Not What They Seem . . .

Well it seems that it is somehow getting round to that time of year again. Surely it was just yesterday I was having fish finger picnics in the garden and slapping suncream on the Tots' noses at every given opportunity? But remarkably, the nights do appear to be getting darker and the weather annoyingly colder and Little Tot does seem to be staging regular stand-offs in the kitchen about which hat, glove and scarf set he will wear. Winter is upon us.

And we all know what that means. Christmas is coming.

At a massive five years old, Big Tot certainly knows what that means too. Time to write the Christmas list. Time to scrawl in laboured, shaky letters next to ripped-out, glued-on pictures from the Argos catalogue and expect Santa to know exactly what he's on about. Angry Bird costume. Tardis play tent. Robot head. iPad that's not Daddy's. Hah. Good luck with that one, Santa.

But I have been reflecting lately, on the fact that, like many aspects of parenting, the toys that inevitably appear around Christmas time and birthdays often do not live up to expectation. In fact, I would even go so far as to say that some of them have the extraordinary capacity to make family life a living hell. I exaggerate not.

Let's look at the evidence:

Woody from Toy Story
The hubby and I bought a talking Woody doll for Big Tot when he was a wee nipper at just two years old. Fifty precious pounds of our very own money was spent on this beautiful abstract promise that Big Tot would inevitably make life-long buddies with said doll and perhaps live out a life in enchanting parallel with Andy in the Toy Story movie.

What actually occurred was really rather disturbing. Woody, as we all know, has a hat. A cowboy hat. A cowboy hat that Big Tot insisted, nay demanded, should not only be permanently on, but also permanently straight. If the hat tipped even to the tiniest, jauntiest angle, Big Tot would scream. If it came off, Big Tot would scream louder. Now I consider myself to be a very resourceful mother and thought my string-attached-to-hat technique would be a winner. But no. That was an alien component Big Tot was simply not willing to accept which he demonstrated by biting it off.

I think that angle is ever so slightly off

I was tempted on many, many occasions to Super Glue the hat on and be done with it but feared that would induce a swift turnaround in Big Tot's expectations for Woody. They had a complex thing going on and I figured I was best kept out of it.

Luckily, it all came to a gruesome end a year or two later when Little Tot came along and decapitated Woody. Job done.

Buzz Lightyear from Toy Story
Do you see a theme forming here?

Anyway, thinking Buzz Lightyear would be the perfect pal for Woody and perhaps distract Big Tot from the ongoing hat issue, we bought a second-hand Buzz on eBay. All was going well . . . until Buzz dared to bend his arm in a particularly tough duel with a plastic dinosaur. Oh no, no, no, Buzz. Didn't you know? Your arms must remain permanently straight at ALL times.

Right, where's the sellotape?

Buzz didn't know this. Mummy didn't know this. But Big Tot clearly thought the future of the entire world depended on it and went wildly into tantrum land whenever Buzz's poor, tired arm fancied a rest. I rode this storm for THREE MONTHS people, before the sellotape was out and those arms were taped straight good and proper. A woman can only take so much.

Harry Potter's Wand
No, that is not a euphemism.

Big Tot's Harry Potter phase seemed to last forever so surely it would be safe for Santa to bring him a swooshing, light-up wand? Surely?

Such an innocent looking thing

Did you know it doesn't have an actual 'off' switch? Did you know that you have to leave it alone for approximately ten minutes before it stops lighting up intermittently and making that bloody swooshing noise over and over again? And did you further know that a toddler simply CANNOT understand this and that they will just pick it up again and again furiously searching for an 'off' switch without realising that they are exacerbating things by giving it the swooping motion that it damn well wants? This is what you call war.

Postman Pat Motorbike
Postman Pat does not sit straight in it.

Hungry Caterpillar Book
Action figures do not fit through the holes in the pages.

Fireman Sam Ladder
Fireman Sam does not stay on it.

Play Dough
It does not fit in ear hole.

Soldier Action Figure
Back pack does not open

Plastic Rocket
It has a voice that counts down the blast-off when surely the natural order of numbers is 1-2-3-4-5?


So, I think it is plain to see that, where a toddler is concerned, pretty much every toy has the potential to disrupt the happiest of families. I therefore, rest my case.

God only knows what wonders await us this year. What with Big Tot wanting to know the inner workings of everything from Darth Vader's helmet to my actual mind, and Little Tot's tendency to lose, destroy and generally decapitate things, we are in for a treat.

Go well,

Abi


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Officially a Toddler

For four days now I have been treading very carefully. Listening carefully. Watching carefully. And waiting, with baited breath, for the inevitable to happen. The transformation should occur any day now. It's only a matter of time.

Big Tot and I talk about it constantly. We watch and we wait and I tell him that his own transformation occurred early. He insists this is because he eats up his vegetables (yellow pepper only) and does regular exercise (bum-wiggling) but I suggest it may just be because he was born with the temperament of an angry wasp. His progression from baby to toddler was monumental, as I remember from the black eye he gave me on the morning of his 2nd birthday.

The Terrible Twos

But Little Tot seems to be stumbling aimlessly into Toddlerdom rather than using the confident strides of his older brother. His 2nd birthday party came and went and although he was utterly dismayed by the parcels and cards shoved in his face, and appalled by the prospect of sharing his toys with guests at his party his preferred coping mechanism was 'Retreat and Regroup'. Regrouping with me, of course. For snotty kisses and teary cuddles.

And I'm not going to lie. Little Tot is more than partial to flinging himself on the floor in protest at having to leave the park / not being bought every toy he desires / being put back into bed for the forty-seventh time. But the flinging and the crying and the screaming seem to be over pretty quickly. Now there are two questions that spring to mind here. Are the tantrums truly shorter than the ones I observed in his brother or have I simply adjusted my tantrum-o-meter levels in order to cope this time round?

Little Tot is at that awkward age when he is slightly too young for The Cool Rule Book but old enough to understand most of my instructions. So I thought I'd give the naughty spot a pop. And, inevitably, the time came round when Little Tot bashed Big Tot hard on the head with a toy, not once but twice (with a very clear warning in between) and so I led him to the famous green plastic stool in the corner of our living room. "Hitting your brother was very wrong and now I want you stay here until I come to get you."

The famous Naughty Spot

On that note I quickly ushered Big Tot into the kitchen and briefed him on our game plan. "Ok, your brother is probably going to get off the naughty spot lots of times now because we've never done it before and he doesn't really understand what he has to do."

"Not like me Mummy."

"No, not like you."

"Yes, because I've been on there lots of times before haven't I? How many times do you think? Maybe ten? Maybe thirty? Maybe three billion squillion?"

"Sweetheart, that's not the point right now. What I'm trying to tell you is that you have a very important job to do . . . "

"Ooh, what is it? Do I have to wash the car? Can I wash the car? I think it needs washing because there's a big massive huge bird poo down the side and . . "

"No, no, no, it's nothing to do with bird poos or cars! I need you to not talk to your brother. Not look at him. Not play with him. Not say anything to him at all ok?"

"Oh, is that all? That's easy. That's boring. Then can I do a better job after that? Then can I get the bird poo off the car? And Mummy?"

"Yes? What?"

"What's my brother doing now?"

"Oh God! I don't know!" And with Big Tot's annoyingly sensible prompting I dashed back through to the living room, just knowing I'd see a very vacant naughty spot and probably a trail of destruction in its wake. Broken toys. Torn up books. Decapitated teddies.

But there he was. Bottom lip still trembling. Still sitting, very obediently, on the naughty spot. Well have you ever?

My quick mental calculations told me that the time spent discussing bird poo with Big Tot in the kitchen probably added up to the required two minutes that Little Tot needed to be detained. So I knelt in front of him, explained again why he was there and said I'd like a kiss and a cuddle and for him to say sorry. I waited for a slap in the face, a screaming fit or the hurling of the naughty step at my head (all of which I have experienced with Big Tot, by the way) but instead he threw himself into my arms, smeared snot all over my lips (which I like to assume was a kiss) and squeaked "'Orry" in Big Tot's general direction.

After that we were all exhausted and it was time for a bit of CBeebies. Oh how I regularly thank the universe for Mr Bloom and his band of root vegetables.

Mr Bloom, you are a godsend

So now that Little Tot is officially a toddler, I guess I need to prepare myself for anything he throws at me. I am safe in the knowledge that I can handle tantrums of a wild and unruly nature thanks to the previous efforts of his big brother. But will I be able to handle the wobbling of that adorable bottom lip? Only time will tell.

Go well,

Abi



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To Boost or Not to Boost? - Day Two

Surprisingly enough, after Day Two of my crazy Body Boost shenanigans, I am feeling very full and satisfied. Not too long ago I polished off a plateful of cod, salad and quinoa and I have to say it really hit the mark. That may have something to do with the fact that I was so hungry I could have eaten a scabby horse, but nevertheless, I will go to bed with a happy tummy.

Breakfast: eggs, tomato, cucmber & olives, Lunch: Butternut squash soup & salad,
Dinner: Cod, Quinoa & roasted veg & salad

It's been another busy day of supermum-type activities, the highlight of which may have been a rather terrifying trip to Tesco. Not terrifying in any exciting or dramatic way. Nothing that's going to make any local headlines. But terrifying because of the devastating effect that it had on my bank balance.

"I'm just popping out to get some basics," I hollered to the hubby before rugby tackling Little Tot into the car seat (he is oh-so-good at the archy-back thing). And in my mind I had developed a brief shopping list of basic things I needed if I was going to do this 10-day detox any justice.

I'd already bowed out of the optional list of health supplements which detox guru Helen McCrea had given me. When you're wondering how on earth you're going to pay the gas bill, it's never a good idea to splash out on digestive enzymes.

And because I'm vegetarian and not tempted by the majority of protein options on Helen's 'allowed' list, it was time to stock up on fish and eggs. And a barrel full of leafy greens, of course.

So I swished swiftly past every single Easter egg offer in the entire building (much to Little Tot's dismay) and selected only the healthiest detox-type items which I felt sure Helen would pat me on the back for, had she been tagging along.

Supermarket Sweep

Only two days before Tesco had swiped a load of cash from my bank account after I'd done a mega-family shop. So, I sailed up to the checkout to pay for my haul of body boosting goods, knowing that I only need worry about myself. Just a few quid would see me through the next few days of detoxing.

Just a few quid? After the smiley Tesco lady had hammered my debit card for fifty five pounds, I staggered out to the car park in a state of shock. Fifty five pounds?!

I was just thankful Little Tot can not yet understand such concepts as eating on a budget and would not, therefore, breathe a word to his father on our return. The receipt went quickly into the bin. The food was packed into the fridge in record time and I turned the subject to football as the hubby walked into the kitchen. Works every time.

Never mind. Tomorrow is another day.

Go well,

Abi


Transform the life you share with your tots and visit www.thecoolrulecompany.co.uk

Find out about Helen McCrea's genius fitness and detox programmes at www.femalefitness.co

The Avoidance of Proper Cleaning

The Avoidance of Proper Cleaning is an enormously important element of any parent's working day. The Avoidance of Proper Cleaning is a skill, a strategy, a complex set of tactics woven around other equally important obligations. And, as I have discovered over recent years (and you will no-doubt be jubilant to realise) The Avoidance of Proper Cleaning can be learned.

Let's get something clear first of all. I recognise the importance of cleaning. Honest I do. I understand that cleaning one's home rids it of bugs and germs and all things horrid that might inflict bad health on the typical family. And I am happy to clean to this extent. Nobody wants to deal with a puking toddler, especially if you are also partaking in the puking.

But in recent years, as I have morphed from a career-driven, independent party-goer into a family-driven, sleep-deprived party-dodger, my standards in the realms of cleaning have slipped somewhat.

It took a while though. During the golden age of Big Tot's baby months when he couldn't walk, talk or smear evidence of his shenanigans anywhere, I was still fairly happy to roll up my sleeves. Plus, and let's not forget this important fraction of my background, my husband is from a very old fashioned part of Eastern Turkey where women are expected to do EVERYTHING. Clean, cook, scrub, rub, dust, fold, polish, and they will positively spit if you try to do it for them. Hence I have spent a considerable amount of time sitting back and watching my hubby's sisters whirl around like dervishes in a cleaning / tidying/ caring for many, many children type of frenzy. It's no wonder I felt I should occasionally partake in a bit of dusting.

But as I moved away from Turkey and into a more Western lifestyle; and as the golden age of Babydom ended and Toddlerhood hooked in its claws, The Avoidance of Proper Cleaning has emerged as a very helpful strategy to get me through each day. And as I spend a good percentage of my time performing the domestic tasks which I believe to be unavoidable (washing dishes, cooking, washing clothes, ironing, shopping etc), I think I can be forgiven for cleaning only when absolutely necessary.

Here are my hints and tips for the Avoidance of Proper Cleaning:

• TIDY . . . Tidying and cleaning are very different beasts. Tidying is far, far easier than cleaning and will give the spectacular illusion that the house is clean. And it can be done as you go along, so long as you realise it will never, ever end. 

• AIR FRESHENERS . . . A sure-fire way to give the impression that you have just finished an energetic cleaning sesh. Close your eyes and breathe in the pine forest, the cherry blossom, the ocean spray or whatever else takes your fancy (emphasis on the closing of the eyes).

• NET CURTAINS . . . It is a fact that direct sunlight streaming into your home will highlight every last bit of dirt you have failed to remove. If you can't live with net curtains, then just go out and come back home after dark. It's better that way.

• GLITTER . . .  This is easy if you have small children. Sprinkle glitter everywhere and blame it on a crafts session with the kids (everyone knows glitter is notoriously difficult to remove but it will also mask your real dirt in a sparkly mirage).

• BAKE A CAKE . . . This may sound odd but if there is the smell of a freshly baked cake in the air, other senses (such as sight) will be dulled and any amount of dirt can go unnoticed.

• CANDLES . . . Flickering candles give the impression of a nurturing, soft ambience a far cry from an unloved, unclean home. Out of reach of little hands of course.

• START A PROJECT . . . If you have kids then you've got an excuse to start crazy projects which will ultimately defer from cleaning. "I couldn't clean the bath because there's a giant cardboard Spongebob Squarepants in there."

• BABY WIPES . . . There is always a packet within reach in my house. Did you know they clean anything?

• BASKETS . . . If in doubt of where to put something, stick it in a basket. Seriously. Every room should have one.

• CHEAT . . . Spot opportunities for a cheat-clean. Wipe down the tiles during a shower, get the kids to throw soapy water at the car . . . it's not great, I know, but if you want to Avoid Proper Cleaning then you must be committed to cheating once in a while.

• PATIENCE . . . Just remember that one day the kids will be old enough to take over most Proper Cleaning and there is no need for them to know about this list. However, you could print it and keep it in a safe place for them until they have their own children.

• START A BLOG . . . Always, always more important than cleaning.

Adhering to this list gives you lots more time with your children: tickle-time, treasure hunts, superhero role play, block-building, forest walks and the discussing of hot topics such as the Origins of Snot. I know it's important for kids to learn how a household is run, and that they should definitely contribute to it more as they get older. But, right now while my two are mere whippersnappers, I am happy with my slippery standards.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to light a candle.

Go well,
Abi
xxx

P.S. If you want to see how else I spend my time when I'm not cleaning, go to www.thecoolrulecompany.co.uk and browse the gorgeous happy living products I've created for toddlers and parents!

Back to Bad Hair Corners

Not quite sure how to start my first blog post of 2013. Shall I speak of the multitudinous empty chocolate wrappers haunting my memory and - more importantly -  my hips? Or of the insanely colourful and annoyingly noisy large plastic toys which now adorn every aspect of my home? Or, perhaps, of the tax return aching to be done in time to avoid an evil late-filing penalty? No, I shall tell you I had a wonderfully warm and cosy Christmas followed by a simple, at-home New Year. All was well. All is well. And things are looking good for 2013.

Big Tot was back at school today. Thank. The. Lord. And the teachers, of course.

I must admit, we have had a lovely time together over the festive season. We have indulged in 'Despicable Me' to the point of being able to quote 97% of the script. We've joyfully snubbed the chocolate laws of our household. And we've invented a game called 'Christmas pile-on' which generally involves holding Mummy down and decorating her with all available festive trimmings from our 75p tree.

Our favourite moment in Despicable Me

And we've also had a few surprise circumstances which left me with a challenge or two to endure. Lack of car to name but one (the Punto shunned its MOT requirements, the cheeky, obstinate little thing). Lack of hubby to name but another (he's holding down two jobs, bless him, both with many, many extra festive hours). So for the most part, I've been house-bound and child-bound and looking, always, for ways to see the bright side.

Luckily, I have two partners in crime when it comes to optimism-seeking. It may not always appear so. For I am fully aware of what percentage of my time is spent avoiding or enduring or helplessly observing tantrums. Little Tot is nearly twenty months old now and rapidly approaching that unique point in his life when he is not just allowed but expected to be terrible. And let's not forget he is learning from the Master. Big Tot still refuses to relinquish the Crown but is astoundingly generous when it comes to teaching the ways of the tantrum.

But despite all of that, my Tots know how to shine a big old light on the dark moments. Or even just the busy, stressed, not-in-the-moment moments. Just the other day I was stepping / tripping through the living room / toy apocalypse, striving to put a wash on, tidy up, cook dinner, run a bath, change a DVD, scrape up play dough, wipe off snot etc etc and Big Tot shouted a question at me. I tried one of my non-committal nods and hoped he'd back off but, hey, I should know by now he has no concept of how to politely treat impolite grown-ups. And he shouted the same question again.

"Why does it?"

I stopped, washing basket in-hand, Little Tot at-leg and asked with a sigh, "Why does what, do what sweetie?"

"Why does that toy say 'Back to bad hair corners'?"

"I have no idea sweetie. Now I have to go and . . . "

"Mummy! Whyyeeeee?"

"Sweetheart, I have to go and put this washing in the machine and then I will come and see you . . . "

"But whyeeeeee? Why does it say 'Back to bad hair corners'?"

By this time Little Tot had wrestled down the washing basket and was frolicking in his own dirty clothes. Big Tot was wide-eyed and earnest and giving me his full on I-want-an-answer-right-now-or-I'm-going-to-tell-everyone-what-a-crap-mummy-you-are attitude. And it's during these times I know there is no turning back. I choose to invest in the moment. I choose to dive entirely into Big Tot's world and treat it with the importance he so constantly works to convince me of. So I knelt down, rearranged my face into a look of eager curiosity and I listened.

"Now, what are you asking me. Please ask me again."

"Why does that toy say . . . 'Back. To. Bad. Hair. Cornerrrrrs'?" I tried to ignore that he was - at four years old - employing that tone of voice usually reserved for teenagers who want to imply their parents are the most stupid beings ever to inhabit the earth.

I looked down his pointed finger and across the room, to the offending toy. And that's when, with a rising surge of laughter and an inexplicable, immediate need to hug my son, it clicked. It was a talking, Fisher Price Batmobile.

I walked over to it, picked it up and returned it to Big Tot. He gingerly pressed the cute mini Batman to a resounding, clarifying, growling voice: "Back to Bat Headquarters."

And that, ladies and gentleman, is how a child can bring you back to the moment.


Have fun in 2013!

Abi


Find out how to live in the moment more often with your children AND tackle discipline too!
Just visit www.thecoolrulecompany.co.uk

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

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!

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