It varies, from week to week, from pilot, to engineer, to inventor. Though I guess they all have an engineering kind of common thread running through them. He’s a child who loves to know how things work, who’ll question and think and question some more. As a toddler, he spoke early and spoke constantly – especially “why?”. “Why why why why but why mummy? ”
In the early days, I’d stand over her cot, watching. A bed full of pink blankets and pink onesies and pink swaddling and tiny little pink face, peaceful as she slept. Her brothers rowdy and bouncing just outside the door, and with just a finger to my lips, they would tip toe in, and creep up beside me. Propping one on each hip, I would
Yesterday, Butterfly and 6 little friends spent the afternoon playing and chatting and enjoying themselves as only four years old girls can, for her birthday party, and the final stop on the 2014 Birthday Train. We played Pin The Wings On The Fairy. No I wasn’t still painting this an hour before the party, why would you suggest such a thing? The wings are
A few days more than one whole year ago, I stood alone in my kitchen, a stunning quilt before me, and cried, overwhelmed with thankfulness and love for a wonderful group of ladies I am blessed to call my friends. 368 days later, I laid it out in the same spot, I grabbed the now very active toddler, and wrestled with him for some photos.
With just a small camping lantern lighting the area, I hammered, as quietly as one can, trying to get the small piece of timber to attach to the tree. The first went on ok. The second piece, the nails kept bending. Then I walloped my finger with the hammer. Mr Dove came to see what all the commotion was about, and nursing a sore thumb
The cradle still stands in the corner of our bedroom. Unused for months, I have managed to strip it back to the bare mattress, sheets and blankets washed and then remade up on a cot that recently dropped from the newborn setting to the lower big baby no-you-can’t-stand-up-here level. The contents of the nappy bag are shifting, no longer stuffed to the brim with chuck
Ones who don’t make me cry in the kitchen at 10pm at night when everyone else is in bed. It’s kind of a long story. When Beetle was born, the lovely Miss AJ was clearing out some baby clothes, and offered me a big parcel of baby boys stuff. And by full, I mean the post bag was bursting at the seams, literally. There was
It’s raining. Butterfly is unwell. We are snuggling under blankies and watching movies in pillow piles. We’ve baked a cake. The smell of dinner in the slow cooker wafts out from the kitchen. A spot of work to finalise and then some secret squirrel crafting. No point fighting the winter, instead we’ll hunker down and make the most of it.
Bear has been desperate to learn to knit for a month or so now. So with Boy2 back at preschool, and a bonus day holiday thanks to a pupil free day (bless you, new national curriculum), we hit up the craft shop, found some chunky yarn and bamboo needles, and merrily tucked ourselves up on the daybed, to get down to the serious business of
This kid. He kills me, every single day. Six and a half years ago he came screaming into our lives, and changed our world forever. Serious and solemn from the start, his wide brown eyes took everything in. Now, at 6, soon to be seven, he is serious, loving, adorable, sincere and has the wickedest sense of humour. His father tells me that Bear and