I was CONVINCED I’d never mother a girly girl. I was SURE any female offspring I produced would be a rough and tumble, dungaree-wearing, stone throwing, tree-climbing kind-a-gal. To a certain extent – she is. She loves getting messy. She loves dinosaurs and cars. She loves playing pirates – favouring Captain Hook over Tinkerbell any day.
However . . .
There’s a side to the Giblet that’s becoming more and more diva like. Girly beyond belief. To the extent that I now feel rather more like part of Mariah Carey’s entourage than a Bolton Mum of one. A side that makes getting out of the house in the morning harder than escaping Alcatraz. Continue reading