It's a cultural thing

I had this conversation yesterday.

Switzerlady : "Hello! Oh you've got a little girl about Emma's age! Sweet! What a pretty, flowery hat! And such a lovely necklace. Those blonde curls are just gorgeous. What's her name?"

Lady at the paddling pool: "Samuel."

I am making lots of friends here.

Recipe for disaster

Take one 2 year-old.
Give her chicken pox.
Ostracise her from playgroup for the last week before summer break.
Sprinkle her with a niggling fever, and smear her all over her baby sister.

Take one 2 year old's mother.
Turn her into a neighbourhood pariah (no-one wants their children to get chicken pox before they go on holiday.)
Add a generous dollop of self-pity.

Give both mother and daughter some very high-waisted grumpy trousers to wear and turn the oven up to 34 degrees, until everyone is completely fried.

Serves: no-one.

He was always a ladies man

This photo is rated R (contains nudity.)

Seriously, though, look at those yummy rolls of baby flesh on my Glorymouse! I want to gobble her up for breakfast!

First "ticks", then what?

Tidying up the flat yesterday, I heard Emma twittering from the living room.

"Jam! Jam!" she said.

Grrrr. Not jammy fingers on my upholstery. Not jammy fingers on my computer. Jam stays in the kitchen, you little tike.

Muttering in this fashion I sauntered next door to find Emma, her hand covered in not jam, but er, blood. She had been rummaging through the recycling and cut her finger rather nastily on a tin.

One day I will find a happy medium between blind panic and criminal negligence.

I told you so.