I've gone over to the dark side

Just a quick post to let you all know that I've taken the plunge and moved over to a self-hosted blog.

The url is still http://www.eggdipdip.com, but I've got a new look and would love for you all to join me at my shiny new site.

I'll keep this site going for a bit longer, to give you all a chance to put http://www.eggdipdip.com into your blog readers.

Otherwise you can always find me on twitter at @eggdipdip.

See you all soon!

Come see my new virtual home!

http://www.eggdipdip.com

Father's Day is crap

I'm not a big fan of Father's Day at all. There I said it. And while we're at it, I can't stand Mother's Day either.

They're both contrived, consumer nonsense. I don't need a special day on the calendar to tell my dad I love him, I tell him all the time. Likewise, I'm uncomfortable with the idea that my boys need a specific day to show their love and appreciation for their dad. I'd like to hope I've brought them up a bit better than that.

Then there's the cards. I cannot stand them. Both my boys made cards at school and playgroup this year and both are works of art. I love them. But the cards in the shops - big thumbs down. My dad is not a beer monster or a golf fanatic. He doesn't wear slippers and believes a shed is somewhere to store your bike, not a 'man cave'. He doesn't have a greenhouse or a love of BBQ's. Football is something he watches on TV only when he can't find any tennis or documentaries to watch. He probably does fancy owning a yacht one day, but would find a card with a picture of one rather odd. Sadly there are no cards for healthy, active tennis playing Dad's that don't own a beer fridge.

It's just all a bit sexist and outdated really, this Mother and Father's Day nonsense. We should teach our children to appreciate the little things other people do for them on a daily basis. Not just on one 'special day'. We should thank our own parents whenever the opportunity presents itself, not save it up to be expressed in a gender stereotypical card.

No, I don't like Mother and Father's Day at all. Sorry, but I just don't.

One of those days

You know the kind.

You start off all bouncy and full of the joys of parenthood. Quite how you're in such a good mood is a bit of mystery, since last night numerous games of musical beds were played. But positivity oozes from your very pores. You pull on a dress you'd forgotten about and bounce down the stairs to your smiling children.

You have tea and toast. Both children have eaten breakfast and are dressed. You manage the school run without turning into a screaming banshee. Your positivity remains.

An unexpected invitation coincides with vague plans you've hand in mind for weeks, so you gleefully accept and spend the morning making new friends.

The smallest child has an unscheduled lunchtime nap, but even this is not enough to dent your good humour. It wasn't long enough to instill The Dread of Bedtime Battles and has left him refreshed and chirpy. Happy days.

The sun is shining.

Then it all goes tits up.

Your exuberance leads you astray into the realms of washing beanbags that are clearly marked 'Do Not Wash'. Pah, your over-confident, positive self says. You, little beanbag, are merely fabric and polystyrene balls. Of course I can empty your (evil) static little polystyrene balls carefully into a pillow case and carelessly throw you into the washing machine. Your grubbiness is harshing my mellow man, you must be cleansed to become bright and beautiful again.

Wrong.

The evil balls of static conspire against you. The fabric rebels inside the washing machine, tearing at the seam to thwart your attempts of cleansing.

You are left with an arse of a sewing job and a utility room that resembles the remnants of a cheap Santa's grotto.

As if this isn't enough, your now prolonged neglect of sleeping youngest child has resulted in a nappy that can no longer hold the weight of expelled fluids. The proof of this situation is glaringly apparent from the stains on your precious sisal carpet (yes, he fell asleep on the floor. So?).

Your stress levels are now rising. There is no time for a remedial cup of tea. The eldest child needs to be collected from school.

Both boys now feed off the negativity emanating from every pore and conspire to make tea time the thing of nightmares. Then, just when you think you'll have time to catch your breath by throwing them both outside to play and run off some energy, you hear your next door neighbour telling them off. For playing in the great, dirty mound of earth that they have 'temporarily' dumped at the bottom of the cul-de-sac. The youngest has his shoes off and is gleefully burying his feet in the dirt, just like we did at the beach. Joy.

The eldest child is now distraught at being told off by an adult who is not his parent. So you march one tearful child and one street urchin up the stairs for a bath at an ill-advised early hour.

Two hours, one semi-flooded bathroom, one failed attempt to remove urine stains from sisal and one mammoth hoovering session of evil static balls of doom later, the children are finally in bed. Asleep.

Then you see this:

 And you realise. Shit happens. It was just one of those days. No, it was just one of those afternoons. But it's finished now and tomorrow is a new day.

48 hours later...

I did it.

After much moaning and whining and being let down by gardeners, I decided to take matters into my own hands and do the dirty work myself.

Monday night, our 'garden' was nothing more than bare dirt, heavily populated with chickweed, couch grass and other undesirables.

On Tuesday morning, I pulled on my wellies, coaxed the smallest member of the family to do the same and we embarked on a day of digging. Together, we turned over the dirt, weeded out rocks as big as our heads and fell out over inappropriate spade usage on a number of occasions.

By 9.30pm Tuesday night, we'd dug about one third of the garden. By Wednesday 4pm we'd achieved this:

By 10pm on Wednesday night, we'd managed to get to the end of the garden and only this small untamed patch remained:

Thursday morning at 8.30am, 130 square metres of fresh turf arrived. My forearms ached, my hips were complaining and I would have made a fist to shake at the gods of gardening if my hands hadn't been so sore.

But...the job had to be done. 

So, I single-handedly laid every square inch of that new turf (poor husband was stuck inside, typing away like mad trying to meet a deadline). I finally finished at 9.30pm last night. So, what have the last 48 hours taught me?

1. That I'm pig-headed.

2. When I set my mind to something, I can achieve it. I just need to stop the whining.

3. I'm stronger than I think (do you know how much 1 roll of turf weighs?!)

4. I'm not as strong as I think (do you know how much 1 roll of turf weighs?!)

5. I now understand why all those gardeners wouldn't touch this garden with a barge pole. Rocks? Boulders more like. Guess that's the joy of a new build property for you. The garden is simply where a lot of the surplus tiles, bricks and other stuff are dumped.

6. My garden does not need 130 square meteres of turf. It only needs 102. Ah well.

7. Arming an almost 3 year old with a hose and telling him to water the newly laid turf only works as a distraction technique for about 15 minutes before he turns the hose on his poor brother patiently waiting for his turn.

So now I'm left with blistered hands, a tattered manicure, an obscene amount of washing, filthy floors and an aching back. But we have grass and the beginnings of a garden that will bring hours of fun.

My boys think I'm a hero. I transformed the dirt bath of a back yard into a green oasis and I let them play with a hose (not a euphemism). I feel like Wonder Woman. In fact, I might just spend the next 48 hours wearing my pants on top of my tights. I feel I've earned that privilege.

Great (lack of) expectations

Expectations are funny old things.

When we first hatched our Great Escape Plan to leave London behind and move back to Scotland for good, our imaginations ran wild. We talked about the kind of house we would have, where we would take the boys and the family traditions we could enjoy with our wider families.

But that was almost 2 years ago. When we made the decision to move back here, we knew we'd have a bit of a wait before our dreams became reality. So we made a pact not to wish the next 2 years of life away. Plans had to be kept secret for the first year at least to protect our jobs and we knew that if we started daydreaming about a life in Scotland, we'd soon lose what little motivation we had for our existing life. We don't wear our hearts on our sleeves, we wear our hearts smack bang in the middle of our foreheads for all to see, like giant neon signs letting everyone know our innermost thoughts.

So we tried not to plan. We tried not to think. We made an effort not to even consider our expectations for the new life we were embarking upon. We didn't want to feel let down when we finally made the move, to feel that any idyllic dreams of a simpler life had been just that, idyllic dreams.

But now I think we went too far. We spent so long keeping everything secret and not setting any expectations, that now we're here, it doesn't quite feel real yet.

I didn't imagine how my heart would soar every time we announced an impromptu beach trip to the boys, because I didn't let myself imagine it.

I had no idea how lovely Sunday lunch with my parents would be, because I didn't let myself think about it.

Not once did I consider the look of sheer joy on the faces of my boys as they played outside in our quiet cul-de-sac, thinking they were unsupervised and completely freerange (I keep an eye on them from the window, don't worry - I can see and hear them but they can't see me), because it didn't even fully register that it was a cul-de-sac we were moving into.

Kitchens and tiles were chosen in a hurry, then forgotten about. We were so far away from the reality of our new house being built, that it all just seemed like a concept. Something abstract, not really relating to us in South London.

Even when we went public and everybody, including our employers, knew of our plans to relocate, we still couldn't bring ourselves to dream those dreams. Colour schemes, garden layouts, blinds or curtains, carpet or wood flooring, we couldn't contemplate any of it. It was too big to take in, our brains couldn't process it. Probably because we hadn't dreamt about it and we'd refused to visualise it.

Even the logistics of physically getting the 4 of us up to Scotland wasn't really thought through. We just did it. In the end, not over thinking that part of the process worked out for the best. We had no expectations of what it would be like driving 600 miles with the boys and it was actually pretty good fun (apart from the first 2 hours when they both asked when we'd be stopping for a break every 10 minutes).

I don't really know if our lack of expectations is a good thing or a not so good thing. On one hand, every day we discover some freedom/perk/advantage of living up here that we hadn't thought about. But on the other hand, we missed out on all that lovely anticipation.

Mind you, the best laid schemes of mice and men often go awry. Maybe travelling by the seat of your pants is best. Even if it does involve a 600 mile drive with 2 small boys.

Dusk by train in South London.

Dusk by foot in Scotland. 

Where is home?

It's where the heart is of course, I hear you cry.

But what if home becomes somewhere you never expected it to be? Somewhere you felt utterly ambivalent about as a teenager, or at the other end of the spectrum, somewhere you had only ever imagined in your dreams?

I'm caught feeling both those things at the moment.

When we moved to London in 1999, it was almost a spur of the moment thing. I'd said many a time that I wanted to live in London at some point, but I'd never really gone beyond that thought. Never delved into what it would mean beyond my romantic notions of moonlight walks along the South Bank, regular trips to the theatre and generally living the high life.

Now, 14 years later, we're back in the 'home' we knew as teenagers. Many of the streets have barely changed, while others have been transformed beyond recognition. As I walked down a street this morning which I must have walked along a hundred times or more as a child, my breath caught in my throat. It struck me: Did I ever think I'd walk along this pavement as an adult resident? A local. A grown-up member of the community.

The answer surprised me and yet shouldn't have. I never planned to end up back here when I was 21. I was destined for more glamorous climes, more sophisticated surroundings surely. A small town in the north-east of Scotland definitely did not feature in the dreams of my 21 year old self.

To my over-inflated 21 year old ego, this was a dull town. A narrow minded town with no prospects and no possibilities as far as I was concerned.

I wanted bright lights and excitement, a career to be proud of and social life to make my mind spin. So off to London we trotted. On a whim and a flimsy job offer that I'd never expected to receive. But we grabbed it with both hands and left our dusty past behind us.

But isn't it funny how children change your perception of the world? There are fewer experiences more grounding than giving birth. Sleepless nights are a great leveller I've found. My ideas of grandeur were soon reduced to more realistic proportions with a baby in tow.

London started to lose it's allure. It still sparkled like a precious gemstone in my mind's eye, but my heart knew that at least some of that sparkle was just for show. It become more cubic zirconia than diamond. Beautiful but boastful, charming but with an edge of brashness. It didn't fit into our dreams of the future any more. Or maybe we didn't fit anymore (certainly not into our 2 bedroom flat that's for sure).

Space, freedom, fresh air and a yearning for the simple things became our holy grail. Where could we find such a life? We had we experienced such a life?

Home. That's where. The home of our childhood. Fourteen years ago, we never dreamt we'd end up back here. But it became our dream location. It became our pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, our fairytale ending.

I guess, sometimes you have to leave in order to appreciate what you had. You have to put a place behind you, leave it in the past, before you can look at it with eyes fresh with experience.

Maybe we just grew up. Or maybe we were always meant to come full circle. Back home. To Scotland. Where our hearts have always been.

Silent Sunday

The making of a hero

Tonight, I had two exhausted boys at bedtime. School fete, beach, park, party and a post dinner adventure had left them sun-kissed and weary. Both were sporting knees green with grass stains, toes still covered in sand and elbows grazed by scootering incidents.

The usual cacophony of bath time was replaced by a far more sedate affair. No grumbles about hair washing, no fighting over the rubber ducks.

I lifted two clean but sleepy boys out of the now mirky bath water, wrapped them both in big fluffy towels and gently applied plasters to their war wounds. Matching plasters of course.

Then, something truly magical happened.

Encouraged by Bigger, Littler climbed into bed, snuggled under his duvet and listened with eyes as big the moon, as his big brother, THE best big brother in the whole world, read him Hairy Maclary. I sat in the doorway and watched them. It was so beautiful. Two brothers. They clearly adore each other and over the past 2 months have become incredibly close considering the 4 year age gap.

As the last page was turned and Hairy Maclary ran straight back home to bed, the best big brother in the whole world simply picked up Mog: The Forgetful Cat and started reading. By the time Mog had become a bit overexcited in the garden smelling all the smells and forgetting she even had a cat flap, Littler was sound asleep. The best big brother in the whole world had climbed into bed with his little brother at the start of Mog, but he didn't stop reading when the snoring started. He carried on "because falling asleep and knowing someone is still reading you a story is really lovely".

Eventually, I convinced the best big brother in the whole world to quietly leave his little brother and hop into his own bed. Where I read him our latest Hiccup the Horrendous Haddock III book (honestly don't know who is enjoy these books the most...).

Blessed. Lucky. Incredibly proud. That's my baby, the best big brother in the whole world. I made him and gave birth to him. I've held his hand to walk across walls and over roads and even once into the operating theatre. But this boy will hold my heart forever. I truly hope he never loses his sense of empathy, his compassion and his tenderness. This boy, this best big brother in the whole world is going to be a ruler of hearts, a leader of minds and an inspirer of spirit as he grows up. Be it in the wider world, or simply within our own little family. I know this much for sure, he's already someone's hero. His little brother's.

Freedom

Today is the day we'll finally complete on the sale of our flat in sunny South London.

I feel sick, excited, nervous and a little bit nostalgic.

Despite growing to dislike our compact and bijou residence, many happy times were had there.

Both boys took their first steps in the living room. The kitchen, although tiny, was the heart of our flat and saw many jam making, cake baking and toddler fairy cake decorating sessions.

The garden had a mind of its own and resisted all of my attempts to encourage hydrangeas to grow. I'm sure next door sabotaged them to maintain her position as hydrangea queen.

But later today, it will officially be part of our history. We'll no longer have a mortgage and all property ties with lovely London Town will be severed.

Instead, we're loving the light and happy dust motes dancing around in our sun infused new house in Scotland (sun does not necessarily mean warmth, so don't be too envious!).

Here's a sneaky peak of some of my favourite views so far:

Bird watching

Sunshine

At last! A place of it's own

View out the front

Just for old times sake...

Pinch me

Gosh, where to start...

I had this great series of posts planned covering our epic move to Scotland, but...I just can't seem to make the words flow.

Possibly because we STILL haven't completed on our flat down south. We finally exchanged contracts on Friday, but it's another 2 weeks until we complete.

So until then, I think we'll still feel like this is all a holiday. A brief glimpse of what life could be like. It's just all too dream-like at the moment to be our new reality.

The house is everything we hoped for. Right on the very edge of town with nothing at all in front of us except fields and forest and pheasants and deer.

Everyone has their own bedroom, we have more bathrooms than we know what to do with and the kitchen...I'm sure I achieve my 10,000 steps a day just preparing dinner. It's huge! Now, please keep in mind that we've just moved from a shoebox 2 bedroom flat. So anything is going to seem huge compared to that. But seriously, it's huge! I can go to the loo (any loo) and by the time the kids have found me, it's too late to interrupt me. Bliss.

Have we unpacked properly yet? er no. There's been too many impromptu trips to the beach to concentrate on unpacking to be honest. And we're still recovering from 3 weeks with the in-laws.

But is it our dream life? Yes and no.

The 2 day a week freelance contract that I was verbally promised didn't materialise in the end, so Husband has thrown his hat in the ring and is freelancing too. Trouble is, he's far better at making contacts and securing work than me and is working crazy hours at the moment. So I need to up my game and get more work coming in so he can ease off a bit.

But the rest of it is pretty much how we dreamt it (so far). The boys spend hardly any time in the house. If we're not at the beach or walking in the woods, they're out playing in the street. There's no traffic on our road, so the boys can safely scoot up and down without worrying about cars. They've met the children from 3 other houses in the street so far and spent an hour this morning playing football with them in the street and an hour this afternoon pestering the landscape gardeners building the new play park for a completion date.

TV consumption has drastically been reduced while fresh air consumption has rocketed. There have been a few tears, a few teething problems and the odd tantrum. But I'm sure we'll get used to this new life soon. I'll stop the tantrums just as soon as I get blinds sorted for the lounge, promise.

Exploring. Never enough exploring. 

Hello from Scotland!

We arrived safely. Our furniture arrived safely. We're finally in our new home!

While we finish unpacking boxes (or not) and wait for our internet to be connected, you can read a guest post I wrote for the lovely @MerrilyMe over at her blog Patch of Puddles. Merry is celebrating 10 years of blogging and is hosting all sorts of wonderful blog posts from lots of wonderful people. I'm honoured that she's included one from me.

Pop over and have a read and explore and I'll be posting an update of our move to Scotland soon.

Until then...better get on with unpacking those boxes!

Goodbye dear London

You gave me a career, our first home together.

You made me cry.

And laugh.

You helped me grow up.

You shocked and surprised me.

You opened my eyes and my mind.

I gave you 14 years and two boys (but I'm taking them with me).

I gave you my naivety.

And maybe a little bit of my faith in humanity.

There's so much of you I haven't explored (but you'll keep).

There's so much we've shared.

Oh London town. It's been a blast.

But it's time to go home.

Jumping for joy

You cannot always wait for the perfect time. Sometimes you must dare to jump.
— Epic Women (@Epic_Women) March 28, 2013

On Thursday we jumped. Fed-up of waiting for solicitors and paperwork, we linked hands and jumped feet first into Operation Relocation by booking our removal van...for this Friday! *scream*

We signed off of the new house just after lunchtime on Thursday and decided we just couldn't wait any longer. We need to start making our new house our home, even though our London flat still isn't officially sold. If we're paying for 2 houses, we may as well be living in the one we've dreamt about for the past 2 years!

So there you have it. We've finally taken the first steps on the last lap of our journey back to Scotland. A 600 mile drive lies ahead of us and we're already exhausted. The husband is a one man packing army, he's a man possessed. If you stand still for long enough you're likely to find yourself inside a carefully labelled cardboard box, along with anything else that isn't nailed down.

Meanwhile, the 6yo can't decide whether to be sad to leave his friends or excited about finally having an 'upstairs'. Turns out, his definition of a 'posh' house is one that has an upstairs and having been denied an upstairs his whole life, this is what he most excited about. Typical.

The 2yo is mostly confused. He can't understand why his usually tidy daddy, who normally shares his love of 'a place for everything and everything in it's place' is suddenly disrupting the order of his world. We've had to repack a couple of boxes while he's safely asleep as the tantrum that ensued when we dared to place any of his belongings in a box were of epic proportions.

We also have a 7th birthday to contend with before we move, but the birthday boy in question has thankfully decided that this year, he will be like the Queen and have a real birthday and an official birthday. The real birthday will take place on Thursday, while the official birthday will be conducted in Scotland. He's already been warned that this plan does not entitle him to another round of presents. Nice try sunshine.

So we're now counting the sleeps, watching the boxes pile up as our cupboards empty and hoping for dry, pleasant driving conditions next weekend.

Yikes.

The view from our front window...I can almost smell the pine trees from here!

For the love of mince and tatties

Christ on a bike. This moving to Scotland malarky is proving to be a serious test of my mettle.

I'm now in my 5th week of being freelance. My 3rd as a full time, permanently at home, sellout tickets to every toilet stop mum.

And we're still in London.

When we first hatched this plan to move home to our beloved Caledonia, we know it wouldn't be easy. There would be unexpected bumps in the road, hurdles to overcome. Solicitors that would make a saint swear.

But...seriously, Universe. Cut us some slack now please. I'm begging you.

I keep reminding myself that this is the way it's obviously meant to be. This is the path that fate has decided we must take. High road, low road, who knows. But I'll bet you'll be in Scotland afore us.

It's a bit spooky really when I think about it. It's must be almost exactly 14 years to the day since we moved down to London.

We booked one-way tickets on sleazy jet and flew from Aberdeen to Luton (or was it Inverness...I honestly can't remember. How did we get to the airport? Were there tears? Nope. No memory). We'd booked a mere 4 nights accommodation in the nurses quarters at the hospital I was to be working at. All we had with us was what we could carry in our beaten up student sized rucksacks. Thankfully, we'd had the foresight to post a large box of kitchen essentials ahead of us. So at least we could cook.

By the end of our first 24 hours in London, we'd found a flat to rent and my boyfriend (now husband) had found a job. Yeah! We were rocking it! Moving to London? Piece of cake. Lets gloss over the fact that it never entered our naive little heads that renting a flat would require an eye-watering deposit as well as the first months rent. Lets also forget that we shared a single bed for those first 4 nights because we were too skint to afford a double room and too in love to sleep apart (aaaaah).

By the end of our first 36 hours in London we'd bought a bed and arranged for it to be delivered in time for moving in day. I'd dreamt of a gorgeous wrought iron number. We ended up with the cheapest duvan in the shop but didn't have enough for a headboard. But we didn't care.

The night we moved into our bijou one bedroom flat, we splashed out and bought a bottle of wine and scampi and chips. On the way to the chippie, we wandered past the newsagent and had a quick look at the For Sale postcards in the window. Huh. That's weird. Imagine advertising your massage business in the window of the newsagent. Extras available...extras? What, like specially blended massage oil? Geez, Londoners are weird. hahahahahahahahahahahah....oh...euuwwwww (naive? us? oh yes).

So back home to our bijou flat we skipped, slightly more enlightened by the types of businesses advertising in our locality, scoffed our scampi, quoffed our wine and had a minor emotional breakdown.

WHAT WERE WE DOING?

Who were we kidding? Living in London? Two country mice like us? We were obviously insane. So we promised there and then that we'd give it 2 years. Two years and no more. We'd move to Edinburgh. Or Glasgow. That was the plan. 24 months in London was going to be more than enough for the likes of us.

But then we got a foot on the property ladder.

Then baby number 1 came along.

Before we knew it, we'd been in London 10 years and baby number 2 was on the way.

Woah. Time. Fun. Whooosh.

Huh. 14 years in London town. Two sons born as Englishmen with London accents to boot. But our hearts still belong to Scotland. All of our hearts. No two boys can love mince and tatties that much and be true Englishmen.

Scotland runs in their veins as much as it does mine.

Operation relocation

Yes, yes, I know. I'm beginning to sound like a stuck record...I feel like a stuck record. But here we are, still in England, still no completion date.

So it's time to launch Operation Relocation in earnest. This week, I will not tolerate inactivity. I will not take no for an answer.

We WILL be in Scotland in 3 weeks.

I'm going to start by phoning our solicitor 3 times a day for the next 48 hours. If that doesn't yield results, I'll increase the frequency to 4 times a day. By the end of Wednesday, I'm hoping they'll be so sick of me, they'll move heaven and earth to to secure a completion date.

Next on the agenda, packing. If we're going to be in Scotland in 3 weeks (positive thoughts, positive thoughts), I need to give the cosmos a good nudge in the right direction. I reckon if I start packing, fate will catch on to my plan and help me move things in the right direction.

Then there's my new mantra: "We will be living in Scotland by the end of March, mortgage free and ready for new adventures".

What do you think? What else can I do? We NEED to be in Scotland by the end of March.

Any positive vibes, thoughts or advice gratefully received!

And then my mothering instinct kicked in

At the weekend I wrote about how apprehensive I was about suddenly, unexpectedly being a stay at home mum this week.

Monday morning dawned. The dishwasher had been emptied the night before, packed lunches were waiting in the fridge and the sun was shining.

The morning was spent pottering, at a leisurely pace dictated by mini despot. A spot of shopping, a spot of den building and before we knew it, it was lunchtime.

I held my breath, waiting for the dreaded post-lunch tantrum...but no, some cuddles on the sofa, a spot of colouring in and it was time to collect the 6 year old from school.

The sun still shone, the 2 year hadn't imploded and I hadn't resorted to cbeebies yet.

But the best bit? Preparing dinner while watching my boys squeal with laughter, playing TOGETHER in the garden. It made all my worries about this week seem rather...selfish I guess.

As Mondays go, it pretty much rocked. (Until the 2 year old vomited everywhere, but hey, at least I didn't have to rush home from work to deal with it!)

The one where I panic and forget how to parent on week days

Two weeks ago I left my lovely job in a lovely office. Two weeks ago I became a freelance writer. I've had some awesome meetings, drank some swanky coffee in cool places and made some great new contacts (who will hopefully turn into clients soon).

But now, I face a momentous challenge.

For the next 2 weeks, not only do I have to do the school run (*shivers*), but I'll also have sole charge of my 2 year old...

*runs screaming for the hills*

It's been 18 months since I was at home with a small child during the week. WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? We were meant to be in Scotland by now, with beaches and wide open spaces and grandparents to help exhaust pre-schoolers.

I'm so out of practice at entertaining small children day after day. Weekends are a doddle. Swimming, lunch, park, quick game of hide and seek, bake a cake, dinner, bath, bed. Repeat. But I can't keep that up Monday to Friday and fit the school run in as well!

The last time I was at home with a small child during the week, any and all issues were solved by breastfeeding. Fallen over? Quick feed. Hungry? Quick feed. Need a snooze? Quick feed (I'm talking about the small child here, just to avoid any confusion).

But now...now I have an energetic, bright, inquisitive 2-almost-3 year old. I've forgotten where all the toddler groups are, I've forgotten what time Wiggle and Jiggle is on at the library, I've forgotten what it's like preparing 3 meals a day for 2 hungry boys.

I need a plan don't I?

Crap.

Keep calm. We've got playdough (bad idea: he's still in the oral fixation stage and playdough goes straight in the mouth).

Keep calm. We've got plenty of craft supplies (yeah...I'm not great at the 'let the kids make a mess and don't get hung up on what it's meant to be'. Ok, obviously need to work on that).

Keep calm. We've got the park down the hill (*whispers* I hate that park. When the 6yo was 18 months old he fell over and got glass embedded in his hand that needed to surgery to remove it. That park emotionally scarred me).

Keep calm. We've got enough toys to start a toy shop (yes. yes we do. Imaginative play I can do).

Keep calm: We've got cbeebies (both boys watch too much tv already...I want to break that habit and help them be more selective with their screen time *parent on a guilt-trip alert*).

Keep calm. We've got baking we can do (ok, I'll give you that one...the 6yo can help eat the cakes when he comes home from school to save my waistline at least).

Keep calm. We've got the library (we do! And the library can be used after school to keep both my bookworms happy)

Keep calm: We've only got 10 days to fill with a weekend in the middle (oh-kaaaaay).

So where does that leave us? Toys, library and baking. If the weather picks up, we can go Gruffalo/bear/lion/walrus hunting. And there's always housework - if in doubt, put them to work I say. I need to perfect the art of pottering around with a little person in tow, don't I?

Please send gin/ all your spare sanity/cake/chocolate me some more ideas lovely wise people. Help me survive the next 2 weeks without driving my 2 year old insane.

Pinterest dreaming

So...

We're still not in Scotland. We still haven't completed the sale of our property down south. We found out today that a document has turned up that may mean that the last 3 months of faffing around by solicitors and surveyors was a waste of time and money.

So, to cheer myself up, I've been playing on Pinterest.

Here, is a sneaky peak of what I'm planning for our Hoosie in the Highlands:

Home office
This is where I will write my little socks off. My dad is encouraging me to write a bestselling novel. We'll see. But I still need my office to be gorgeous.

So I'm thinking something like this...

Source: bloodandchampagne.com via Suzanne on Pinterest

or maybe this...

Source: housetohome.co.uk via Suzanne on Pinterest

Leaning towards the second one at the moment - all those lovely storage boxes and pops of colour. Lush!

Master bedroom
We're being treated to a new bed and after much searching, this one caught my eye...

Source: wooden-beds.com via Suzanne on Pinterest

With the walls painted a soft heather colour, maybe something like this...

Source: firedearth.com via Suzanne on Pinterest

And finished off with this quilt my mum made for us (photo doesn't do it justice unfortunately)

But dusky pinks and sage will be the order of the day I think. The colour of the hills covered by heather...













Kitchen

This is going to take pride of place in the kitchen - a gorgeous foil print by Gillian Kyle...

With one of these, naturally...

Source: bedbathandbeyond.com via Angie on Pinterest

And a splash of turquoise to brighten up the white gloss units and grey tiles.

Source: colorcombos.com via Suzanne on Pinterest

Aaaahhh...I feel so much better already.

Right. Off to plan/dream/procrastinate some more. Keep your fingers crossed for us.

Dear Blog...

Dear Blog

I know you're feeling a little neglected just now and I'm sorry.

It's just, I've not been sure what to do with you.

When I started blogging, you were purely about just writing. Letting me whitter on about any nonsense that came into my head.

But then I started to discover the world of parent bloggers. They were all so successful, companies sent them stuff to review, they got free days out and their stats were astronomical compared to ours.

So, purely because I thought that was what you were 'supposed' to do, I started looking for review opportunities. But to be honest...it's just not who we are. I'm not very good at reviews of products I'm not passionate about and there are plenty of bloggers out there doing a great job at reviews without our mediocre attempts.

So...I think we should go back to basics. It's time to write about what we're passionate about. Family stuff, the everyday stuff, the small stuff.

The stuff we started out writing about. Picnics and childhood and climbing trees and getting muddy.

What do you say blog? Are you in?

Love

Me x

Limbo

So here we are, with only 3.5 days left in my permanent job.

By now, I thought we'd be stressing over how little packing we'd managed to do and whether we'd still like the tiles we chose for the en-suite back in August.

But instead, we've come to a standstill. We're in limbo. Of sorts.

Legal stresses are still holding back the sale of our property in England, while our house in Scotland is due to be finished in about 6 weeks (weather permitting).

We can't start packing until we have a vague idea on when we're likely to exchange contracts. The thought of living out of boxes just fills me with dread.

I can't start making curtains and cushions because I can't get excited about the new house yet. I can't let myself get excited. Not until we have a better idea on when we'll be moving.

In the meantime, I only have 3.5 days left at my permanent job.

3.5 days of guaranteed income.

3.5 days of visiting the toilet alone.

3.5 days.

Holy crap.