Mum phrases and how they have come back to bite me in the arse (I mean, bottom)

It's funny how our vocabulary changes once we have children, don't you think?

I don't only mean how “SHIT!” becomes “SHHH…UGAR!”, or how “Oh, BOLLOCKS!” becomes “Oh, BOLL-DERDASH!” (okay, actually not everyone's language might have been as ripe as mine was), I mean the little phrases that creep in and seem to constitute about 50% of everything we say during any given day.

Here are my top 10 phrases I never thought I’d use with such frequency (and how they come back to bite me in the arse. Oops. I mean bum. No, bottom).

10. “STOP!”
The trouble, I find, with saying this as frequently as I do is that it ceases to have the gravitas it really deserves when I walk into a room and find my two-year-old half way up a bookcase. Especially in someone else's house.

9. “Don't make me come over there…”
Yeh right! OBVIOUSLY they are going to make me go over there. They want me to go over there. Because that would kick start the very 'funny' game of 'catch me if you can'.

8. “Have you done a wee?”

For some reason the autopilot me seems to think my daughter needs to do a wee about 400 times a day. I've included this one because I think it gives a little insight into my future nagging mother/huffy teenage daughter relationship, when Ava sighs and says: “Yeeeeeees, mummyyyyy. I HAVE done a weeeeeeee.” And then sighs again. It doesn't stop me though.

7. “I'm going to count to three! One. Two. Three. RIGHT…”
And my children are thinking 'Why does she always let us have an extra three seconds? I'd have just made us stop it straight away. Thanks though.’

6. “Teeth! Teeth! TEEEEEETH!!”
The word teeth means nothing. I might as well be talking a foreign language. The word 'TEEEEEETH!' however, is understood to mean 'open up and brush’. Why do I even bother saying 'teeth'?

5. “Gently!”
Used for all manner of situations! Touching other people's babies and animals, drawing with crayons (to save the table underneath), TEEEEEETH brushing, play / pillow fighting, stirring ingredients and so on. I must over egg it though. I could be using the touch of Thumbelina and I'd still get, when combing their hair: “Gently, mummy. GENTLY mummyyyy. MUMMY, you are NOT being GENTLE!” I am being.

4. “Just a minute!” Or the alternative. “Two minutes!”
Big mistake, this one. They not only repeat the phrase to me (for example, when it is bed time and they need 'just a minute' to continue jumping on the sofa), they also apply the 'time has no meaning' rule. Which they have learned from me. *Fail*

3. “Say please!”
And here begins the process of children trying to understand something that they just will not understand for a long, long time. It's painful for everyone. Because if they say 'please', they CAN have another drink! Or an apple. Or a book read to them. Or a picnic in the garden. But if they say “Please can I have a Mars Bar?” or “Please can I wear your make-up?” or (at 8pm) “Please can we go to the park?” the word means nothing. It carries no weight. Neither does 'pleeeeeeeease', or 'please please please!' or any variations thereof. 'Please' is a rubbish word. It's no wonder they can't be arsed (oops, bothered) to say it half the time.

2. “Calm DOWN!”
A natural thing to say when my toddlers are running amok and need a bit of wind down time. An infuriating thing to hear from one of THEM when I am rushing around, trying to get ready to leave the house, in a faff, because we are late… because of them.

and, at number 1, of course, is…

1. “No.”
The word I say the most, and hear the most. Although my youngest gives it considerably more punch with an elongated NNNNN. 1,000 times per day: “Shall we [insert anything that does not involve going on the swings or eating cake/chocolate]?”

“NNNNNO!”

What are yours?!

When girlish becomes hurl-ish

My little girl, Ava, who is three-and-a-half, needs a more magical bedroom. I am painfully aware that we have left her walls bare for far too long and, while it's not like her room is a prison cell or anything, it's just quite boring and adult. It's because her room used to be the spare room, before we realised we simply had to separate her and her two-and-a-half year old sister if any of us wanted to sleep again. Ever.

So yes, I know we need to inject some (lots) more fun into her room – but nothing gave me a bigger incentive to do so than the other day, when I had taken both the babes to a massive Mothercare/ELC for new pumps. That mission (it really is a mission) accomplished, I was feeling very pleased with myself indeed and, after roaming the shop and shaking all the toys a bit (them, not me), I managed to convince my children we should go home for lunch.

We had made it to within 20 feet of the door – but then she saw it (tucked away, unsurprisingly, in a dark corner). It was a 'princess' 'bed', in the 'shape' of a 'carriage', and it was made by that company. You know the one? Yes, you know, THAT company – the one that does rather successful animated films. THE Creator Of Princesses (and mermaids).

This bed was soooo pink. It was the sort of pink that makes your teeth ache. It must have been more than 4ft high. I think, underneath the pink, it was made of plywood. It had golden wheels painted on it, along with the faces of some film star princesses, and a pink net curtain.

Ava gasped with sheer joy and leapt in. Oh lordy.

“LOOK! Is this a BED, mummy?”

“No, I don't think it is Ava, I think…”

“It's got a pillow!”

“It's probably a dog bed! Shall we go?”

“Awwww…”

Ten minutes later I managed to get her out of there, but she pouted all the way home, telling me how sad she was about that princess bed. I felt something akin to sadness, too. I had never seen anything quite like it.

Anyway, I wrestled with myself a bit during that journey. I found the bed hideous beyond belief – but who am I to tell her that she shouldn't like it? (Oh my GOD!! Why did she like it??!! Sorry.) Loads of people out there like it, I'm sure. In fact it has won an award (although that award was given by the company who made it. It's a self-awarded award in effect, so doesn't strictly count). But it's a bit like art really, isn't it? Your idea of what constitutes a beautiful piece of artwork might be vastly different from my own – and I'd hate to think I'd just tell you you were wrong.

Well, that row in my head didn't last too long. It was very easy to console myself (if not Ava) with the fact that buying it would have been like being mugged by princesses to the tune of 200 quid, because Ava already has a bed – a perfectly good and wonderful bed.

So, now I am considering, properly, my other options. Like just about everyone else, we don't have loads of money to chuck at Ava's room – but I have to chuck something at it. I mean 'lovingly create something wonderful within it', obviously. I think I am favouring one coloured wall and some fabulous wall stickers. Birds on a wire, dandelion blowing in the wind, that sort of thing.

But if anyone else out there had any brilliant (and quick!) ideas that saved them from discussing the purchase of a 200 quid princess monstrosity ad nauseam (literally), I'd love to hear them!

One plate of Welsh(ish) cakes and I'm no nearer domestic goddess-ness

The best Welsh cakes I have ever had were made (frequently) by my wonderful and beautiful Welsh grandma, from whom my littlest girl Ruby Lena takes her second name. The next best were made by my Welsh friend Steve's gran. I never met her, but I love her.

Anyway, being one quarter Welsh, I decided the girls and I should mark St David's Day in some way. I have no daffs in the garden to sniff, no leeks in the fridge to chomp on, and the dragons never leave Wales as I understand, so there are none in these parts to hug.

So we made, for the very first time, our own Welsh cakes.

I say 'made', I mean 'chucked ingredients around the kitchen for an hour before scraping off various surfaces into a bowl'. And when I say 'Welsh' I mean 'a tiny bit Chinese' as mixed spice and Chinese all spice come in almost identical boxes.

Anyway, as is always the case when baking with toddlers, it was enormous fun. I'm not sure what Grandma would have made of the presentation. They were supposed to look like this but actually looked like this…

… which is in no small part due to the fact that Ava wanted her Welsh cakes to be Father Christmas shaped. His head kept falling off.

Having got the babies all jazzed up on sugary Welsh cakes, I thought I might get a head start on a savoury and veg-laden dinner – which was going to be wiggly worms (or spag bol). And that, rather than the Welsh cakes, is pretty much the reason I am writing this actually.

The mince was frozen and needed defrosting – but what with the girls breaking over the fence into next door's garden, Ruby treading in cat poo and them both demanding snacks and games off top shelves, I've completely lost it.

I don't mean lost my head, I mean I've lost the frozen mince. I don't know where it is. I've looked everywhere I can think of. The girls think they're getting wiggly worms at 5pm. If I haven't found it by then, I'll be pouring wine and giving them a stack of Welsh-fusion.

Has anyone got any ideas? Seriously.