Parenting

posted on January 9, 2019 by elizabeth

The truth about Lego

Santa, we need to have a word. One word in fact: Lego.

What kind of heinous invention is this? Why would you bring so much of this into my children’s lives? Do you hate parents? Do you want to punish us for something we’ve done in a previous life?

Everywhere I turn it’s there. Under my bare feet, in my bed, embedded into carpet, rattling into my hoover, chewed up and pooped out by my dog… you get the picture.

You ‘blessed’ my kids with several sets on Christmas morning and although we spent two bloody days building the things it took less than 30 seconds for them to be dismantled. This was followed by multiple breakdowns because they couldn’t put it back the way it was and their horrible mother threw out the instructions and boxes. There’s no sound more soul-destroying than hearing the contents of the Lego box being tipped out onto the floor; and if I waited until my children actually pick up the damn stuff afterwards I would be 90.

My nails and spirit are broken because of these toys from hell.

If I have to feign interest at another collection of random bricks thrown together which – I’m told – are meant to be a spaceship I’m going to lose it and scream: IT’S SHIT! BUILD SOMETHING I CAN RECOGNISE!!!

I’ve spent the morning looking for one particular teeny tiny green piece which is apparently essential to the existence to the universe. If I don’t find it before school pick up my life won’t be worth living. I’m 90% sure the dog ate it.

If you’re reading this, head my advice: squash your child’s imagination and creativity before it’s too late. Don’t get into bed after a long day and find a small square of plastic lodged into your spine (a present left by my youngest).

I urge you to save yourself and kill their brain cells with television.

posted on September 5, 2018 by elizabeth

Ready for the next stage

In a couple of weeks my youngest child starts nursery. This looming change hasn’t been bothering me much up until now. He’s more than ready for it and massively excited about being able to head off to school just like his big brother.

With this move into the next stage of his life, it also brings change for me too. I’ve been a stay-at-home mum for over two years and although I do love to complain about how much my kids wind me up I’m genuinely going to be a bit lost when he goes. Of course this completely kills all excuses not to be finishing the second book or working on my Masters, but I’m sure I will be able to think up other pitiful reasons to avoid my office – I am, after all, an expert procrastinator.

Ozzy gets a bit of a bad reputation on the blog, mostly because he’s just not as sensitive as Oliver was at his age, but this doesn’t make him the ‘bad’ one. He’s his own person.

He’s a mirror image of my husband (which can be irritating, especially when he and I are fighting) and although he’s not as gentle as Oliver, he’s much more affectionate. He’s got a laugh that resonates from a place of pure mischief, he’s strong-willed, he’s energetic, he’s chaos personified and he’s the reason I laugh throughout the day. He gets away with so much more than Oliver ever did because he’s the baby and because of his countless admissions to hospital due to f**king croup, every winter.

Within minutes of meeting him, his teacher – who taught Oliver before him – remarked: “Well, we’re dealing with a whole different character.” A summary I couldn’t have put better myself.

I love that they’re so different from each other; it’s what keeps things interesting around here.

There’s something else about Oscar that always makes him a little bit special to me. He has a sense of when I may be in need of a hug or just for someone to sit beside, something that no one else in the house picks up on (even my stalker dog). When he does find me I’m usually in the hallway, perched on the second last step of my stairs.

This is my spot.

It’s where I take a breather from the house and from life. I make telephone calls here, I have arguments here, I’ve cried here, laughed here and had kisses that make the world melt away. I’ve had the worst news of my life here and the best. I’ve fallen apart and put myself back together all whilst sitting on this step so it’s not hard to find me when I’ve slipped away from the chaos of playtime.

Ozzy, without fail, will simply sit beside me on this spot and give me a hug. But there’s sometimes, when he thinks I might need it, he’ll give my arm an extra squeeze and say: “There, that will fix your heart.” And then he runs off back to being a destructive three-year-old. For those few seconds he can read me better than someone ten times his age and I love him for it.

Now, if that’s not a pretty special kid then I don’t know what is.

He’s going to be fine and I’m going to be fine but I will miss this chapter of my life. Those few hours when it was just the two of us drove me crazy at times but I wouldn’t have missed them for the world.

He was my wild child and now I have to share him with the world.

Amy Cole has lost her mind is out now, get your copy today!

posted on March 24, 2018 by elizabeth

Coping with an early miscarriage

In December 2013 I had a miscarriage. It wasn’t my only miscarriage, but it’s the one that really screwed me up. I was six weeks pregnant and I had her whole life planned out.
One in four pregnancies end in miscarriage, yet, I still don’t feel entitled to grieve for my child properly because it ended so early. It had been ingrained in me that because it was so early on it should be treated as ‘just one of those things’. It’s because of this mind-set that I tried to bounce back to normality and get on with things. That plan didn’t work out so well and I ended up taking a nosedive into depression.
I know I’m not alone in this.
Women are meant to be stoic and get on with their lives and pretend that it’s silly to grieve for something that was barely there. There’s a time limit that you can be upset for (usually until you stop bleeding) and then anything more than that you’re just being dramatic.
Don’t get me wrong, my family never made me feel like that – I did. I pushed myself to forget that it even happened and concentrate on my son that was here, or even just try again. Simple, right?
The problem was I had already fallen in love with my baby that was the size of an orange, decided her name and was already mentally redecorating the nursery for her. I couldn’t just switch it off and I resented the fact that I ‘had’ to.
It didn’t go away when I fell pregnant with Oscar and it hasn’t gone away nearly five years later.
I’m still angry.
I’m angry that I have nothing to remember this little life by. I don’t have a grave to visit, a scan photo to look at or even the positive pregnancy test as proof she existed, even for those six short weeks.
All I have is the dull ache in my heart that comes back when I remember sitting in the A&E department, bleeding, waiting to see a doctor.
If I don’t think about her, then it really would be like she never existed and I refuse to do that. It’s bad enough that I felt ashamed to grieve for something that was never meant to be, I won’t let the memory of those few weeks be forgotten.
I don’t want to be embarrassed about still thinking about her, I want to acknowledge that this shitty, shitty thing happened and remember that for those six weeks she existed. I won’t let myself forget the little life I had forged for her and I’ll listen to P!nk! ‘Beam me up’ and remember that grief is brutal but there’s no time limit or right way to do it.
I wish there had been words of comfort from a doctor, when it happened, or any type of counselling that could have helped me feel justified in my upset, but there was neither. I guess the point of this post is: miscarriage is horrible at any stage; if you’ve gone through it I’m sorry for your loss. You are not alone and it’s ok to remember your baby. Even if you’re lucky enough to go on and have a healthy pregnancy and give birth, it still doesn’t make your loss disappear or any less relevant. It happened, feel it.
Her name was Lily, she was my daughter and she always will be.

posted on March 13, 2018 by elizabeth

The Joys of Potty Training

This evening, my eldest son came into the kitchen looking forlorn. I asked him what was wrong and he said:

“Oscar threw a poo at me.”

And with that, I decided it was time to talk about potty training.

It should come as no surprise, to those who read this blog regularly, that this next parenting milestone has turned into a complete farce.

Some people reading this may feel that I should reconsider sharing the poo-flinging incident on the blog for fear it will come back to haunt him when he’s older. However, I feel that this could be a teachable moment. For example: should he irritate me in his teenage years I will be able to teach him that is not advisable by printing out this post and handing it out to his classmates.

I have spent months trying to convince him to start potty training, explaining that he needs to learn for when he starts nursery.

He didn’t care.

I’ve told him that he gets to wear super-cool pants.

He didn’t care.

I’ve told him he’ll get a treat, every time he uses the potty.

He thought about this for a little while and ultimately decided: he didn’t care.

The only person he will remotely be convinced by is his older brother. He wants to be just like him – to the point where he repeats his sentences straight after Oliver says them and pines after him at the window when he leaves for school.

Oliver has had some success with the treat angle (mostly because every time Oscar gets a treat I relent and give him one too). I have a feeling, by the end of this, I will have a kid out of nappies but two children bordering on the verge of Type-2 diabetes.

Back to this evening…

I went to check on the poopetrator and found him innocently sat on the potty, whilst the offending turd was sat on the living room floor. I asked him what happened and all I could gather from the guilty party was that: ‘Offer did it’.

‘Offer’ (Oliver) denies this and I’m inclined to believe the good one. Yes, I said it.

He didn’t even try to keep the pretence up for long, for fear of losing favour with his hero. Instead he cut his losses gave me a ‘sowee’ and went back to basically not giving a f**k about being in my good graces.

This child will be the death of me.

I was going to attempt to put together a handy guide on how to deal with potty training but, as you’ve probably gathered by now, I haven’t a damn clue.

If you want advice, ask Oliver – he seems to have life figured out at four-years-old.

posted on July 28, 2016 by elizabeth

Surviving Summer with small children

This morning, as I trawled the internet in search of something to keep the inmates entertained I came across a few articles claiming to have ‘101 Things to do in the Summer’ or ‘The Ultimate Guide to Beat Summer Boredom’; however, thirty seconds into reading these so-called lists I gave up.

Who are these people? Do they interact with actual humans? Are they pulling these ideas out of their ass? Or the more disturbing question: am I raising little psychopaths who wouldn’t remotely enjoy ‘counting the leaves of your favourite tree’ ( An actual suggestion.)

With this in mind I decided it was time to make my own bucket list for parents at this joyous time of year.

Get Crafty: Make something fantastic from the increased amount of empty wine bottles found around the house. Wine not your thing? Don’t worry: vodka and gin bottles can work too! No need to wait for Friday or Saturday to have a tipple; if your children are driving you to the edge of sanity have a bottle to take the edge off. You can even make it a fun drinking game: every time they say ‘mummy’ take a slug – not recommended I was hammered by 11am Monday.
Don’t Neglect Their Education: School may be out but that doesn’t mean their education has to be! Get them to count the amount of grey hairs rapidly appearing in your scalp with each passing day. Keeping on top of that root touch up has never been more fun or soul destroying.
Keep Active: Didn’t have time for the early morning run you promised to go on? Don’t worry about it. Just get the kids involved. Make sure they get very little sleep the night before so they’re extra needy and spend the day running into different rooms from them until your partner comes home (about eight hours or so). If they cry harder it just means it’s working – think of those abs.
Go Somewhere New: If you feel like you haven’t got quite enough stress in your day take the kids somewhere new. Thankfully, because it’s summer, everywhere is busy so you’ll have lots of fun trying to park and keep an eye on multiple children through crowds – it’s even more fun when you’re potty training and there’s no toilet within a three mile radius. Good times.
Get Some Me Time: If you still believe this exists in the world of parenting you’re a damned fool. By all means, book that ‘free’ time and enjoy the residual guilt that follows you around like a bastarding gremlin reminding you that other parents are counting the leaves on their child’s favourite tree while yours hasn’t seen the outside world in a week. Relaxed yet?
Introduce Your Children to Culture: See how many series of woeful American TV you can get through in the next six weeks. Every time your child craves attention just throw a couple of episodes of Power Rangers in the mix to zombie them out then you can get back to your Gilmore Girls marathon.
Teach Them About Your Family History: It’s never too early to teach the kids about why their weird uncle doesn’t come to family parties or about the criminal history and alcoholism in the immediate family. Sure, people will cry and things will be awkward but that’s a whole afternoon of entertainment for everyone.
Try New Food: Get creative in the kitchen and make new dishes that your children will in no way appreciate or eat. Enjoy watching them cry and refuse to even try the food you’ve spent over an hour making just for it to be changed for cereal. Again. Embrace their competitive side and make this a fun new game by seeing who gets Type 2 Diabetes first.
Spend Some Quality Time Together: If, for some utterly bizarre reason, you don’t feel that 18 hours a day together isn’t enough then when you finally have them in bed sit and watch them sleep so you can kid yourself into thinking this parenting craic isn’t that bad. Angels.
Take a Holiday: Passport? Holiday booked? Self-loathing when you’re in a swimsuit? Great, now just give the kids to ANYONE and go on holiday for the week and look at pictures of them so it’s like they’re there.

If you were looking for actual suggestions on how to survive summer then this will be in no way helpful, but don’t be fooled: Pinterest won’t help either.

May the odds be ever in your favour.

posted on July 14, 2016 by elizabeth

Becoming a stay-at-home mum

As you sit scrolling through your phone or tablet this evening, perhaps basking in the peace of your children finally being asleep and convincing yourself that kids aren’t complete assholes 90% of the time; I urge you to read a cautionary tale.

This is the tale of a stupid, stupid woman who once sat where you are.

A foolish smug woman, with two boys finally in a nice routine and were loudly snoring upstairs while she had a whole evening of mindless multi-screening between the tv and her phone. If she was feeling particularly sociable she may even look up from the screen from time-to-time to see if her husband was still in the room and breathing. Ah, the good old days.

Aaaaanyway, despite painting a picture of being the perfect wife and mother, this woman had been feeling a bit ‘meh’ about her day-to-day life. She was trying to juggle her job, motherhood, being a friend and wife – and basically felt like she was half-assing the lot.

The woman left for work before her kids were awake. The hour she saw them in the evening was usually monopolised by an argument about which cup their juice had to be in; and don’t even get me started on the laundry situation. Something had to give.

Unfortunately, the woman’s deviant children decided they would make the decision for her. They started being uncharacteristically pleasant to be around for long periods of time. They played nicely together, cried for actually reasons – not just because the younger one was ‘looking at him’ – and generally made the woman think that staying at home fulltime with them would be something to look forward to.

Still on a high from spending time with these alleged angels, the woman sat her husband down and convinced him that they would be fine with one wage and this was absolutely the right thing to do. You should know that this woman’s husband was an idiot also, because he believed her – the fool.

The woman handed in her notice and started daydreaming of summer afternoons with her children; with runs in the morning, sit down breakfasts with silly conversations, sloppy open mouth kisses from the baby because that’s how he rolls and generally time to get to know them as the little people they are fast growing up to be.

Reader, I have a confession: that woman was me.

If I could go back in time, I would shake that stupid woman and tell her to catch a grip. Lads, I’m two weeks in and I’m ready to run for the hills.

Would you like to know how many early morning runs I’ve been on? Zero.

Sit down breakfasts with silly conversations? I get the breakfast alright, then I’m routinely ignored by both of them. At least Oscar manages to throw the dregs of his cereal on the ground just to keep things interesting – but only when I’m already underneath the chair picking up the spoon so the remainder of the milk is sure to get me on the head.

General affection is held to ransom by the younger deviant – he prefers to headbutt or bodyslam.

Finally, getting to know the little people they are growing up to be? Well, if I wanted to know what it feels like to hear the word ‘mummy’ on repeat for 12 hours, in between tantrums and prising dried-up cheerios from the carpet, then consider me educated.

And let’s not forget about the guilt that now chases me round like an unwelcome houseguest. Those care-free evenings that I used to have are now gone. Now, I’m plagued with questions like: how are you going to manage on one wage? Shouldn’t you write a book or something so people think you’re more than just ‘staying home’ all day with two kids? What are you going to do when they go to school? Who the hell is going to hire you?

It’s a joyful time to be alive, kids.

So take heed: don’t spend too much time with your offspring. They might just convince you to jack in the career and get to know them. I’ve done it for you; they’re all cretins – run for your lives.

posted on April 6, 2016 by elizabeth

S.O.S: Save Our Sanity

I’m currently sitting on my bed looking like a very lifelike extra from ‘The Walking Dead’ because, for the last two weeks, Oz has decided to embark on a sustained campaign of REM sleep deprivation against his parents.
How do I put this nicely? Oz is being a complete asshole.

Apologies to the more sensitive readers, for the remainder of this post I will change the ‘A’ word to something less harsh in order to appease your gentle disposition. We’ll go with: darling.
Wanting him to sleep more – although obviously is for his own good – is also for very selfish reasons. I miss my evenings. I miss mindlessly scrolling through my phone while sitting on opposite ends of the sofa from my husband therefore qualifying as spending time together.
To say the lack of sleep has had an effect on our relationship is an understatement. Today, I threatened to drown him if he didn’t stop irritating me. Even by my standards that’s a pretty harsh threat – although he can tread water frig all so I don’t think it would be that hard. I’m getting off topic.
I don’t think we have shared a pleasant word with each other in weeks and my daydreams of running off to Dingle with Colin Firth are becoming very detailed.
Last night I sent out an SOS to friends and family with kids for advice and thankfully I had no smug replies of their angels, and how great they were at sleeping from the start. I got sympathy and although I was reading replies with heavy eyes they were appreciated.

In order to get some semblance of rest, by the third time he wakes up in the night we have just relented and let him into our bed (in order to let his older brother sleeping beside him get some kip).

This usually results in either of his parents being head-butted as he throws himself around the bed. Last night, it was my turn. I got a chubby body slam across my face and then he fell soundly asleep. I was so tired and my alarm for the gym was going off in 90 minutes so I just lay there being smothered by a butter ball in a onesie.

See how I managed to brag that I was going to the gym there? Shameless.
Anyway, after another day of being at each other’s throats and threats of drowning exchanged, we decided it was time to renew our conviction and stay true to the course.
Oscar has been moved out into his own room so Oliver can snore his happy little head off while the little DARLING can scream at us from his cot knowing that we are on the other side of the door lying on the hall floor, rocking in the fetal position.
He’s asleep, for now and dinner has been started for the grown ups at 9pm. This is not ok.
And do you think he cares? That’s a firm ‘no’.

posted on January 23, 2016 by elizabeth

Second Time Around

Oscar is turning one next week.
One. Seriously? Where has that year gone and why am I not skinny yet?
Let’s not pull at that thread.
Anywho, Bosco – as he’s affectionately known – is practically a man now so I figured it was time to engage my sleep-deprived brain and try to write again. Sorry, guys.
Things have been somewhat different this time around. I read numerous blogs telling me that would be the case but I didn’t actually believe it. I assumed I was too much of a control freak to be anything other than I was with Bear.
How wrong can you be?
I’m surprised the poor child has made it this far…
My only defence for my relaxed approach to parenting this deviant is: he’s a completely different baby than Oliver.
They are night and day – I want to say in a good way, but that’s just a lie.
The truth is: I live with a psychological terrorist.
Oliver is an emotional wreck at the best of times but he is sweet and kind.
Oscar is the happiest looking kiddo going but has a temper that would rival that of a 1940’s dictator.
He adores Oliver, but adores annoying him more; and his older brother is that much of a pushover he usually relents to whatever Bosco wants.
My lips are chapped from kissing imaginary hurts caused by this miniature menace.

Any hopes that this one would remotely look like me have been well and truly squashed. He’s practically a clone of his father. It’s rather unsettling.
I can’t fight with Conor then look after Oscar, it’s like his face has picked a side of the argument.
Another traitorous baby.
I was cautious about using dummies with Oliver, Oscar practically looks like Maggie Simpson at this stage.
Oliver is a graduate of controlled crying, Oscar broke us by day three.

Oliver was rushed to A&E whenever he had the faintest hint of a cough, Oscar was left to fight off croup until he was admitted to hospital.
Oliver takes himself off to bed and most mornings needs to be woken up, Oscar blinked once. I think.
The steriliser is more of a choice than a necessity.
I’m not coming off too great here, am I?
Judge all you want, I haven’t slept properly in three years.
Oliver finally started teething at 11 months, Oscar has decided he’ll wait a while longer.
Like I said: night and day.
This child has broken me. Any hopes that my husband had of a third are well and truly gone.
These two are my legacy, whatever shape that may be.
Ozzy’s birthday will be a world away from Oliver’s. There will be no bouncy castle (come on, it’s January!), there will be the usual Friday night dinner with a cake. I’ll take an appropriate amount of pictures and not post a message ‘to him’ on Facebook about how ‘proud’ I am of him (boke).
He’s one. His major achievements include: giving his parents *just* enough sleep so they don’t throw themselves off a bridge and managing to do the most horrendous nappies every time we are hungover.
Zozzle (yes, he has many names and is rarely called Oscar) is amazing and was worth the wait but seriously, is the whole ‘dipping the dummy in whiskey so they sleep’ thing still frowned upon? I’m asking for a friend…

posted on July 23, 2015 by elizabeth

Expectations Vs Reality: The Park

Earlier today I posted a picture to my Twitter account of Oliver and myself sitting happily on a wooden throne in Kilbroney Park. It’s a nice photo and through the wonder of social media I got to pretend that I was having a pleasant afternoon with my children.

In truth? I was not.

After a fantastic week away in Wicklow – without any major meltdowns – I had become cocky and thought that the ‘terrible two’s’ were something for other people to worry about. True to form, my dearest son decided to bring me back down to earth with a bump.

Thanks to my Mother, I spent manys a happy afternoon in Kilbroney Park. There were hikes up to the big stone (Cloughmore Stone), walks in the Fairy Glen, running around in the park and playing 40/40 in the forest. No, we weren’t charcters in an Enid Blyton novel, it really was *that* fun. So, you can imagine how badly I wanted to experience it all again with my own children.

Like all meltdown beginnings, Oliver hadn’t had enough sleep and passed out in the car on the journey there. I had also reached day 4 of little or no sleep because Oz has decided to randomly squeal throughout the night for no real bloody reason.

I enjoyed the quiet in the car waiting for the gruesome twosome to surface and sensing that I was relaxing for longer than thirty seconds, they woke up crying. I wasn’t too worried, the playground would dissipate any bad moods. Did it f**k.

Thus began the longest afternoon IN HISTORY.

Oliver started as he meant to go on; by being an emotional mess. The playground was too busy, so he cried. The roundabout resulted in him being knocked off his feet and lying spread-eagled on the ground, so he cried. The slides were too slidey, so he cried. His horrible mother wouldn’t set down the baby and play with him, so he cried. She also cut his sandwiches into stupid squares and forgot his juice, SO HE CRIED.

Still, blinded by unfounded confidence, I suggested we took a walk in the forest – by ‘we’ I mean my sister-in-law, niece and nephew (who were both really well behaved, while I had brought the antichrist and his insomniac brother along to the picnic).

Children were successfullly bribed with chocolate and we headed off on the Narnia trail. Well, most of us did. Oliver was 50 yards behind us, eating his chocolate and walking at a pace that would make glacial drift seem like a tsunami.

With my patience wearing thin, I adopted the ‘granny grip’ – a technique derived from how my Granny McCamley would have all grandchildren held (vice-like by the wrist). His little legs were being half-dragged around the forest – as he cried – and I tried to wheel the pram with the other hand. Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?

Several hundred clensing breaths later, we were coming to the end of the trail when we stopped for the aforementioned picture. Here is it:

The picture of lies

It was shortly after this, I noticed something grey, moving in my periferral vision and I said: “Look kids, a squirr – HOLY MOTHER OF CHRIST IT’S A RAT, RUN!!”

All children were scooped up and we ran out of the woodland. The drive home was a silent affair.

The moral of the story is: don’t be fooled by the rubbish that people (me included) put up on social media,they’re probably having the day from hell, disguised under an Instagram filter.

Well, that and: be careful of rats when you’re in the woods.

posted on April 13, 2015 by elizabeth

My First Love

On the eve of my fifth birthday, my Mum took me to a toy shop to choose my present. I was told to pick out whatever I wanted and I was let loose. Trawling through the aisles I settled at the cuddly toys and fell in love.

This is one of my earliest memories and it’s an important one. This was the day I met Spot the dog. My first love.

This small, stuffed, Dalmatian dog has been with me at every important milestone in my life and is now the grand old age of 25. His nose is tattered, his fur is grey (despite how many times he’s put through the washing machine), he was a patch of pink paint on his bum from when I unwisely painted my room a god-awful neon pink shade and he’s wise beyond his years. As soon as this dog was put in my arms at the till, we were inseparable.

There’s 11 years between my sister and I so I didn’t have the sibling camaraderie that others did. Although our house was always full of cousins or friends there were times, when everyone had gone home, that I was lonely. When that happened, he was the friend and confidante that I needed and the comfort of his ‘company’ has never left me.

When the time came to put aside my toys, Spot still had pride of place on my bed. When I was sad and things weren’t going my way he was there with a hug, when I was angry or frustrated with life he was there to vent to, when I packed up my stuff to leave home he was the last thing to be packed away and first to be taken out and when I’m at my worst I often wake up to find that Conor has tucked him in beside me.

Over the years I have fended off the advances of my nephew and two nieces who have taken a shine to him (I’m not proud of that…) and had no intention of ever being parted from my very best friend until about six months ago.

In the mountain of toys that Oliver played with he happened to spot Spot. Understandably he was smitten and I feared I was about to be parted with my oldest friend.

It started innocently enough: taking him to bed at nap time, chatting his gibberish to him and giving him hugs. It wasn’t until one morning I came into Oliver’s room and found him giving him kisses in between whispers that I knew I was fighting a losing battle and there was no way I could take him back again.

Since then, he’s added another to his entourage – Atticus, the bear. I was told under no circumstances would I be allowed to call any future children this name so I’m christening a lot of Oliver’s teddies strange names…

There will be no sleep in this house unless he has them both with him by bedtime – hence a late night dash to granny’s house when I forgot to take them back with us after a sleepover in order to stop a distraught toddler. The three of them lie in a row and when we go in to turn off his night light we move them to the bottom of the bed. Without fail, he will wake up and squeal with delight to find that his friends have magically moved.

I can’t blame Oliver for loving Spot as much as he does. He was a great friend to me and I know he’ll be just as great to Oliver; I just hope my son doesn’t judge me too severely when I eventually crack and steal him back when he sleeps.

Kidding. Maybe.

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