Baby product reviews – nappies, wipes, cups and potties.

I’m three kids in so I feel like now might be an acceptable time to review a few baby, toddler and children’s products and even a few parents’ products. I’m a disabled mum of three, ages 6.5, 4 and 1 years old.

I’ll start with nappies as I’m pretty sure most mums and dads will have come across one every now and then with having a baby. My favourite nappies by far are Aldi Mamia nappies. At the moment my 13-month-old son is in size 5 (although he can also fit in a 4+), and you can currently get a pack of 40 nappies for £2.99. For the equivalent of a leading brand, you should expect to pay more than double. You might think ‘well lower cost = lower quality’, but no. I find Mamia nappies are perfectly soft and comfortable, hold their structure well with minimal sagging after 1 wee. They have good coverage to hold in most normal poo episodes (poopisodes) – I say ‘normal’ because there are some poo explosions that just won’t be contained by a nappy. Never underestimate the force with which a small child can fire their own poo up their back whilst sat down. Mamia nappies are pleasantly decorated, with an array of jungle animals. To be honest none of my three children have ever paid much attention to pictures on nappies, but maybe that’s just them. They last a good 12 or more hours of night-time weeing, without leaking and don’t create a strong chemical smell when they’re very wet. According to Aldi, they are extra soft, breathable, hypo-allergenic and dermatologically tested, and are regularly tested for effectiveness against the leading brand. They are comfy, work really well and don’t cost much. Therefore they’re winners in my book. A book which doesn’t physically exist.

Mamia Ultra Dry Nappies Size 5

Wipes – I probably think about wipes a bit more than is necessary even for a mum with three kids, but I feel it tug right at my heartstrings when they start putting FEWER WIPES PER PACK! Why? A while ago, pretty much all supermarket wipes had 80 per pack, and cost just under £1 for a pack, or £3 something for a pack of 4 – stay with me folks – leading brand wipes had less, either 72 or 64, and then some had 56. That is 24 less wipes than what I would call a normal amount of wipes per pack. I really think too much about this. Anyway, now most supermarket brands have 64 wipes per pack, and then Asda’s Little Angels range started producing an ‘extra large’ pack, with 80 wipes, like it was a new thing to sell 80 wipes per pack. I wish they would just pick a number closer to 100 and stick with it, then we wouldn’t have to keep opening new plastic wipes packing every few days, and maybe each pack would last longer.

Favourite wipes – again the prize for my favourite wipes currently goes to Aldi Mamia wipes. Granted they have only 64 wipes per pack, but they are a good price, currently only 55p per pack, or £2.09 for a 4 pack. They are a nice soft texture, don’t rip when you take them out of the pack which is convenient although as far as I know, a wipe that rips means it’s probably made from renewable/recycled natural fibres like tissues are, and therefore better for the environment than a woven ‘cloth-like’ wipe. But I’m only a mum guessing, I may be wrong! They have a closing plastic lid, meaning the wipes shouldn’t dry out, although personally as my hands don’t work very well, I find these more difficult. The sensitive unfragranced wipes are what we usually get but the fragranced packs are also good for when it comes to cleaning hands, or wiping sick off your top in desperation as it masks the aroma a little!

Mamia Sensitive Baby Wipes 64 Pack

Drinking cups – I think over the last few years we may have bought almost every cup going – valved, free-flow, non-spill, straw, 360… my partner thinks I’m slightly crazy as I can’t resist a new cup. They are so pretty! But at the moment I am liking the Nuby 360 cup as it’s pretty much non-spill, and encourages drinking from the edge of the cup. So it makes for a good transition to drinking out of an open cup.

360 Mini No Spill Cup 240ml (4-12m) RED/ROCKET

I have also always been a fan of the standard Tommee Tippee free-flow cup which is great for all ages even young babies of 4-6 months. It’s free-flow so babies might get a bit of a shock when the water flows quite freely into their mouth but it teaches them to moderate the flow themselves. This is a good cup for babies who might struggle to suck out of a valved cup. It’s also a very good value cup, generally found for less than £2 in a choice of colours. #parenton

First sippee cup blue 1 count

Potties – when it comes to toilet training, nothing is more exciting than choosing your first potty. For the child I mean, for the child, not me, I don’t find it exciting at all. Much. We have had a few over the years but the one I’ve preferred and which has worked best for our middle child (when we got it) was a potty like this – ours was unbranded from Tesco  and is just plain pink, but has the same ‘steady’ design and looks comfier than the others we have had. It has grippy feet so won’t slide out of the way as your child goes to squat down on it (disastrous), has a broad seat so it doesn’t dig into the backs of their little legs and a high back so they are a bit more supported as they sit. I’m sure our boy will use it even though it is pink and that will mean he will turn gay, but nevermind.* This potty only cost around £5 and does a perfectly good job of being a potty. It doesn’t sing songs or have a heated seat but our daughter seemed to survive the ordeal of sitting on it.

In my next reviews I will be focusing on clothes and shoes for children!

*Please be assured I am joking.

Twitter @shopgirlygm

Instagram @lizzybuntonvlogs

Advertisements

WOW – I’ve got to speak in public!

Tomorrow, and the day after that, I have to speak in front of an audience. I say ‘have’ – I was asked and I said I would. Slightly wondering what on Earth I’ve got myself into. Am I going to be well out of my nervous depth?

Image result for wow women of the world

I am going to be part of two discussion panels at the WOW – Women of the World festival. Click the link to see the website and what it’s all about but, essentially it’s a festival celebrating and discussing all things woman – what women experience specific to their sex and gender, how perceptions of women are changing, what sort of power women have and how things that only women can physically experience, like childbirth or miscarriage, can affect both women and society as a whole and how these things are changing rapidly. Both for better and worse. It will be fascinating, to say the least, to be a part of this and also to be part of the audience for other parts. I love seeing how the way humans exist differs from culture to culture and I think I’d like to go to the festival even if I wasn’t involved in it. In the news today they are discussing how 1 girl in 10 in the UK doesn’t have access to appropriate menstrual products. How is this even the case in 2017?

I was approached by one of the lovely programmers who had read my blog, and she asked if I’d like to be involved in both the Birth Stories panel and the Disability, Women and Taking Action panel. I could’ve chosen to not take part, or even just speak at only one discussion, but both are so important to me and how my life is currently turning out that I felt like I should do both, or I’d really regret it. I’d kick myself if I was to watch someone else possibly with a disability talking about their experiences of childbirth, in the UK, and think that perhaps I could’ve added something worthwhile, or something people should hear (god that sounds knobbish).

Anyone who knows me probably knows that I don’t often partake in public displays of verbal discussion – I used to find any reason at all not to have to read aloud to the class in school, college or university, my mum had to recite the Brownie Promise* for me when I was a child because the idea of everyone looking at me while I spoke made me burst into tears. And although my partner and I will be getting married in the near future, the thought of being the centre of attention and then having to speak ACTUAL WORDS in front of a group of people gives me the heebies, and even the jeebies. I think I might get married in a cupboard. [*I’ve just watched some videos on YouTube of girls doing their Brownie Guide Promise and I’m a little freaked out at how archaic and cultish it seems!]

So tomorrow I shall be talking about my experiences of childbirth (involving my own children, I don’t quite remember my own birth). I LOVE talking, very openly about pregnancy and giving birth. That is when I’m only talking with one or two people. But maybe I won’t spontaneously combust and I will find some legible sentences from within, to talk about something that I love so much – giving birth to my own children. Giving birth as a severely physically disabled woman was always going to be a bit of a science experiment for me and I think for the medical professionals too. but it went surprisingly well compared to what I imagined it might be, so that will be my angle of discussion – The Science Experiment of a Disabled Woman Giving Birth (Star Wars font please) Hopefully, people will be able to hear me, I’m told there will be microphone technology!

On Sunday, I will be talking alongside more lovely ladies including Liz Carr (of stand-up comedy, disability activism and Silent Witness fame). We will be exploring how often it is disabled women who are left out almost entirely when it comes to the Women’s Rights Movement, and what some of the key battlegrounds are around being female and having a disability. This will involve talking about anything disabled women experience from education, healthcare, finding and sustaining a career and attitudes from people that along with millions of others, I experience on a daily basis. Something as small as a shop assistant addressing my PA instead of me is only the start of it. I think my angle for this talk will be about wanting my life with a disability to just be as easy or as difficult as if I didn’t have a disability. I don’t want to be seen as an inspirational person just because I have eaten toast for breakfast without crying about being disabled. Although come this weekend I may well be blubbing into my morning cup of tea.

I will update in due course with how successful this weekend was….. ahhh.

@shopgirlygm

Insta – @lizzybuntonvlogs

I won!

I love sport.

There’s something you wouldn’t have expected me to start with. But I do. Well, some sports anyway. I am a great lover of Wimbledon tennis in the summer and I adore watching gymnastics, diving, swimming and athletics. I used to do gymnastics growing up from ages 6-12 and I also dabbled in wheelchair tennis in secondary school (it was hard to progress from dabbling when you are pretty much the only wheelchair user in a school in a small Cornish village).

But nevertheless, I think I would love to have nurtured some kind of sporting skill if my body had given me the chance, and the working nervous system that is quite fundamental to sporting victory.

But at age almost-31 I have just had my first major sporting success. The annual tournament is a family affair, previously revolving around a golf match (is it a match?) which took place at unsociably early hours on Sunday morning of the bank holiday weekend in August, and the women and children of the family occupied themselves with other activities for the day, such as making sandwiches and changing nappies until we all met up again when the golf was over and we’d have a big buffet-style tea in the garden of the previous year’s winner.

It is always lovely to see all the family in one place, and to try and remind myself of all the names of the great aunts, uncles, cousins removed, cousins’ children and second cousins etc (seriously, Great Granny, how on earth did you cope with six kids) and in recent years the sport has changed to a version of bowls (there are flags and string points markers involved but I don’t know what the actual name is. It just takes place on a bowling green with bowls balls so it seems appropriate to refer to it as bowls). Pretty much everyone in the family now gets involved, we are split into teams and play around the 8-flag course twice. Some members of the family already play bowls and so have an idea of how to throw the balls – they aren’t actually spherical and one side is weighted making it want to veer off to one side – but there is a handicap system in place allowing even novice players to be in with a chance of winning if they score highly enough.

But even with the handicap available, it still would not be a level playing field for me (insert bowling green pun here).

I have no muscle whatsoever in my hands and lower arms, any strength I do have has to come from my upper body, and the only way I can hold a ball is by relying on the tendon resistance in the extension in my wrists/hands (pictures to follow!). Even still, standard bowls are too heavy for me to lift let alone lob into the air (I mean, roll gracefully), so I play using two jacks, which are slightly smaller meaning my child-sized floppy hands can just about lift them. But even with this allowance, I would not be able to get the ball anywhere near the desired region due to my lack of strength, so I position myself about half way towards the post. Only then can I attempt to actually use some skill to get the balls as close to the post as I can, which is exactly what everyone else is trying to do.

I’m pretty sure my spacial awareness is slightly more ‘well-practiced’, than the average mum who doesn’t partake in a particular sport, simply because I have to use spatial awareness all day -steering an electric wheelchair through narrow doorways, or pushing a manual wheelchair amongst a room of small children and Duplo and trying not to break either. Also if I am trying to pick up a small item it takes a lot more concentration to persuade my hands into getting to the right place in order for something to hopefully fall perfectly and conveniently into my hands just so I can put moisturiser on my face, for example.

Well anyway, I am rambling. Cut a long story short, I won.

The family tournament which is in its 23rd year and is really a much-loved family tradition and something I hope my own children will still attend after I’m gone, I won. I scored 86 even without the handicap added, which I am most proud of. The coveted prize is my maternal Great Granny’s wooden walking stick which has been decorated with the winners’ names engraved on little silver shields since 1995 after Great Granny died.

We met at my Gran’s cousin’s house for a BBQ, feast, drinks and of course the awards ceremony. I knew I had scored quite well whilst we were playing but of course, I didn’t know others’ scores so when they announced my name as the ladies’ winner and overall winner it was a bit surreal. My first thought was “Oh shit. I’m going to have to make a speech”, and I hate talking to groups of people, and even more so when it involves speaking about myself. I’d much rather address the masses via computer keyboard where no one can hear my annoyingly quiet voice and see my awkward face. I sat for a few moments cleverly diverting attention to the kids who were playing with my prizes, all the while thinking “I’ve got to say something. They’re expecting me to say something. I want to leave now.”, but I managed a short, muddled and awkward little speech where most of what I said was trying to excuse my winning, and get across that I wouldn’t have had a chance against everyone else if I hadn’t been allowed use smaller balls and start closer to each post. Everyone clapped and congratulated me, my Gran’s youngest brother who organises a lot of it, seemed genuinely pleased that I’d finally won, after being close a few years ago. I worried some of the family might think I hadn’t really won, fair and or square but everyone seemed pleased. Tom was especially proud as was my mum who wasn’t there this year.

But most importantly, I won Granny’s Stick before my big brother.

@shopgirlygm

10 Signs You Love Parenting 

Disclaimer: please read 10 things you can’t stand about parenting’ if you’re not in a positive parenting place right now, like me most mornings. That fluffy focus-on-the-good parenting stuff needs balancing out a bit.

 

1. Spending ridiculous amounts of time just looking at your baby/child. You know their every detail to the extreme, and of course they are the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. You often feel smug when you look at people who aren’t your child’s parent (so pretty much everyone else except your partner) and gloat inwardly that they don’t get to look at your child every day. You regularly feel the urge to ferociously approach strangers crying “look at her face, she is beautiful!” because, they didn’t seem to be paying much attention.

2. Feeling that aching proud feeling in your chest when they’re so scared to swim in the swimming gala but they do it eventually. Even though they came last, they did it. All the other kids were probably doping anyway.

3. Watching your kids hug each other. It’s quite a skill to have made a little pack of humans whom you hope will confide in each other when they’re bigger and always have a friend who knows them so well. This morning I overheard my two eldest discussing how they liked ‘their baby [brother]’.

4. Wanting to bottle the smell of your baby’s head. I know it’s a cliché but if one of my kids is sat on my lap it’s quite likely that I’ll have my nose in their head (that sounds normal), which is fine until they notice and tell you to stop sniffing them.

5. Loving the power that the iPad or sweet foods has over other humans. I am God. You can make them tidy anything with the promise of an ice lolly.

6. When their favourite song goes from ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ to something over 20 seconds long and becomes ‘Paranoid Android’ by Radiohead, like my 6 year old daughter (which Daddy is very proud of).

7. Watching them learn to read, or write their own name. The months of choosing their name suddenly becomes a lot more serious. (May have set the bar quite high for our daughter Geneviève, poor kid.)

8. Sitting on the floor and having your baby crawl over to you and rest their head on your thigh. Loving that you’re what they want right now, not a brightly coloured, obnoxiously noisy toy in the corner.

9. Spending weekends watching them run around in the sun and play in trees, or even just giggle at cartoons. This is their childhood. Remembering what you remember from your childhood and realising that this is that, for them, right now. Wanting to make it brilliant.

10. Having made some freshly squeezed brand new people that are largely part of you, but are also separate beings and wanting them to be a bit like you, but also have a better life than you. You know they will probably make the world a tiny bit better.

 @shopgirlygm

10 Things You Can’t Stand About Parenting 

Disclaimer: read ’10 signs you love parenting’ for if you need to be reminded that you do love it really.
1. When someone misidentifies the gender of your baby. You may like to think you’re quite a liberal parent and want to buy your girl a red truck for her birthday, saying ‘fuck you’ to gender stereotypes, but it’s still a little infuriating when your dainty little girl dressed in a blue dress and flowery sunhat gets told she is a handsome young man.

2. Mornings when you feel your stomach acid start to bubble up due to the rage caused by the amount of times you have to tell your daughter to not just stand there in yesterday’s pants for a further 23 minutes, but actually make movements – any freaking movements at all – to get some additional kind of clothing on. And also, when you ask what on Earth they’ve been doing for the last half an hour they seem to have no recollection of their activities. Astonishing. Like it’s been erased from their memory. Which reminds me…

3. Sometimes, they remember everything. Apart from important stuff. But they do somehow remember that last week you promised them they could have packed lunch at the end of this week, and now it is Friday, 8:27am and you now have an obligation to rustle up a nutritious picnic for the clever little thing.

4. You want to be a fly-on-the-wall at school lunch time and have the power to poke other kids when they say something mean to yours. You hate the idea that your daughter is sad and you’re not there.

5. Dressing babies. Due to my disability I can’t do this myself but I’m usually the one trying to pin said baby down while others try to insert him into trousers. They should use this activity to torture prisoners – see how long they last with a baby (okay maybe just a doll) who, just when you’re getting leg #2 into place, they retract leg #1. Leg #2 then becomes leg #1 and the ordeal is repeated about ten times. It’s the same with sleeves and shoes. You all end up screaming and you put your son in a dress and be done with it.

6. They do not want you to sleep. Babies are arseholes during the night and that’s all I have to say on the situation.

7. When you’re supposed to cook something nutritious to fuel their growing bodies but you’ve just got home and it’s 6pm – fridge tapas will have to do. You boil up some pasta, add cheese and a bit of sandwich pickle, some sliced up cold sausage from the weekend BBQ, and throw in some frozen mixed veg to pretend it’s healthy. They don’t eat it, and instead have some questionable yoghurt from the back of the fridge for dinner. If they get the runs it’s their own fault.

8. Meltdowns which occur outside the home. Nothing screams “look how shit I am at parenting!” than when your child decides to lie down on the floor in the frozen section in Morrisons. You’re a mum in a wheelchair and the verbal attempts to get your child to stand up are not working. Then the Parent Samaritans rock up and offer help and you just want to scream “You can fuck off too. Leave me alone.” in their face. You’d quite like to just ignore your child and leave them to their tantrum as you might at home, but unfortunately it is frowned upon in the public arena.

9. Morning wake-up calls before 7am when you’re not getting up early to go on holiday. I love that my kids want to snuggle in bed next to me in the mornings but when they are 3 and 6 years old, it is 5.48am and within 3 minutes they are arguing about not having enough space or any covers, you regularly scream “it is MY bed, it’s not even 6 o’clock, bugger off”. You load YouTube on your phone and some sickly sweet video of some girls unwrapping Frozen-themed Kinder Eggs, and send them on their way. You’ll deal with the post-YouTube comedown later on.

10. After all the other trivial, albeit shitty stuff that happens day-to-day as a parent, you have the overwhelming sense of disappointment that you can’t give them everything you want to. You can’t promise the world will be nice to them always and you can’t promise nothing bad will happen, and that sucks.*

*Although you can help them to be strong, loving and open-minded people, and that might help with those things.

@shopgirlygm

When the world seems awful

I woke up this Sunday morning distracted after having frantically called and messaged my Mum and stepdad last night to check they were safe after the BBC News app pinged up on my phone informing us of the London Bridge incident. They had been to see Depeche Mode at the Olympic Stadium that night, and seeing as I have little-to-no geographical awareness of where things are in London, I didn’t know if they were anywhere near there, or if anything else had happened near them.

It had become somewhat of a dark joke last year; everytime we heard the percussive ping of the breaking news headlines pop up on either of our phones, we dreaded hearing that another celebrity had been found dead in their homes, and secretly hoping David Attenborough was still alive and well. On Christmas Day at my brother’s house, we heard the noise-of-doom on my partner’s phone whilst we were sat round trying to answer the ridiculous questions of my brother’s Christmas Quiz, and I sarcastically piped up, “oh no, who’s died now?”, which in hindsight, isn’t the most appropriate thing to have said but unfortunately that is what I said. Tom took his phone out of the space between the sofa cushions, glanced at the lock-screen and replied, “oh no, I don’t think I want to say!”. It was of course, a notification to say that George Michael had been found dead, aged 53. We sat in shock for quite a while, discussing how bad 2016 had been for bad news, and for famous people passing-away and wondered how many more faces would be talked about in the past before the year was up.

But of course these are individual people and most of them died by either natural, drug-induced or suicide related reasons. It was achingly sad to hear about Bowie and Prince’s passings and even those who I did not personally know much about. Not many high-profile deaths come as good news. However when the news is of yet another terrorist attack on a city, or a nightclub, a famous building or even just a bus, the thing we want to hear next is that the police have caught and ended the lives of the perpetrators. The lemmings, blindly and irrationally following commands of their cowardly leaders who are intent on spreading hate, ruining the lives of people who have nothing to do with them. All in the name of an imaginary being.

It is scarring and scary, and we don’t seem to be able to do enough about it. I know that  sounds monumentally defeatest but there is internet, there is print, there is travel, there is free-speech and there is unstoppable influence and these things can be, and usually are fantastic tools for movement and for good causes. But people will continue to follow blindly and be brainwashed as they have done for thousands of years. Years decorated by the untimely and unwarrented events to blame for the sudden decline in a specific population going about their daily lives. These foolish few will continue to be able to buy household products and make bombs that could kill innocent people enjoying a pop concert. I hated having to write that last sentence, but can we actually say that anti-terror movements and procedures will mean that this NEVER happens again? No, we cannot. We can’t control people and monitor their every movement, and that is frustratingly fair and right.

However we can one-by-one teach our children that they have their own minds. They can question and they can have good powers, just as forceful as the preachers of evil ideology living out their anger-filled desires through impressionable young people. We can wrap our kids in bubble wrap and not go and visit the local music festival because we are scared it might be a target for attackers, or we can pop the bubbles in the plastic, rip it off, stamp on it or whatever floats your boat and allow them to see, to hear and to be brave. They will see or hear about more terror attacks, as will we, and I will still frantically try and contact my loved ones if the attacks happen in a place near to them, as my family did when I was due to travel on the Picadilly Line on the morning of the 7/7 bombings with my stepsister, but thanks to her friend being a little too hungover to get up as early as we had planned, we were still in bed when it happened.

I am scared. Scared that it will happen near us or our beautiful children and family members elsewhere. But I am also scared that the fear of it happening will stop us from living our lives. So I think we just have to let the fear subside just enough, and teach our kids that they are brilliant, and brave and powerful and they can do good, have good values and good morals just because they want to, as opposed to needing a god or other source of scaremongering hierarchy to ‘make them behave and be good people’.

 

@shopgirlygm

The morning routine with three kids

I sit leaning over the sink with a mouthful of white foam shouting “HEEF HIME!!!” as loud as I can whilst trying not to spray toothpaste everywhere.  The children do not respond to such demands. It is playing time, not heef hime. Brushing their teeth is really not important right now, they have still got to dress Supergirl, even though she wears the same fucking outfit every day and she’s only just been undressed.

“HEEF HIME…HAN ANYONE HEAR NE?” That’ll be a no then. I spit out the remaining toothfoam and shout even louder, well as loud as I can with my croaky morning voice. “HELLOOO? WOULD ANYONE LIKE A BISCUIT?”

“ME!! I WANT A BISCUIT!” come the stereo replies as they elephant up the stairs still without shoes or socks on, despite having been downstairs to finish getting ready for a whole 9 minutes.

“So you can hear me! I am pleased! You’re not having a biscuit though, I was just checking your ears worked properly, which I have concluded they do, so here you are. Now brush.”

Two faces look at me like I’ve just cancelled Christmas, and I feel smug. I win. They do not. The older child then finishes brushing her teeth and goes for a lie down on my bed. That’s normal isn’t it. I finish brushing the younger one’s teeth and wheel into our bedroom to see the 6 year-old looking rather relaxed amongst the unmade bed, and I feel it is necessary to question her whereabouts.

“Why on Earth are you lying down in here? Are you finished getting ready? Have you found your shoes from the depths of the shoeboxfromhell? [They are actually on her bedroom floor in clear view of the doorway from where I saw them, but I want her to discover this for herself] You haven’t even got any socks on. Then you need to brush your hair.”

The younger child then feels the urge to perform her ritualistic hand-grabbing involving her baby brother who is crawling around in their bedroom, unaware although, really fully aware that doing so will mean he falls on his face.

“LEAVE him alone please. If he’s crawling you can’t just grab his hands, how many times do I need to tell you that nugget of information?”

“Ohhhwa. Don’t want to.”

“‘Don’t want to’ what? I haven’t offered you anything, I have told you to leave him alone or he’ll get hurt. You really need to go and find some shoes now.”

Younger child then seems to melt into the bedroom floor, flailing about like beached octopus, ensuring her feet go very close to her brother’s face, enough for him to try and eat her toes, at which point she shouts-

“NOOO, GET OFF MEEEYUH”

You’re on him! You get off, just stand up and he won’t be able to eat your feet and then you will be able to choose yourself some shoes, that’s handy isn’t it.”

I sit near the door frame incase I need to bang my head against it. Older child is standing next to her shoes and does not know where they are.

“Look down.”

Child looks down to discover the elusive shoes that have been there for over 12 hours, and then grins at me with an alluring coyness that I do not find cute.

We eventually make it downstairs, ten minutes later than would be helpful and the sloth-like children have yet to choose a coat. The younger chid has decided to drape herself over the shoe box, definitely sure that she cannot find her other purple shoe. I wheel past her and glance into the shoe box and sure enough, the shoe is literally under her hand. Well no wonder she couldn’t see it, her hand had blocked it out from all vision and discovery. Understandable.

“It is right there. I can see it. Under your hand. Lift your hand up. The other hand. *Oh for fuck’s sake* The OTHER hand, you only have two. See, now put it on.”

“Why do I have to?” she ponders, at least I think that is what she says. It’s hard to tell what a 3-year-old is saying when her face is squished against the shoe box and the moaning tone of voice would seem like I’ve asked her to complete a 1000 piece baked-bean jigsaw puzzle.

“No no you’re right, you can of course go to nursery with one shoe on.”

“Don’t want toooo”

Mummy gives up, and plans a mental timetable by which she will have consumed the children’s Easter egg chocolate before the day is out. They’ve brought it on themselves.

Follow me on Twitter @shopgirlygm and Facebook.