There's nothing like a bit of procrastination when there is work to be done, and in the lead up to starting paid employment again I had a million and one vital jobs that required concentration, proper thinking and, well... adulting.  So, like a pro I ditched most of those, saving them up for the eleventh hour, and concentrated on far more important things like... cleaning the office.  Sorting through photos.  Tidying up my emails.  

The latter saw me trawl back through past adventures and past lives - job applications that I didn't even get an interview for, lengthy emails to former travelling buddies that were sent long before the instant nature of Facebook and Instagram replaced (private) outpourings of "I miss you" and "remember the time we...".  And something else.  A long forgotten letter I wrote once to a magazine in response to an article they had printed the week before.  It was never published, but I remember that I found it cathartic to write.  Now I have my own outlet, I call the shots on what gets published.  So here it is.  Edited slightly, and obviously minus the original article, but I think it still holds enough meaning to stand on its own.

Your recent article written by a young mother, recently widowed and now bringing up her two young children solo, reduced me to tears.  It has compelled me to write, and I have felt it immensely cathartic to acknowledge emotions that until now I wasn’t entirely aware existed in me.
 
Dad died when I was four.  Mum was left a widow in her late thirties and has never remarried.  Throughout my childhood, and in to adulthood, whenever the question of Dad has come up during conversations with those who enquired, the focus has always been on how it affected me.  Not in a melodramatic, “woe is me” type of way, but more as a natural progression of that type of conversation (typically, the response I receive when I tell people about losing him in my early childhood is “That must have been terrible for you”).
 
Growing up it was just the two of us – Mum and me.  Whilst I have always appreciated what an amazing job she did, and how well she coped (I only remember seeing her cry once – the first night we were alone together in the house a few days after Dad had died and Granny had gone home), I’ve never really sat back and taken stock of the fact that at an age when she should have been planning more children, enjoying family holidays and celebrating wedding anniversaries, my Mum was actually starting a very different life to the one she had planned – bringing up a child on her own, surviving on a single wage and coping with the loss of the man she loved.
 
I guess it is a testament to the fabulous job she did at shielding me from the bad stuff, and working hard to ensure I enjoyed as normal a life as possible, that I have never really questioned how she felt, or how she was coping.  Dad died when I was so young that the effect it had on my normality was minimal – yes I missed him, I still do – but in a way it is the absence of a father I miss rather than the individual.  I know he was an amazing person, but I know this from what people tell me.  I have few memories of him myself, though those I do are precious.  Mum and I do talk about him still, but we have never discussed how she coped.  How she felt.  How she feels now, over three decades on.
 
Your article blindsided me.  It made me acknowledge for the first time the awfulness of the situation Mum endured, and, more importantly, how well she coped with it.  I hope the pain begins to ease for your contributor, and wish her, and her boys love and happiness in life – whatever it may bring.

Whilst I can't say, hand on heart, that I was ever someone for whom motherhood was my life ambition, having a family certainly featured whenever I took time out to ponder my future. It wasn't so much that my daydreams focussed on me having kids, rather, they were simply there - present when I thought about what I might be doing as my future self. And of course, if I thought about having children, I thought about being called Mummy, and (let's face it) how utterly lovely that would be.

Fast forward a few years, and here I am, sat here as my future self. The children that were once part of my future are now part of my present. And whilst the baby has yet to formulate anything but smiles and the occasional raspberry to greet me, to my toddler, I am now, very definitely, "Mummy".

Granted, It was a while coming. Slightly unfortunately, the time in his development that saw him look to identify me with a name coincided with pregnancy number two. Our efforts to prepare him for the arrival of his little companion (pointing to my tummy and talking about "the baby") simply resulted (quite understandably) in him coming to the conclusion that I was one with the baby (quite deep for a toddler, really). For several months, I was referred to as "Bebe". To his credit, when the baby actually arrived he did a sterling job of concealing any of the (inevitable) confusion - without missing a beat he simply referred to us both as "Bebe" so confidently that he was rarely questioned, even by strangers. But then, in a relatively speedy and seamless change of approach (perhaps he had a word with one of his mates. Perhaps he Wikipedia'd it), he gained a little more clarity on all things familial and almost overnight I became Mummy*.
​
However, what I didn't ponder during those times spent thinking ahead, was how, exactly, that word would be used and (often) abused. How it would so often be used, not just by my children, but but by others as a term of address. How its use would sometimes blur the lines between identifying a role I have in my family, and my identity within society. Currently (but only just) still on maternity leave, I spend a great deal of my time these days as either "Finn's Mummy" or Beth's Mummy". At nursery. At the classes and groups we attend. At their health checks.

At home, "Mummy" is yelled and screeched by the toddler for a variety of reasons, not all of them tangible. If he can't see me. If he can see me but I'm not looking at him. If he can see me and I am looking at him but I am not reading his thoughts. All of these are reasons to take the M word in vain. Sometimes, it is just repetition of the word with no follow up. Sometimes the inflection suggests a question is coming, but despite harnessing all the patience I have within my soul, that question doesn't materialise despite a hundred utterances of "Muuuuummy....?".

But then... sometimes, it is hollered in a wave of actual delight and love - when I collect him from nursery. When I am tickling him into a frenzy on the sofa. When he has found YET ANOTHER stone for his collection that he wants to show me - his Mummy. And you know what? Suddenly, having multiple identities ain't so bad.

*Though it has to be said that Beth is still largely referred to simply "Bebe". Only on very rare occasions (mainly when he is trying to ram home a point relating to something she has done that he thinks she shouldn't have) she is "Beeeebeeee BETH"

As the long summer days slowly draw shorter, and the light mornings are that little later in coming, so too is there a slow creep towards the end of my maternity leave.  And with that imminence, comes the need to make a few tough decisions.

When I returned from 15 months travelling straight after my A'levels, I took a (very) temporary telesales job before taking a punt on a job in London.  I never looked back - that was 15 years ago and I have worked in our glorious capital ever since.  I have loved it on so many levels.  The opportunities for after work socialising are boundless - from the pub literally over the road from my first job which we all, often as a collective, sometimes as splinter groups, frequented two, three, four times a week; to the fancy pants restaurants that being in decent jobs and child free occasionally afforded us in our early thirties.  I love the history, the architecture, the famous bits and the unknown bits.  I love sunny days by the river and wet days watching men in suits battle each other with oversized golf umbrellas.  

But as is so often the case in life, things change.  When Littly was born, I went back to work part time.  I was on a timetable - nursery pickup.  Bedtime. Sleepless nights and early mornings.  I took less and less advantage of the good stuff, and began to resent the extra burden a commute loaded on to our already crammed lives.  Then we moved further away.  I was pregnant again.  For three months it was up at 5:45 and home at 7.  Littly in nursery for longer shifts than those of junior doctors.  Socialising in pubs and restaurants?  Not a frigging chance.  And I hated it.  I was hormonal and miserable.  Tired, rushed and stressed.  

So now what?  Now we have two smalls, and the looming prospect of no more paid maternity leave?  Well, in our case it meant some serious conversations.  About what was best for us all as a family.  What was going to make life work for us.  Make it doable.  Ensure we all still smile.  And the conclusion?  Last week I took the bull by the horns and resigned.  Handed in my notice on a job that I had initially fallen in to but somehow, SOMEHOW, made a pretty decent go at.  Managed to build a pretty good reputation.  Managed to build a portfolio of clients and successful projects that I am pretty damn proud of.  

And it was a tough decision to make, and an even tougher one to act on.  Not because I think it is the wrong decision, or because I resent doing it in any way.  The prospect of returning our family to the routine we had fallen in to pre maternity leave was without a doubt filling me (and no doubt MD) with dread.  But because it signifies the closure of something.  It signifies the decision to take a step away from someone I had grown in to.  Worked damn hard at becoming.  A world where I wasn't "Mummy" who was needed to wipe a bum or deliver fishfingers.  I was a professional, who's opinion was sought and listened to, who was invited to meetings, attended working lunches and who offered solutions to issues more complex than the temporary loss of Bear.

Whilst it is not a complete step away from work (unfortunately as I haven't married the creator of Snapchat I still need to contribute on some level to the household income) - I'll be trying my luck by going freelance so that I can maintain a level of personal sanity, professional credibility and financial contribution, as I will be basing myself at the bottom of our stairs in the home office, London will no longer be my city.  And for all her faults, her fickle nature and grey Mondays, I will miss her.

On Friday night, after a glass or two of wine and a whole lot of soul searching, I plucked up the courage to confess something to MD that had been weighing on my mind for a while.  I took a deep breath, and let it all pour out...

This afternoon, shortly before teatime, I did something I'm not proud of*.  Having successfully wrestled Beth down for an afternoon nap, and following the 50th tantrum/whingy outburst from the toddler prompted by oh, I don't know, being served squash in the wrong coloured beaker, I reached the end of my tether.  When my services were called upon once again to find Bear, the soft toy dog he drags around with him through mud, snot and baked beans, and which smells as though it is slowly rotting from the inside, I cheerily replied "oh I think Bear is outside in the garden.  Probably in the Cozy Coupe".  Littly dutifully trotted off through the kitchen door, into the light drizzle and I... well, I hotfooted it in the opposite direction into the utility room, pulled open the cupboard door and rammed the last Mr Kipling Bakewell Tart into my face faster than you could say "Bear hasn't set foot in the Cozy Coupe all frigging day".  For a few seconds it was all worth it.  Until I heard a wail from the garden.  "MUUUUUMMMMMYYYYYYY!!!!!! Bear GONE!!!!" And then I knew that I was up for the Worst Parent of 2016 award. And probably a visit from social services.

MD was shocked to his very core.  That I could send our son out in to the rain on what I knew to be a bogus mission (how cruel).  That I could contemplate doing so simply in order to demolish the last cake in the house and not have to share it (how selfish).  That I didn't save the last cake for him (how unwifely).

But (and here is the big BUT), MD hadn't been at home with them both all day.  Hell, all week.  He hadn't craved just a single a moment of peace to have a pee, or drink a drink or empty the dishwasher without a little shadow uttering the phrase "I'll (insert activity) tooooooo Mummy". Hadn't sat down to drink an already tepid cup of coffee, only for a little head to pop out of the Cozy Coupe and shout "Mummy push.  Pleeeease Mummy".  Hadn't spent 15 minutes dressing a wriggling baby who has discovered the joys of rolling, whilst bribing the toddler with a go on the iPad just to ensure the entire contents of my make up bag were not emptied down the toilet. 

So, I got to thinking... what else do I do as a Mother (an often frustrated and desperate one, at that) which I see as a necessary part of my day, but which may be viewed by others (my husband included) as borderline child cruelty?

• FREQUENTLY scratch/scrape dried on food/mud/snot from clothes (normally of the trouser variety) and say "you can wear these again tomorrow - we're not going out".  Hell, that laundry basket is already full to capacity.  Ain't my problem if you sat on your yoghurty spoon at tea time. 
• Convinced the toddler that the house alarm sensors conveniently placed in the corners of the downstairs room (you know the ones - with intermittent flashing red lights) are actually Father Christmas's secret spy portals.  GENIUS (it has to be said that I cannot take credit for this one.  Whoever came up with it is a LEGEND!).  Father Christmas watches little boys and girls throughout the year to make sure they are actually being good all the time. Ha!!  Brilliant! Littly now bids "Ho Ho Ho" (as he refers to the man in red) a good morning, waves to him and points him out to guests. Whether or not it has had any affect on his behaviour is questionable, but the comedy value is priceless. 
• Offered utterly ridiculous and hugely unappealing options to get the toddler to do what I want him to do.  "You can either sit there nicely whilst I get your sister ready to go out, or you can go into your bedroom and put all the balls back in your play tent".  Oh look at that, there is suddenly a little angel sitting patiently for me to strap the baby in to her car seat (though it's true, those bastard balls remain scattered across the bedroom floor... but that's a battle for another day).
• When asked for the millionth time in the day to push him round the garden in the Cozy Coupe/the house on his wooden scooter (both of which he is capable of driving himself but it is evidently more fun to be chauffeured), lamented "but I just can't remember how to do it.  Can you show me what to do please?" and then spent a glorious few minutes watching him push the empty vehicle up and down the garden/round the kitchen island.

​I cannot believe I am alone here,  I refuse to believe I am that cruel a parent that my children will one day be down the pub recounting such tales and there won't be nods of agreement and similar tales of woe coming from each and every one of their friends.  Needs must when you are a parent of smalls and I'd sure as hell like to hear of any further tips for a quiet(ish) life from any of you reading this.

*Who am I kidding??  I still think this was my smartest move all week.

Last week heralded our first holiday together as a family of four. Now safely home, laundry (about) caught up with and photos of beaming children dutifully uploaded to a myriad of social networking sites, I have time to catch my breath and undertake a bit of a debrief on the week that has left me all at one rested, and thoroughly exhausted. To anyone thinking of embarking on a similar trip (or for those of you who don't have smalls and want a bit of insight into what those days spent languishing on a hot beach somewhere in the middle of nowhere could look like in a parallel universe), here are my observations.

1) First up, I feel there is a need to address the name that such weeks go by. "Holiday". To me, a week at Centre Parcs in the rain with a toddler and a six month old should not, by all standards of logic, be defined in the same way as a fortnight on a beach in Mauritius with only the fizzing of a cold beer and your own thoughts to break the silence. Yes, I had fun and yes I consumed (marginally) more alcohol and (substantially) more food last week than I do most weeks but there, my friends, the similarities end, and trying to shoehorn the two together under a common heading is like trying to draw similarities of musical genius between Justin Bieber and Bob Dylan.

2) I remember years ago my Mum telling me that her very first childhood holiday was a camping trip that saw them cycle over the border from Hertfordshire to Essex and set up camp a mere few miles from home. As a teenager, I scoffed at such ridiculousness. As a twenty something with both income and time at my fingertips, and only myself to organise, I laughed in the face of the "staycation" and took full advantage of European free movement (perhaps a good job I did when I could) as well as accessible global travel. Now? Well, I'm beginning to think that Granny and Grandpa Wallace may have been on to a good thing. Once we had opted for Centre Parcs it was a no brainer that our chosen venue would be the one 20 minutes down the road in Sherwood Forest. I am very much inclined towards the path of least resistance these days. Nothing fills me with dread more than the thought of shepherding my two and a half year old (who will career with ease between running at full pelt and absolutely, categorically refusing to walk) through T4, boarding a plane and spending the next goodness knows how long trying to come up with creative distraction techniques with a solitary colouring book and travel scrabble. 20 minutes in the car (sorry Granny and Grandpa, the bikes were reserved for when we got there this time), and we were into our cabin and opening the wine faster than you can say Peppa Pig.

3) Whilst the attention span of a toddler is, in most day to day scenarios, limited to say the least, when it comes to certain activities there seems no end to their enthusiasm. After his first go on one of the water slides in the "Subtropical Swimming Paradise" (who are they trying to kid, exactly? Paradise, this most certainly ain't) there was absolutely no stopping him. Barely had he reached the bottom before he yelled "more, more". He would have been absolutely content to do circuits of the same piddly little slide all week, had we not dragged him (initially kicking and screaming) to some of the others, including those which he had to be accompanied down. At one point, having plunged face first underwater at the end of a rather rapid descent with Daddy, he practically choked on a lungful of chlorinated water as he shouted "MORE MORE" before he had fully resurfaced. It has to be said, enthusiasm breeds enthusiasm. If you had asked me 15 years ago what my worst holiday nightmare looked like, I may well have described something that closely resembled the Subtropical Swimming Paradise on a wet Wednesday afternoon. As it goes MD and I were (almost) as giddy as Littly when it came to being the "responsible adult" that accompanied him.

4) Leading neatly on from number three, is the testing of boundaries and related parental pride. Littly is (I believe) a typical toddler, in so much as he is often loud, occasionally infuriating and increasingly selectively deaf. but he can also be a little shy and a little unsure of himself. Often this will manifest itself in a tantrum, and often I don't handle it very well. But things are different on holiday. Time is more elastic. Patience is more free flowing. His progress in the water came slowly at first, but then rapidly, and it was beautiful to watch as he grinned from ear to ear, where before he had been trepidatious and hesitant. On the Thursday he was booked in to do a (much) scaled down version of Go Ape. He initially refused to put the harness on. There was foot stamping and thumb sucking. But with Daddy's encouragement he did it and Hell, he enjoyed it! We cheered and high fived, but I also took a quiet moment before bedtime that night to tell him how proud I am of him. Time together as a family, regardless of destination, is invaluable during these formative years to encourage wider thinking and greater adventure amongst the security of those they know.

5) 4:30pm is the new 8pm. For dinner, obvs. On a normal day, I refuse to eat my main meal of the day so soon after lunch. However, this was a family holiday, and therefore we decided to participate wholeheartedly as a family, including eating all together. That meant cycling to the "Country Club" (I mean seriously, who comes up with these names??!) for a (questionable) burger and chips in broad daylight, and having to seriously consider whether it was too early to order a large glass of (questionable) wine to accompany it (for the record, the answer to that is a resounding no. This might be a family holiday, but dammit, it's my only holiday). But actually it was rather nice to eat together every day for a week. Even Beth joined in to a degree - she sucked the life out of the odd bit of carrot here and there, munched on barbecued asparagus spears and threw bread in every direction except towards her mouth. Finn was utterly delighted that he had not only his own food, but Mummy's and Daddy's to sample as well. And as for us, we were just happy that this is all considered pretty normal behaviour within the confines of Centre Parcs.

6) It became clear when we got home that I NEVER take enough photos, or rather, enough decent, good quality photos. This time, I went a step further and forgot to pack the camera entirely. Don't do this. As lovely as a candid snap on an iPhone is, I wish we had a few "proper' pictures to document the week. Specifically, one of the four of us which we still don't really have. It just means we'll have to go back next year, and do it all again I guess.

​Heaven help us all.

How are we here already, little one?  This weekend you were five months old.  You are rolling over, nearly sitting up, blowing raspberries like they are going out of fashion and developing a bond with your big brother which will surely only get sweeter (and, let's face it, more volatile) as time goes on.

But this week also heralded a far bigger transition - from breast to formula.  Whilst the plan was always to make the change around the six month mark, it's happened slightly sooner and it's left me with a bittersweet feeling that I'm finding a little hard to articulate.  You are my last little one.  There will be no more babies in the Dobson household - we are categorically done.  And whilst that decision is one that I am absolutely 110% behind (BELIEVE me!), the fact that you are my last means that with everything you stop, or move on from, comes the realisation that it will be my last time too.  When you started sleeping through I was ETERNALLY grateful, but at the same time a little sad that I was losing those moments of calm stillness, just the two of us, when at 2am all you wanted, all you needed was me and what my body could provide for you.  When it came time to move on from all those "newborn" sized baby grows to the bigger sizes, I knew that I would never see another of my children in these tiny little garments that have been bought, or saved or made with such love and anticipation.  And now, now you are no longer nursing, well that's another milestone passed.  One which I won't pass again.  And whilst I am captivated on a daily basis by your growth and development and achievements, a small part of me aches just a little for that tiny baby that needed me and my body for both nourishment and comfort.

The transition happened faster than your brother's did - just another way to demonstrate that every child, every developmental curve, is indeed different. My milk supply (which had from the start been clearly and evidently less abundant this time around) took clear umbrage to the introduction of formula in to the equation.  I'd hoped to continue with a combination feed for a month or so, but my body had different ideas.  It truly felt as though I woke up one morning and it was gone.  The last feed you had didn't even fill you up.  You screamed bloody murder an hour later and demolished 7oz of formula.  And that was that.  At five months and a week you are fully transitioned and guzzling like  pro.

You still nuzzle me on occasion though.  When you are sleepy, when you are sad. When I went in last night to give you your dream feed, it was me you lent in to, not the hard plastic of the bottle.  It was my finger that you eventually grasped when searching in your drowsy state for something warm and familiar.  It made me catch my breath.  It made me hold you just that little bit longer before I put you back in your cot.  It made me wonder all the things that mothers the world over wonder from the moment they start on the parenting journey

"Am I doing the right thing?"
"Will you be ok with this?"
"How have we reached this stage already?"

But then, the universe has a way of telling you that things will, of course, be ok.  This morning, as I snatched five minutes to dress before the chaos of the day started, I heard your murmurings over the monitor,  Not quite ready, I called out to you.  Then out of the corner of my eye I saw your brother headed in to your room.  "Where are you off to?" I said.  He turned and looked at me.  "I'll do it" he replied, clutching your bottle of formula and toddling off in to your bedroom.

Yep, I reckon you might be just fine with a big brother like that to look out for you.

There is never a good time to find a red rash all over your four month old baby's body, but 10:30 at night, when all is dark and quiet, she's finally asleep after a restless evening and the two year old in the room next door is dreaming dreams of cars and dinosaurs has to be up there in the top three really crap times.  What should have been a quick dream feed (which she almost didn't have as I had been feeding her on and off since 6:30pm in an attempt to get her to sleep), turned quickly in to an all nighter the likes of which I have never pulled before and hope never to have to again. Between the last feed attempt at about 8:30pm and our (now typically early) bedtime of 9:45pm when I went in to dream feed her, Beth had developed a rash over her entire body.  It was red and angry.  On her ears, around her mouth, on her neck, down each side of her torso, across her tummy and in her groin.  It was even on the little bald patch she has on the back of her head.  She barely moved as I unbuttoned her baby grow and discovered the extent to which it had spread.  I didn't think particularly rationally.  I didn't think "well she doesn't normally wake when I giver her a dream feed so perhaps all is ok".  I panicked.  I shouted to MD.  I said "should we phone 111?".  He said "Fuck that I'm phoning 999".  And he did.

Stupid things happen when you are in that state.  When asked how old she was by the operator he replied "two and a half" - clearly a bit blindsided by the whole thing.  She's not!! I shouted from the other room.  That's your son. And then to myself "she's a tiny little baby".  "Birth normal?" they asked "How much did she weigh?". Shit!!!  Why can't I remember EXACTLY HOW MUCH MY DAUGHTER WEIGHED???

By this point, Beth was wide awake and grinning from ear to ear.  She was stripped to her nappy and looked as though she had a pretty severe case of sunburn.  All the lights were on.  We were up and down the stairs.  In all of this my darling boy didn't stir once.  He was too caught up in his dinosaur dreams.

The response team arrived first.  Three men, all called Matt (they introduced themselves in turn and there was a beat missed when in any normal scenario a mildly amusing comment would have been made about them all having the same name.  It wasn't the time or the place and everyone knew it).  Beth grinned at them all, and then promptly stopped grinning when they pricked her heel and took blood to test her sugar levels. A million questions were asked about changing washing powder (negative), history of eczema (negative) and known allergies (I have no idea.  She's tiny.  She only consumes what my body provides. She's not yet needed any medication).  The paramedics arrived.  More questions.  The decision to take her in was made.  It felt precautionary, but still - my baby was leaving the house in an ambulance.  There a few things scarier than that.

I left with Beth. MD's parents were summoned and he would follow once they arrived to stay with Finn.  Unbeknown to me at the time, he cried when he phoned them.  I sat in the ambulance staring at Beth who was asleep before we hit the A1.  The paramedic told me about her daughter's forthcoming wedding in Cyprus, whilst I silently willed mine to be ok.  It was a bumpy ride to Lincoln.  The suspension was shot to shit and it sounded as though we were carrying a crate of guinea pigs in the back.  There was a sign above my head which I read as "EGG ROLLS".  I thought that was a pretty strange thing to have a compartment for on an ambulance, before I realised it was in fact "ECG ROLLS".  I'd left my glasses at home.

A&E at midnight is not a happy place.  Aside from the fact that it is unlikely you will be there yourself unless you are experiencing a bit of a crisis, your companions for the duration of your wait will most likely be a motley crew of the public's finest.  In the red corner we had a couple in their early twenties who barrel rolled in with a couple of policemen, clearly accompanying one of their less than sober friends who had taken a tumble in to someone's fist.  Whilst he received some TLC care of the NHS, his concerned friends flirted shamelessly with one another over the vending machine ("how about I buy you a coffee and a packet of Quavers" he offered gallantly.  "Thanks but you really don't have to" she giggled.  Now there's a story to tell the grandkids).  In the blue corner was a family of four - Mum, Dad and twin boys about four years old, one of whom had cut his foot and was awaiting a clean up and a plaster.  Having been called through by the nurse, Dad disappeared outside, reappearing 10 minutes later with a family sized Domino's and four cans of Fanta - dinner for four, it would appear.  It was a feast for the eyes and ears - a melting pot of the old and young, the scared and the foolhardy.  And Beth slept through it all.

We were seen by Triage, and then by a junior doctor.  She sat next to the reams of notes made throughout the evening and asked why we had brought Beth in.  We relayed the story again. I could feel MD getting irked.  "she's had the rash for two days?" she asked.  "Have you even read those" he demanded, nodding at the notes.  She glanced at him, and then the notes.  She stripped my baby to her nappy and rolled her around to examine her.  At one point she nearly rolled her on to the floor.  "I think it's a viral rash" she said finally.  I'm not sure who she was trying to convince, herself or us (surely one of the first lessons in how to become a doctor is to sound convincing and authoritative.  i think she must have been absent from class that day).  "what's that?" asked MD.  "well, it's a rash caused by... er... a virus.  A viral rash" she replied.  "And...?" I asked.  "Keep an eye on it and bring her back if it gets worse" was the offered suggestion.

We left shortly after.  Beth dozing once again, MD and I feeling all at once grateful for this thing they call the NHS - this service that is free at the point of use and "always on" despite Mr Hunt's attempts to worry us into thinking otherwise, and yet more than a little frustrated by the blindingly obvious need for improvement in certain areas, from the dreary and downright grubby looking waiting area to the approach and attitude of a small minority.

This morning she woke with a smile. She fed well and the rash is slowly fading.  She's sleeping in my arms as I write this and the whole experience feels a bit dreamlike.  Of course, she'll have no recollection whatsoever of the events that unfolded, but that panic, that feeling of helplessness, and then all consuming, utter relief, they will all stay with me forever.  As will the knowledge that for someone out there, only a double pepperoni with extra cheese will ease the boredom of a trip to A&E at midnight.

The other day, as I was doing my weekly trawl round the supermarket, dozing baby in tow, Littly no.1 at nursery, I found myself in the magazine aisle.  A place I once knew well, this is a domain I rarely visit these days.  Gone are the days of a weekly subscription to Grazia and purchases of Vogue, Marie Claire or (who am I kidding) Closer for long train rides to visit clients in far flung, exotic locations such as Barnstaple and Stoke on Trent.  These days I am lucky to manage a quick flick through the Village Link over a cup of tepid coffee and three bites of soggy toast.  Anyway, I digress.  There I was, surrounded by a wealth of shiny loveliness and before I knew it I had rashly popped a copy of Red in the trolley,  It sat well alongside the maternity breast pads and the weekly quota of nappies currently required by our household.  

It sat gathering dust in the kitchen for a couple of days - taunting me with it's glossy cover and promise of escapism each time I passed it - before one evening, kids in bed and MD busying himself with something manly in the garage I actually SAT DOWN WITH A GLASS OF WINE AND READ IT.  Well, I read a few pages.  Then the cat vomited in the utility room and the baby started crying.  So that was that.  

But in that time I did manage to read a very helpful article about sleep.  Arianna Huffington, "wellbeing expert and business guru" is on a mission apparently - her new book (and "wellbeing campaign") is promoting sleep.  Lots of it.  And she has a number of steps to get us all to the point of being "sleep pros".  Right. Let's have a little look, shall we?

• Make a ritual of bedtime. Lots of useful tips here, my favourite being to take a hot bath with Epsom Salts and a "candle flickering nearby".  A hot bath?  Before bed?  With a candle??? EVERY FRIGGING NIGHT??  Hang on a second here.  Even if such things as water meters didn't exist to make this an economic disaster zone, I'm not sure how a) I'd fit it in what with all the crap telly (sorry, I mean ironing) there is to occupy me or b) exactly what MD would say if I disappeared of an evening circa 8:30 to take a long bath with Epsom Salts (are these even still on the shelves of 21st century supermarkets?!).
• Meditate. Ok, if you say so. Does falling asleep in front of the TV with a half drunk glass of wine count?
• Banish tech from the bedroom.  Ah... so it would appear that falling asleep in front of the TV is not a permissible element to this ritual.  Must try harder to stay awake so I can do sleeping properly.
• Try visualisation. I actually do this, though instead of "stones dropping in to a lake" I'm more "piles of laundry engulfing me".
• Exercise.  Nailed it - my two stone two year old (who has perfectly functioning legs) is currently refusing to walk up the stairs.  Job's a good 'un.
• Cut caffeine, alcohol and sugar.  And don't eat late at night.  Utterly ridiculous in all senses.  Firstly, you have just named three of my five a day that you want me to ditch.  Secondly, Whilst I could eat fishfingers and peas at 4:45pm with a toddler, I'd much rather eat a grown up dinner, with grown up wine with my grown up husband when he gets in from work.  Which I am afraid means eating late.  
• Make a gratitude list - "make sure our blessings get the closing scene of the night".  Always!  "I am so very grateful to have survived another day with a toddler and a baby.  so very grateful...."
• Breathe slowly and count your breaths.  "Inhale quietly through the nose for four counts, hold for seven and exhale with a whooshing sound through the mouth for eight counts".  A whooshing sound??! Now that right there is going to interfere considerably with all the TV we aren't allowed to watch in bed, surely?
• Consider your mortality. Surely this will make the above very difficult.  I don't know about you, but when I start considering the inevitability of death, my breathing doesn't tend to slow...
• Have special nightwear.  Oh I do, I do!! Currently sporting a nursing bra with holes in it and mismatched supermarket knickers.  Now if that's not special, I don't know what is.
• After 20 minutes of struggling to sleep... This is rarely an issue tbh.
• If you can't get enough sleep at night nap during the day.  I bet she's the type of person who tells new mothers to "sleep when the baby sleeps".  Apparently, the best time to nap is when you feel yourself flagging.  By all counts, I should be napping through toddler breakfast time.

​
So there you have it.  Simple ways to get good at sleeping.  If I may, I'd like to tweak it ever so slightly, by removing all the above points, and replacing them with send your children to boarding school as early as possible. I'm kidding, obviously.  Far too expensive, and frankly we're broke after the water bill we got following all those baths.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to start my bedtime ritual.  And no, there's nothing prepped for dinner - I've been napping all day.

*For the record, I count myself incredibly lucky that, despite having two small children, I do actually get an uninterrupted night's sleep most nights.  Both are damn good sleepers - we have dropped VERY lucky with them.  I would also like to confirm that Arianna's new campaign is not targeting parents specifically, but presumably neither the article, nor her "small steps" seek to exclude this rather large demographic.

There are relatively few things that have stayed constant in my life.  Houses, jobs and hair colours have all changed countless times (for better and worse), numerous friendships (and indeed some relationships) have come and gone, as have pets, cars and holiday priorities (opportunities for fine dining and all night drinking have been replaced by the need for family friendly facilities and stress free travel).  But through all of this, running has stayed with me often in the foreground, sometimes in the background, as something I enjoy and indeed on occasion, something that I need.  And interestingly, as I look back on the different chapters of my life, the changes that have occurred personally and professionally, it would appear that my approach to running has evolved too.

I am the first to admit that at school I was a bit of an oddity.  I wasn't sure quite where I fitted - on the one hand I was all black nail varnish, tassled skirts and bootleg Nirvana cassettes.  On the other I had a secret crush on Mark Owen and knew all the words to Don't Love Me for Fun by Boyzone.  Probably for that very reason I was never really one for team sports - I just didn't feel a true affinity to any one team, to any one group.  And of course as an angst ridden teenager, there was the ever present worry that Kurt Cobain wouldn't approve of a sport as bourgeoise as netball, or that the placid Mark Owen wouldn't love me if I got aggressive on the hockey field.  But running was different - I could run for myself, on my own, to whatever soundtrack I damn well wanted.  I soon ascertained (after a disastrous turn at the 100m one school sports day when, in my eagerness, I set off way too fast, face planted on the track, caused the entire race to be restarted and then placed a comfortable last) that I was built for endurance and distance, rather than speed or a quick getaway.  And whilst I never competed for my County, or even for my school, I was always the happiest when PE sessions focussed on cross country or the 800m rather than the team sports my cohorts so enjoyed.

​Onto my early 20s and my first taste of genuine independence when I moved out of home and got my first proper job.  In London.  With a proper (read above minimum wage) salary.  I continued to enjoy running, but it started to come with added benefits.  As my confidence grew, and I became more socially able - more comfortable to put myself out there and carve an identity for myself, I started to enjoy the feeling of being part of a team.  I still often ran on my own, but now I was happier to be a more social participant too.  I ran as part of our work's team in a couple of corporate challenges.  I took part in the Hyde Park Summer Series.  It was evolving, this past time of mine, and so was I. As I worked through the first half of that formative decade, during which time I bought my first house, and then my second, got married and enjoyed the perks of being young and in London, I saw that running needn't just sit alongside all of that, but that it could actually be a catalyst to some of the fun times too.

Things changed again in my late 20s.  Personally I was in a rocky place and as marriage no.1 hit the skids, my attitude to running morphed again.  I became wary of people, and as a result I lost any inclination I once had to throw myself in to group based scenarios of any kind.  A cliche it may be, but in times of personal stress and change you truly find out who your friends are.  Some surprise you with their unfaltering loyalty and willingness to help, listen and drink wine in to the wee small hours.  Others shock you with their misguided judgement and ability to abandon you because the friendship is no longer easy or convenient.  So once again, running became a solitary past time.  I ran for miles, cross country, in the gym - it didn't really matter.  The soundtrack was loud and often angry.  There were no post run drinks in the pub - instead, the deafening silences I returned to meant that every evening I ran for a little bit longer and a little bit further.  Hell, I might have been going through the mill emotionally, but I was the fittest I have ever been.

But then it was once again all change as I hit the big 3-0.  So far, this decade has seen a new marriage, two kids, a relocation and a generally sunnier outlook.  I've grown up.  I'm comfortable enough in my own skin to be less than bothered about how others might perceive my choices (not even Mark Owen or Kurt Cobain, God rest his soul).  Once again I feel able to put myself out there (having kids does that to you - if you're not willing to hold a stranger's hand and dance around a cold sports hall pretending to be a train on a cold Monday morning it's going to be a lonely, lonely place) and carve a niche for myself in this new chapter of my life.  So, whilst I took a short hiatus from running through one wedding, two pregnancies and two house moves, I'm ready to welcome back an old friend.  Like any girl worth her salt, I've bought some new shoes for the occasion, and I can't wait to get back in to my stride again. 
​

Whilst for the most part I find that life with two children feels like an (often out of control) merry-go-round, there are rare moments of calm and quiet.  Mostly these occur on the days that Beth and I are on our own together (when Littly no.1 is home, calm and quiet is the stuff of dreams), and inevitably the calmest, quietest times are when I am feeding her.  Whilst I confess that I often take these opportunities to catch up on some mind numbing reality rubbish that MD flat out refuses to watch (I particularly look forward to the days I have "Kate Plus Eight" recorded - it's always nice to know there is someone out there who has it tougher than you do!), there are times when it is just me and her (or, now that I have started expressing, me and the dreaded pump)... and my thoughts. Rarely getting the opportunity these days to just sit and, well, think, my mind seems to go on some kind of crazy overdrive at these times - a "must cram all my activity in to these 15 minutes as I don't know when I will get the opportunity to run riot again" kinda response I guess.  

Some of it is quite deep and, well, not profound, but verging on the grown up and intelligent.  However, an awful lot of it seems to be random pointless thinking which has no particular outcome or purpose.  But then I guess this is the mind's way of relaxing and unravelling when for the most part these days  it is focussed on a million things and nothing all at once.  On one occasion I spent more time than is healthy wondering why the washing machine in the Peppa Pig household is never EVER on.  With two small children, a husband and me (I do occasionally like to wear something clean and baby-sick free), mine seems to be on a constant, never ending cycle, and we don't have the same collective obsession with jumping in muddy puddles as the pig family does.  Sure, there is one episode that is dedicated to washing ("oh no - Daddy Pig's white football shirt has turned pink, what a pickle".  I'd like to feel I'd be that calm, or indeed that Daddy Dobson would find it as funny as Daddy Pig does, but alas I'm not hopeful) but other than that, despite many scenes taking place in the kitchen, that machine is NEVER on.  Perhaps they have maids' quarters somewhere, and staff that do all of that for them - perhaps they outsource it - Miss Rabbit probably has a launderette somewhere.

If I am expressing rather than actually feeding a live human being, often my thoughts focus around how feasible/easy/lucrative it would be to invent a silent pump.  One who's very noise didn't act as a constant reminder that, for that 15 minute period at least, you are no higher up the chain than a member of a dairy herd.  

Often, I take the time to contemplate what I might write about next - perhaps something I've recently witnessed in the news, on the street, in my life.  Sometimes funny, sometimes not so, it is often in these moments that I come to understand what's important to me, what makes me tick - what's touched me.  Which is why, whatever I have been thinking about, nine times out of ten it comes full circle back to that little bundle I am nursing, and the one I not so long ago finished nursing, but who still runs to me when he is in need (though to be fair his needs are frequently biscuit related these days).  Those little miracles right there, who I have managed to grow, feed and keep alive.  It all comes back to them in the end and how, when this period of Beth's life is finished I'll be more than a little bit sad.  Not just because I will be losing precious thinking time, but because, well, you know - it will mean that my last little bundle is no longer such a little bundle.