Sun cream art.
Saturday, 30 June 2012
Friday, 29 June 2012
Thursday, 28 June 2012
Wednesday, 27 June 2012
Tuesday, 26 June 2012
Monday, 25 June 2012
Le grand plan
The Plan
To escape all the crap stuff that's going on at home. To relax and recharge my batteries for two whole weeks, in the South of France. Oh, and to do it all in true yummy mummy style, accompanied at all times by les enfants.
The Reality
I am not a yummy mummy. Leaving on a jet plane with two under 5s was a shocking idea.
The first problem arose in the departure lounge. Ever tried taking a 4 year old to the toilet with a rucksack, buggy and boisterous toddler in tow? It's no fun. Especially when you lose grip of said toddler's sticky little hand and watch her disappear into a crowd of hens en route to Nice. Do I abandon the 4 year old etc and run after her? She's small but very, very fast, and I can only catch occasional glimpses of her among the sea of hot pink T shirts emblazoned with "Jen's Hens". I wonder if Jen's Hens would like to add another chick to their party. She's definitely up for a good time.
I've just about wrestled her back into the buggy, getting increasingly hot and bothered as I feel the burn of dozens of eyes on my back, those judgemental bystanders wondering what torture I'm inflicting on this poor sweet child to make her scream with such fury, when the 4 year old announces that he needs the toilet again. "This time it's a poo!" he announces to our audience. I couldn't be more mortified.
By the time we're on the plane I'm completely exhausted, extremely irritable and very much in need of a double vodka. The screaming returns when it's time to fasten our seat belts. She hates being restrained in any way and reacts with a strength that defies her years. Her body turns into an iron rod, sweat lashes off her and she lets rip. After five minutes of this, I simply give up, slump back in the chair and close my eyes. The only other noise comes from Jen's Hens, giggling and gossiping towards the rear of the plane. Jealous, much?
The seat belt sign being turned off (after what feels like about 5 years) is possibly the best moment of my life. Released from her prison, the toddler stops screaming, claps her hands and grins at me.
The rest of the flight consists of toilet trips en masse (approximately every 20 minutes), various demands (some of which I can meet - juice, snacks, entertainment - and some of which I definitely can't - "Mummy I'm hot, can we open the window?" "Mummy, can you drive the plane?" "Mummy, can we go home now?") and general disobedience from the youngest member of our group. I am aware of two young boys sitting with their parents across the aisle, napping or quietly looking at books. I avoid the mother's sympathetic eyes and turn back to my own little darlings, just as the toddler empties a juice carton over her brother's head.
The first is surprisingly easy. No queues, and the toddler is so happy to be able to walk around again that she holds my hand and doesn't try to join any hen parties. Things pretty much fall apart as soon as she spots the baggage carousel. I guess it must look like a giant, exciting game to an almost-two year old. Briefly, I wonder if it would actually do her any harm to let her play on it for a little while. Kidding.
The 4 year old has behaved impeccably compared to his little sister up to this point, so I suppose I can't blame him for deciding that it's now time to have some fun. It takes approximately 3 seconds for the toddler to follow suit, and their game of choice involves darting in and out of the rows of trolleys lined up by the carousel. My role in this game, it seems, is a difficult one. I need to run after both of them (going in opposite directions, naturally) while watching for our suitcase and buggy. Eventually I give up on the carousel, telling myself that nobody is going to steal a battered old travel buggy, and yell at my little people to stop. By this point I don't give a merde who can hear me. Yes, I'm deranged. I drag them both to the toilet, lock the three of us in a cubicle, and cry a little. For the first time in hours, both of my children are silent. They watch me with puzzled eyes as I try to pull myself together. The 4 year old strokes my arm and says, "It's ok, Mummy." He's right. It is ok. I am just having a perfectly normalnervous breakdown reaction to a stressful situation.
By the time we return to the baggage carousel, the place is empty. Our suitcase and buggy have been placed neatly beside the wall, patiently waiting for us.
The toddler climbs into the buggy (so now she behaves, when there is nobody around to witness it) and the three of us make our way to the taxi rank, where there is a long row of shiny taxis waiting. We are in France.
To escape all the crap stuff that's going on at home. To relax and recharge my batteries for two whole weeks, in the South of France. Oh, and to do it all in true yummy mummy style, accompanied at all times by les enfants.
The Reality
I am not a yummy mummy. Leaving on a jet plane with two under 5s was a shocking idea.
The first problem arose in the departure lounge. Ever tried taking a 4 year old to the toilet with a rucksack, buggy and boisterous toddler in tow? It's no fun. Especially when you lose grip of said toddler's sticky little hand and watch her disappear into a crowd of hens en route to Nice. Do I abandon the 4 year old etc and run after her? She's small but very, very fast, and I can only catch occasional glimpses of her among the sea of hot pink T shirts emblazoned with "Jen's Hens". I wonder if Jen's Hens would like to add another chick to their party. She's definitely up for a good time.
I've just about wrestled her back into the buggy, getting increasingly hot and bothered as I feel the burn of dozens of eyes on my back, those judgemental bystanders wondering what torture I'm inflicting on this poor sweet child to make her scream with such fury, when the 4 year old announces that he needs the toilet again. "This time it's a poo!" he announces to our audience. I couldn't be more mortified.
By the time we're on the plane I'm completely exhausted, extremely irritable and very much in need of a double vodka. The screaming returns when it's time to fasten our seat belts. She hates being restrained in any way and reacts with a strength that defies her years. Her body turns into an iron rod, sweat lashes off her and she lets rip. After five minutes of this, I simply give up, slump back in the chair and close my eyes. The only other noise comes from Jen's Hens, giggling and gossiping towards the rear of the plane. Jealous, much?
The seat belt sign being turned off (after what feels like about 5 years) is possibly the best moment of my life. Released from her prison, the toddler stops screaming, claps her hands and grins at me.
 |
| She was immaculate at the start of the journey. Honest. |
The rest of the flight consists of toilet trips en masse (approximately every 20 minutes), various demands (some of which I can meet - juice, snacks, entertainment - and some of which I definitely can't - "Mummy I'm hot, can we open the window?" "Mummy, can you drive the plane?" "Mummy, can we go home now?") and general disobedience from the youngest member of our group. I am aware of two young boys sitting with their parents across the aisle, napping or quietly looking at books. I avoid the mother's sympathetic eyes and turn back to my own little darlings, just as the toddler empties a juice carton over her brother's head.
 |
| Wondering what trouble she can cause next. |
The sense of relief when the plane finally lands at Nice airport is quickly overshadowed by fear. Two huge obstacles loom before me. Passport control and the baggage carousel.
The 4 year old has behaved impeccably compared to his little sister up to this point, so I suppose I can't blame him for deciding that it's now time to have some fun. It takes approximately 3 seconds for the toddler to follow suit, and their game of choice involves darting in and out of the rows of trolleys lined up by the carousel. My role in this game, it seems, is a difficult one. I need to run after both of them (going in opposite directions, naturally) while watching for our suitcase and buggy. Eventually I give up on the carousel, telling myself that nobody is going to steal a battered old travel buggy, and yell at my little people to stop. By this point I don't give a merde who can hear me. Yes, I'm deranged. I drag them both to the toilet, lock the three of us in a cubicle, and cry a little. For the first time in hours, both of my children are silent. They watch me with puzzled eyes as I try to pull myself together. The 4 year old strokes my arm and says, "It's ok, Mummy." He's right. It is ok. I am just having a perfectly normal
By the time we return to the baggage carousel, the place is empty. Our suitcase and buggy have been placed neatly beside the wall, patiently waiting for us.
The toddler climbs into the buggy (so now she behaves, when there is nobody around to witness it) and the three of us make our way to the taxi rank, where there is a long row of shiny taxis waiting. We are in France.
Sunday, 24 June 2012
Saturday, 23 June 2012
Friday, 22 June 2012
Thursday, 21 June 2012
Wednesday, 20 June 2012
Having a Ball
My Dad is a nightmare to buy gifts for. Every birthday, Christmas and Father's Day I drive myself crazy trying to think of something he'll love (and use) that's a little different. Not an easy task. This year, however, it was a no-brainer. I got him a ball.
Wait - this is no ordinary ball. It's a ball, a personal message and a lovely surprise, all in one bouncy little package.
Deliveraball have ball designs for all occasions - you just choose your colour and add a personal message, and the postman will deliver it to your recipient. No packaging or gift wrap required!
My Dad's ball went down a treat. As you can see, the kids loved it too...
Check out the Deliveraball website for more information. If you fancy sending this smiley chap to someone's door, their mascot delivery service is coming soon...
Disclosure: I was not asked to write about Deliveraball, and I received no payment for this post. I aim to blog with honesty and integrity at all times.
Tuesday, 19 June 2012
Monday, 18 June 2012
Sunday, 17 June 2012
Saturday, 16 June 2012
Friday, 15 June 2012
Thursday, 14 June 2012
Wednesday, 13 June 2012
Hot, Sweet Tea
 |
| Print from Milly Bee |
The thing is, it works. And is far less toxic than a double vodka.
I've drank so much hot, sweet tea this week, my stomach resembles a bulging hot water bottle.
Keep it coming, Mum.
Tuesday, 12 June 2012
Monday, 11 June 2012
Sunday, 10 June 2012
God of the Week: Sir Tom Hunter
After all, we goddesses can't do it all on our own...
My God of the Week is Sir Tom Hunter, the entrepreneur and philanthropist (and Scotland's first billionaire, no less) who has donated office space within his Ayrshire HQ to Entrepreneurial Spark. His generosity and support doesn't stop there. The "chiclets" (new ventures, fledgling businesses and lots of people with brilliant ideas) also receive free computers, phones, printers, Wifi, IT support, meeting rooms and a subsidised canteen.
Best of all is the ongoing support and mentoring from entrepreneurs Jim Duffy and Brian McGuire, the co-founders of this social enterprise business. I can vouch for this first hand, because StorkUp is one of the lucky businesses to be benefitting from this innovative business incubator / accelerator. To say we're exciting and honoured to be part of something that could change the face of Scottish business is an understatement.
Watch this space...
StorkUp's lovely CEO Fiona with Sir Tom Hunter.
Saturday, 9 June 2012
Wednesday, 6 June 2012
Tuesday, 5 June 2012
Reminiscing
In less than three months, my firstborn, my gorgeous boy, the one who is known as Little J even though he is shooting up at an alarming rate, a mass of gangly limbs, will officially be A Big Boy.
He starts school.
I have ordered his purple and gold school tie, which I will tie around his neck, undo and retie again and again until I get it right. I will wash his hair that morning so that it lies flat, like a flaxen cap, against his precious head. A birds' nest is ok for nursery, but not for Big Boy school.
I will make him pose for several photographs, and persuade (*bribe) his little sister to stand beside him for several more, holding his hand on this important day.
I will sort his tie one more time.
His Dad and I will take him to school, both of us silent, thinking about the day he was born, how quickly the years have passed, and how proud we are of our blonde haired boy. I won't dare voice my thoughts, because I know the tears will come.
They will come anyway.
My baby boy is growing up.
He starts school.
I have ordered his purple and gold school tie, which I will tie around his neck, undo and retie again and again until I get it right. I will wash his hair that morning so that it lies flat, like a flaxen cap, against his precious head. A birds' nest is ok for nursery, but not for Big Boy school.
I will make him pose for several photographs, and persuade (*bribe) his little sister to stand beside him for several more, holding his hand on this important day.
I will sort his tie one more time.
His Dad and I will take him to school, both of us silent, thinking about the day he was born, how quickly the years have passed, and how proud we are of our blonde haired boy. I won't dare voice my thoughts, because I know the tears will come.
They will come anyway.
My baby boy is growing up.
January 2008 ~ 1 month old.
Sunday, 3 June 2012
Dear Dad...
If I had to sum up our relationship in one word, it would be complex. Over the past 34 years, we've definitely had our ups and downs. Most of which I won't share in an open letter like this.
When I was a little thing, I was such a Mummy's Girl. You were working all hours of the day and night to get a business up and running, and I didn't see you very often. Many people tell me that I spent my time glued to Mum's side, my arm wrapped around hers like a tiny, stubborn stem of ivy. I would hide behind her skirt at parties, and cry when she dropped me off at school. My memories of you during my pre-school years are vague - a tall, handsome, hard-working man who sometimes tickled me until I thought I would die from laughing.
Teenage years were difficult. I was the eldest child, so the first to go through everything. Looking back now, I can imagine that you struggled to accept your little girl was growing up, getting ready to spread her wings and make mistakes. I made plenty of them; most came in the form of unsuitable teenage boys - the sort I now dread my own daughter bringing home, which will inevitably happen in years to come. You used to say to me, wait till you have children - you'll understand. You were right, but I still had to work some things out for myself.
As a family, we had a few horrible years, but we pulled through. Throughout everything, you were our rock. Stoic, strong and practical, you kept it together on the outside even when things were crumbling inside.
I don't think it was until my early 20s that you and I got to the stage of such closeness that I felt I could tell you anything. I'd like to think we're still in that place, give or take a few blips along the way. We're very alike in a lot of ways. Ambitious, stubborn, emotional, impatient. And some ways neither of us would probably care to admit.
Now that I've got two young children of my own, I feel like I have more of an understanding of what families - and, of course, parenthood - are all about. For many years, I looked up to you as The Perfect Man. I got angry and upset if I felt you weren't living up to this accolade. Now I know that nobody is perfect. This is a very good thing. I love you all the more for your imperfections.
Happy Father's Day.
Claire xxx
This is a link up to Mummy Central - the lovely ladies over there are hosting a link up for bloggers to post about their father, the father figure in their lives, the father of their children or an important male role model.
When I was a little thing, I was such a Mummy's Girl. You were working all hours of the day and night to get a business up and running, and I didn't see you very often. Many people tell me that I spent my time glued to Mum's side, my arm wrapped around hers like a tiny, stubborn stem of ivy. I would hide behind her skirt at parties, and cry when she dropped me off at school. My memories of you during my pre-school years are vague - a tall, handsome, hard-working man who sometimes tickled me until I thought I would die from laughing.
 |
| Me, Mum, Dad, Sister, circa 1986 |
As a family, we had a few horrible years, but we pulled through. Throughout everything, you were our rock. Stoic, strong and practical, you kept it together on the outside even when things were crumbling inside.
I don't think it was until my early 20s that you and I got to the stage of such closeness that I felt I could tell you anything. I'd like to think we're still in that place, give or take a few blips along the way. We're very alike in a lot of ways. Ambitious, stubborn, emotional, impatient. And some ways neither of us would probably care to admit.
Now that I've got two young children of my own, I feel like I have more of an understanding of what families - and, of course, parenthood - are all about. For many years, I looked up to you as The Perfect Man. I got angry and upset if I felt you weren't living up to this accolade. Now I know that nobody is perfect. This is a very good thing. I love you all the more for your imperfections.
Happy Father's Day.
Claire xxx
This is a link up to Mummy Central - the lovely ladies over there are hosting a link up for bloggers to post about their father, the father figure in their lives, the father of their children or an important male role model.
Saturday, 2 June 2012
Friday, 1 June 2012
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