Now does he look like trouble on a butty or what?
Actually, do you say butty in America? In fact does anyone say butty outside Liverpool?
So I shall re-phrase that question: does my little Finley look like trouble on a sandwich to you, or do you have to know him to appreciate the full extent of his cheeky charm?
We’ve been in the house all day long. It’s raining and all good mummies know the only thing to do when the heavens are open is to make a plaid
I sometimes feel like I am going a bit mental. Being a Mommy is occasionally difficult because there are days when there are a million and one other things I would rather be doing than trying to build an Andy Pandy block tower, or zooming a teeny tiny car around the dining room floor. I don’t know whether you are going to think me appalling when I say this, but I sometimes find my scrumptious little son a teeny bit boring.
Oh, God I’m a bad person aren’t I?
Today when Finley had finally had enough of wiping his snotty little button nose all over my black jumper and had laughed himself silly at my truly awful impression of a dancing cow, he asked (asked!) me to put him down for a nap, (Could he have been a teeny bit bored with his Mummy??) and I escaped to the haven that is my kitchen- In his absence I whisked up a vat of pea and mint soup, a scrumptious, delicious tomato loaf, some brown paper muffins and because I love him to bits, some itty bitty little gingerbread men for Finn…
By the time he was awake I was feeling like a rather demented version of Nigella Lawson (Yes, I sometimes pretend I am hosting a cookery show while I whisk!), without a host of glamorous guests for dinner, so instead I poured Finley an apple juice, made myself a strong coffee (all the better to see me through to bathtime!) and sat down to watch Finley’s ludicrously silly, favourite programme- My Parents Are Aliens, because while he doesn’t understand the storyline, rather scarily he seems to appreciate the sentiment…