic design work at www.pressfordesign.co.uk
The Mindfulness people are www.livingmindfully.co.uk

34 Tomorrow

I'll be 34 years old tomorrow. Does that plant me firmly in my mid thirties then?

Is that why my nearly-four-year-old son throws his head back in disbelief when I casually call myself a girl and then practically snorts at me "No Mummy, you're a lady".

Is that why I had to tick a different box on a consumer survey the other day and reluctantly admit I am no longer in the 'Young Person' age bracket?

And is that why I'm here, desperately hugging a mug of hot chocolate with five (yes, five) floating marshmallows and musing over all the things I thought I'd have done by now?

I think we all know the answers to these questions. But how cruel that I can no longer make smudged mascara look cool. How tragic that I am unable to wear ripped jeans without the health visitor raising an eyebrow. And it's not fair that I can't look cool doing Zumba. Who invented this whole ageing business anyway?

But having said all that I'm really quite enjoying getting on a bit. For starters, and let's put the baby-birth hair loss and wobbly belly to one side for a minute, the last four years have given me two fantastic healthy children. They are the result of a heart-stopping romance leading to a happy marriage with my own dark, brooding Mediterranean man. I've had the courage to ditch a career I didn't want any more to boldly be the Mum I've always wanted to be. I've lived in three different countries and therefore met three sets of fabulously gorgeous people. And now, in a bid to tip the balance a little bit more in my favour, I'm starting my own business.

It's all new and exciting right now and whilst it's not exactly top secret, it's not something I'm going to shout about until I'm good to go. So until then you'll just have to be satisfied to know that it's cool and it involves rules of some kind and the antics will be posted right here.

Oh, and I found the inspiration for it during my ever-so-wonderful early thirties. Let's hope the mid-thirties have something to offer too (other than floating marshmallows).

Go well,
Abi