The Secret Confessions of a Crummy Mummy - Part 1

Here's my confession: however hard I try to be otherwise, I am a Crummy Mummy. My mothering is a touch haphazard. Don't get me wrong, I am not deliberately slummy but somehow, when I am not looking, it all goes a little lopsided.

Let's take ‘food'.

There I was changing offspring number two's (very) dirty nappy when he sat up, smiled and before my eyes liberated a partially re-hydrated raisin from the middle of the heap and ate it.

Another time I found a miniature Postman Pat sitting in the middle of his nappy - but at least, PP didn't look appetising enough to re-eat. And I can only be grateful that I got to the same child before the dead fly reached his mouth - they do look like raisins to the unpractised eye.

There are many, many occasions when although I could swear I had swept, washed and allowed the dog to ‘clean' the floor, a toddler (not always mine) has sniffed out some morsel which is clearly more delicious twenty four hours after it was first flung from the table.

Offspring number one rarely eats at all but offspring number two is a human dustbin lorry with a short fuse. So yes, I confess, I have picked up the last piece of corn on the cob off the floor, brushed off the dog hairs and returned it to its irate owner.

Is it just me that lurches from incident to accident? I sincerely hope not and furtive conversations with my friends suggest otherwise. I am relieved to recount that neither of my offspring were found drinking the water from the bottom of the loo brush holder...

Neither was it my rug where a piece of raw chicken was apparently languishing in amongst all our gurgling tots. A mystery to the owner of the rug who hadn't cooked chicken in weeks. Imagine her relief when later, on closer inspection, it was revealed to be nothing more than a piece of screwed up paper napkin. Ladies, the moral of the story is clear: choose your tableware with care.

Of course when I was pregnant with baby number one, I floated along in a cloud of happy hormones visualising myself effortlessly whipping up nutritious, home cooked food which my happy brood would wolf down and bang their bowls for more. The reality? Child number one staggered through babyhood from homemade puree to homemade puree turning up his nose at most. Then I went back to work and he relaxed into a world of baby food jars, and discovered there can be pleasure in eating after all. Child number two, as illustrated, will and does eat anything - just as well as he was introduced to fish fingers at seven months and had pizza for his first birthday meal as it is his favourite food.

I don't know about anyone else, but in my world, I get to the end of the day just thankful that my children have reached it alive, fed (sort of) and unscathed (more or less). And then I pour myself a large glass ....