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

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