With your first child it’s fine to be fastidious with every aspect of their lives, from having ear phones strapped to your belly playing Beethoven (yes I did this) in order to better grow a cultured foetus, to showing a 6 month old flash cards in the hope it will give them an edge over their competition peers. With the second child you’re happy if everyone is dressed and fed and you convince yourself that the older one is passing on all the wisdom you attempted to impart in them to their younger sibling. By the time you’ve reached your third child, a good day constitutes not having misplaced any of them and not having had the neighbours report the screaming coming from next door to social services. Little do they know that it is you screaming, not your children.
Being in a hospital waiting room is like being stuck at an airport waiting for a delayed plane, although without the promise of a holiday at the end of it. Dominic and I usually sit and while away the time staring at a small screen, me on Facebook him on the DSi. We're generally happy
I thought that perhaps my days of being able to surreptitiously gather ammunition for free and guiltless use against my children when they morph into grunting, fridge-clearing Neanderthals teenagers were all but over. Certainly my oldest (who is 9, but shows signs of precocious development of the evil genius trait earlier than I had originally
Have you ever wanted to stare, but known that you shouldn’t? This is a video of the most beautiful child in the world, telling his story of a life with feeding tubes- of course you’ll stare, you won’t be able to tear you eyes away
I have been silently vowing to myself that I will spend more blog inches focusing on Elliot and Lilia. Looking back over the posts, they seem sadly neglected, often included in what I'm writing, but without the spotlight actually falling on them, which doesn't really accurately represent the real dynamic in the family. In 'real