Monthly Archives: March 2011

Life According to Grace.

First off, I apologise for my absence. Life seemed to overtake a wee bit and I just didn’t seem to find the time to blog. Also, the wee one has been poorly with tonsillitis. Stripped down to her nappy  and burning like a little furnace, she’s pretty much spent about 3 days glued to me and whimpering. My poor little limpet.  However – it would seem that we are now back to full health, and therefore the chosen theme for my grand return is as follows:

Life according to Grace.

1 – Everything Quacks. Any animal, drawing of an animal, animal on TV, be it a duck, a dog, a monkey or a fish, now gets pointed at and an enthusiastic “wack wack” issues forth from little lips. Followed by a round of applause for herself.

2 – The world looks far better when you’re upside down peeping through your own legs.

3 – The plasterer is the most interesting person in the world.

4 – There is nothing more fun than filling up the dog’s water bowl with stuff. The following items are preferred:

•    Mummy’s keys
•    Daddy’s glasses
•    Sippy cup
•    Remote controls
•    Anything that can be cunningly snaffled from the bottom draw of the dishwasher whilst Mum’s attention is diverted.

5 – There is never an inappropriate time to dance, or an inappropriate tune to dance too. Recent dance ad-libbing has included:

•    The lift music in Debenhams.
•    Daddy’s hammering when working on the extension.
•    The Go Compare advert.
•    One particular button that plays a tune on the Pepper Pig sound book.
•    The family band – consisting of Grace on maracas, Daddy on wooden drum, and Mummy on crocodile xylophone. (One hates to blow ones own trumpet – or bang one’s own crocodile xylophone even, but it has to be said – WE ROCK!)

So yes, life is indeed back to normal. Which I LOVE, because seeing my happy little baby so poorly was just horrid, horrid, horrid. I even forgave the permanent marker on the 2 week old, brand new, cream kitchen units – possibly only because I managed to get it off, but she was after all developing her artistic flair and shouldn’t be restricted. (A concept her father and I don’t yet see eye to eye on.)

Life according to Grace is filled with music and scribbles. Life according to Grace means cuddles for everyone and making a mess. Life according to Grace is trying to sing “wind the bobbin up” at 3 in the morning and happily chasing the dogs around.
Go Grace! Good to have you back baby girl xxx


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Stressful Day!

STRESSful morning. In fact stressful day all round. In fact, stressful week! Grace decided to keep us up most of the night screaming for no particular reason. Tired and grumpy, got myself ready half asleep with mascara wand in one hand, and toddler perched on knee and held with the other hand whilst she simultaneously trashed everything on the dressing table and stuck her fingers into my lipsticks. Mammoth struggle to get her dressed. Trousers are the enemy, and cardigans the work of the devil. No help from hubby as he had to leave the house at stupid-o-clock for a meeting. Finally good to go (late mind you) and the car keys are nowhere to be found. Many upturned cushions and expletives later, still no sign, although Grace has had a marvellous time helping Mummy throw the sofa cushions everywhere and shouting. Nothing else for it – will have to go out back way and use spare car keys. Back way means – due to all the building work that’s NEVER GOING
TO EEEEEEEND – putting Grace on my back in her special carrier, balancing over a plank that’s there to get across the massive hole right outside the back door, and clambering precariously over a 5ft pile of rubble and bricks that’s blocking the side of the house. All the while, Grace is finding the whole episode hilarious, and persistently kicks Mummy in the back.

And all before 8 in the morning.

Still no courtesy car from the shocking company my insurance people have put me onto, over a week after some div went into the back of us, and by 9am – seven missed calls from solicitors (whom I have already informed several times: I do not have whiplash, I have not incurred any financial losses, and I can’t be arsed suing anyone!) Also this morning – a major punch up between two year 10 girls, and a headache.

The house is  a complete s**t tip, I don’t have anything for tea, and I have just literally this second chipped my new un-chippable £30 gel manicure that I’ve had for one frigging day.

So how are you?


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10 Things I Like :-)

 10 things I like. By Grace.

  1. The funny squeaky noise Daddy makes when I go to bash Iggle Piggle on the posh new telly.
  2. Tipping out a full box of cereal on the kitchen floor. This makes a very good crunch crunch sound when I stomp on it. STOMP STOMP STOMP.
  3. Twiddling Mummy’s hair when I suck my thumb. Sometimes I have to push her face around to get to her pony tail. This is the very best thing for twiddling.
  4. Suddenly doing a very loud, very high-pitched scream while Mummy is driving and she thinks I’m asleep.
  5. Dancing to the theme tune from Dads Army.
  6. Mummy’s face when I put my hands in my own poo the second my nappy’s off.
  7. Pulling things off the shelves in the supermarket, and also eating the shopping list.
  8. My shiny red party shoes.
  9. Poking Daddy on the nose because he makes a noise like  clown horn.
  10. Bashing my spoon away at anything home cooked. OR keeping it in my mouth so Mummy thinks I’ve had it and then spitting it ALL out when the next spoonful arrives . . . Bleeeeh.

Lots of love from Me – Grace x


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    Did you read my last post? Well, I take it all back! I think the terrible two’s may have come early and I’m well and truly – absolutely – officially POOPED! Something has possessed my little gibbley angel and replaced her with a screaming contortionist on a mission to destroy all that stands in her path. Just ask the staff at Hobbycraft. They’re probably still trying to sort out the aftermath of a visit from the Tasmanian Devil that currently is my daughter. You see I made what I now know to be something of a classic error. Grace has decided that being in her pushchair is rubbish. Just rubbish. So while I am deliberating over various pots of glitter, G is straining at the straps like she’s pulling a monster truck in the World’s Strongest Man, and the whittering is reaching a crescendo.

    “I know” thinks I “I’ll let her out – just for a minute, so she can have a little pootle about.” (I can FEEL the smiles from Mums in the know reading this!)

    WOOoooosh . . . where’d she go?

    After running round several isles after her (which is, apparently HILARIOUS) I finally catch up, scoop her up, and set her back down by the things I want to look at. Her concentration lasts all of 10 seconds whilst she picks up a tub of sequins, decides they are obviously for losers, and flings them away before triumphantly absconding again. This pattern repeats itself several times, and hundreds of various bottles/straws/ribbons/stickers/books are strewn with glee all over the floors before I decide enough is enough, and try to put her back in her push chair.

     It would appear that this is the end of the world. All hell breaks loose. Not just crying – n n no. Full on heart wrenching,ear-splitting  screaming, whilst thrusting around and making herself stiff as a board, and therefore, impossible to strap in.

    Shopping is impossible, basket is abandoned, and pushchair is wheeled abruptly back to the car. Ooooh and the LOOKS from people! Some bend down and try to pander to her hissy fit with a concered “Oh sweety whadda madda?” (I feel like they may as well be saying “Is Mummy wummy woo being a howible mummy wummy and letting you cry?”)


     Others just glare like you’ve RUINED their day. Some bite their bottom lip and tilt their head sympathetically. I ignore all of them and crash on out the shop – mentally flicking V signs at everyone as I go and annoyed that I haven’t done my shopping. 

    The car park however is a place of magic and calm, and the second we’re outside, all is calm and well, thumb is sucked and hair is twiddled.  

    Now . . . to get her in the car seat . . .


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