Wednesday saw Casper’s first day at nursery – my littlest of beans at only 2 years and 1 month, I wasn’t sure if he was ready, or, more to the point,if I was ready! So, with iPhone in hand and with not a second to spare as we were already running late, I thought it would be a fab idea to film the highs and lows of our day!
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When I hit the very scary “publish” button for the first time two and a half years ago, I had the intention of bringing stylish family interiors to the masses. But I found bringing my interiors day job into my hobby of writing like latching on a creative leech to the heart of my ju-ju – it sucked the life out of my writing. In addition, I was about to drop our boy number 5 into the world so my brain was addled with all the new amazing baby garb that had been invented/re-invented since 2008; we were living in a rather uninspiring, dark rented house – so taking swoonworthy interiors shots was like trying to catch the slippery soap in a lukewarm bath (impossible) and I found it piss easy to bemoan life with a brood of boys to anyone that would listen, whilst struggling for my next interiors post subject matter. Something had to change – and it did.
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It seems like only a few weeks ago I was writing about why we didn’t “do” presents last Christmas for all the boys – and yet now, my Grinch like antics have spread like the Child-Catchers sneeze of doom to Casper’s second birthday this coming Monday. Yes, my darling little cherub of a ‘baby’ is turning two and what are we, his abnormally large immediate family doing about it? Diddly squat, that’s what?! There’ll be no Daily Mail headlines of this toddler’s parents lavishing him with a diamond-encrusted tractor ride party at Daylesford Farm with Mr Tumble and co as special guests, at a grand cost of £237k; in fact, the headline will just about make it to my personal Facebook page and perhaps my Instagram, with a modest picture of the tot in question ramming his face with the Asda equivalent of Colin the Caterpillar cake. Last minute guilt might also manifest in the shape of a Gruffalo helium balloon.
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We might not have a home this Christmas due to the major renovations, haven’t erected our own tree and are haemorrhaging money left right and centre on project “build a house big enough to hold all our kids” (must come up with a better code/project name). But these aren’t the reasons we’re not “doing” presents this year. I get it, it sounds bloody harsh, with 5 kids to suddenly announce that no-one, not even that cute doe eyed toddler, will be receiving so much as a satsuma in their stockings this Christmas, so let me explain.
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One thing that quite frankly gets on my tits, as in, makes me growl at my phone is…. “This is what REAL women look like…” followed by a picture of a wonderfully curvy woman, with fab norks and a booty that inspired Beyonce’s first solo album. The assumption by many being that if you’re under-weight, slim, athletic, skinny, toned or under a size 10 – you’re for some obscure reason branded unreal, or even fake! I grew up with my mum (see below) who, at 5ft4″, blonde, blue eyed and feckin’ fabulous, was somewhat physically different to me – but, as far as I was concerned, she was just as real as me. No?! So when the fab folks over at Dove asked me to tell my story about body confidence and image, in support of the Pledge to Be Real Campaign, I nearly chewed their beautifully smelling, wonderfully moisturised arms off!
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