Why a 'bathroom break' is a luxury, not a right...

30 In the olden days -- you know, before my name ceased to be "Nicole" and morphed into "muuuuuuum" I recall a friend telling me she was so busy with her baby she didn't get to go to the bathroom.

Say what?

I mean, a bathroom break takes an average of 32 seconds, right? Surely one could not be so entirely consumed with their baby that they could not take a brief interlude to go to the bathroom whenever the need struck.... could they?

And of course once I had a baby of my own I understood. Or I thought I did. But yesterday I got a reality check and realised I knew nothing about estimating the damage that can be done in the time it takes for one little bathroom-break.

Folks, yesterday I got punkd! By my own son!

I left my children in the general vicinity of the kitchen and was in the bathroom for no longer than 30 seconds. As I wandered out, my daughter was screaming "muuuum! Bubby's got the butter!"

YOU THINK?

why bathroom breaks are a luxury, not a right...

30 seconds, folks!

Sonny was 'doing his hair' with 'product'... which is fine except that I prefer to use it on my toast rather than as a styling tool... With no idea what to do first and butter spreading its way throughout my house I scraped scooped up said child and plonked him in the highchair.

You can see by the pictorial evidence above how excited sonny-boy was to be in the highchair at this point. But let me show you again :

Yep. You're seeing that, I'm sure.

But what you can't see is just how excited I was to be home alone in this situation. Super, super excited.  Especially because I had nothing else to do at the time..... natch.

After snapping a few shots as 'evidence' I rang husband to enquire as to his whereabouts. Saturday is a work day and I knew it would be borderline home-time. By some stroke of good fortune, husband was two minutes away. Which is just as well because sonny might well have spent the whole night in the highchair until I found backup.

Oh, this will be a story for the 21st.

And a valuable lesson has been learnt:

1. Never EVER leave sonny unattended for any reason. Ever. At all.
2. Never EVER leave any dairy product unattended for any reason. Ever. At all.
3. Never EVER go to the bathroom while sonny is awake without tethering him to the bedpost first. Ever. At all.

What valuable lesson have YOU learnt of late? Oh do share, how can I share all the 'fun' to myself?

A Bit of 'Bottom' Humour

This evening, as I was rocking the two-kids-and-an-adult-squeezed-into-the-shower thing (and to think I used to spend hours luxuriating in a hot bath with soy candles and a magazine once upon a time - humph!) I had my back to the kids, letting the hot water run down the front of my face when I felt a sensation on my, you know, posterior.

Swivelling my neck about-face to see what was going on, I bear witness to little faces each buried into one of my, you know, posterior cheeks blowing raspberries.

After a moment, each child came up for air, laughing harder than I think I've ever heard either of them laugh before. They took a breath, and buried their faces into my, you know, posterior again to blow more raspberries. Cue more raucous laughter.

Humph. In such inappropriate (but ok, kinda funny) situations, its hard to know whether to scold or laugh along with them. I chose option B.

Little rapscallions...

What have YOUR little munchkins got up to lately that blurred the lines between naughty and funny?

Rainy Day Activity: Make Playdough!

Today was decidedly... well... Autumnal. Cool, blustery, wet... what to do with two rambunctious children on such a day? After dragging them to the shops to buy new ugg boots and a quick detour to watch (and dance to) the free stage show, a spot of lunch and a wee little afternoon kip, I knew the house was in trouble. On such days, my children quite literally tear the place apart. Can't seem to help themselves.

But then! I remembered a trinket I'd bought 12 months ago and stored away as an emergency 'gift' that might just just rescue me from my impending sense of doom...

... a children's pizza making kit, if you will!

Excitedly, Fern and I donned our aprons and (in Fern's case) chef's hat and I brought the little wooden step over to the counter so Fern could help me make pizza for dinner. From scratch, peeps!

But before I could channel my inner Nigella with my eldest offspring I remembered boy-o. Or rather, he remembered me. His toy tractors apparently were not going to distract him from pizza making, or indeed any other endeavour. He shoved my daughter aside and climbed the little step, reaching out with little paws to grab the pizza cutter... rolling pin... bag of flour...

Fern was in tears and Elliott made it clear if there was any action to be had, he wanted a part of it.

trouble brewing......

What to do?

But my husband's iPad was nearby and an idea struck. Typing 'make play dough' into Google came up trumps and I sighed with relief.

Strapping Elliott into his high chair and Fern into her seat I quickly threw the following ingredients from this decadently simple recipe into a bowl and stirred and kneaded madly for about 4.5 minutes, then foraged in the pantry for idle play dough plastic bits and pieces and threw them, along with two balls of gloriously handmade play dough onto the table for the kids.

I prayed.

And then I made pizza.

Elliott sat in that highchair for TWO HOURS and. didn't. whine. once.

Playdough.

Do it.

Thank me later. ;)

xx

Party Pooper

It's the weekend... you've been invited to a good friend's child's 2nd birthday party. It's in a smallish apartment, and you really don't know anyone else there apart from the host. There are other small children there too, of course. They are playing happily with the little plastic trikes and toys and their parents mingle comfortably with wine glasses in hand.

Your 18 month old son barrels into the scene and within minutes has tipped a bowl of crisps over the carpet, had a screaming temper fit on the floor and scratched a large gash in the face of a little toddler girl you have never before met because she was playing in the little car he decides he wants for himself.

Do you,

(a) Shout and scream at your toddler;
(b) Smack his bottom;
(c) Apologise profusely to host and parents and carry screaming toddler out of apartment for time out, or
(d) Do nothing?

I took the (c) option but it felt hollow. How do you explain to someone you have never met that your child really is a beautiful little boy with no intentional malice when they have just scratched a chunk out of their precious little girl's face?

The mother didn't say a word as I attempted an apology, just gave me a half glance and requested Detol from the host and my friend to attempt to repair the damage. Detol, like my child has rabies.

But I couldn't judge her. I know would have done the same. I would have been horrified if the shoe were on the other foot. And, before Elliott, when it was just Fern (who at three has never scratched anyone in her life), I would have cast immediate judgement at the parents of such a child for 'allowing' such inappropriate behaviour.

But now I am the parent of such a child. And I was mortified. Embarrassed. Horrified, actually. And, as a room full of people watched with interest to see my reaction to this spectacle I wanted to crawl into a hole and quite literally die.

Folks, I did not raise my children to be violent. I hate violence. I can't even watch a movie with any violence in it without leaving the room. I do believe in discipline, but I am at a loss for how to discipline an 18 month old child, and teach him that this behaviour is not appropriate. Elliott is an energetic, vivacious, otherwise adorable and loveable little person who - in social situations - does not understand the difference between right and wrong.

Any advice you can offer will be gratefully accepted; what do YOU do when your child behaves inappropriately in public? What do you do when your child smacks another child? And how do you deter such behaviour in the first instance? Please tell me I am not the only one who has had this experience and that it is not my dreadful parenting that has made my child this way?! xx

The next Cadel Evans and Anna Meares

Yesterday evening, the kids astounded me with their fearless abandon as they catapulted down the hill to the side of my house on their little plastic trikes (and hands-down my pick for the best $25 you can spend on a toy for your child). The result? Quite hilarious. I simply can't resist showing this little video with you... I laughed so hard I almost wet my pants. I hope you will too!

Happy hump day...

Spotto!

When you are a child, there is little you want more in this world than the approval of your parents. Mum or dad telling you that they are proud of you... there is nothing quite like it. Even in adulthood, you still seek the approval of your parents a little, don't you? I know I do...

Now I'm a parent, I'm mindful of telling my daughter who is now 3 that I am proud of her. A whole day at preschool without wet undies, I'm proud of her. Her entire plateful of dinner eaten up (this one is a rare occurrence), I'm proud of her. Of course, I'm proud of her anyway. She's my only daughter, and I love her. But it's easy to get caught up in the monotony of the day-to-day, and I'm sure there are days when I should be a little more forthcoming in my praise for my daughter; days when I lose my patience and yell at the kids before 9am! Im no perfect mother, thats for sure... but I love them and Im proud of them, forever.

And maybe I do tell my daughter Im proud of her. Because today, my daughter told me she was proud of ME, for the very first time. It was an amazing moment.

What did I do to receive such a compliment from my little daughter? I myself am proud of some of my recent achievements: my growing business, my magazine appearance, my ability to sleep in a king-single with my daughter for two weeks straight because Elliott kicked me out of my own bed...

But no, my daughter proclaimed her pride in her mother for calling 'SPOTTO' at the lights yesterday. I generally forget to play the game, but my daughter does not. After I made the call, Fern said with an air of incredulousness "yeah, it is Spotto, mum! Well done, Im proud of you!!" Not familiar with the rules of 'spotto'? Look here.

Spotto, indeed. But no matter. My daughter is proud of me. And that, folks, made my weekend.

What made yours??

Workin' 9-5!

Today, I packed two little lunch boxes and sent two little kiddies off to preschool. One of them, for the very first time. Yes, folks. little wee Elliott Daniel has been sent to school where (hopefully) the teachers will sort him out!

Kidding. Sort of :)

I won't lie... I needed backup in the drop-off process and dragged my husband along for moral support... I cried more than one tear I must confess. The idea of sending one's baby off to school and the actual PRACTICE are two very different things. My littlest child has never been minded by anyone other than family and then pretty rarely. It breaks my heart just a little bit to have condemned him to a day inside a room with a bunch of other kids he's never met, a strange bed and hours and hours without his (sniff) mummy.

But maybe

hopefully

he'll love it.

Fern does, and barely says goodbye before she skips off to play with the boys. hmmmm. But of course Elliott is not Fern.

I've been putting this off and pretending I can work with the kids at home. But I can't, really. And so it was time. Because mummy. needs. a. work. day.

So now (for the first time in three years) I get a whole day, seven precious hours in which to ensconce myself in my little studio.

A WORK day, peeps.

I feel like I need a whole new corporate wardrobe! Heels! Lipstick!

I've settled for a pair of shorts, a tank, my havaianas and a swipe of lipgloss. But that'll do!

Am I allowed out for a lunch break?

my darling boy on his first day of preschool.... I whipped him up that linen bag you see on the ground last night using a pillow case and some scraps of fabric!

ps. Much thanks for the advice to yesterday's article . Some great tips I'll be trying out - thank you thank you! xxx

How do you solve a problem like Maria?

Newsflash!

Boys are different from girls!

Well, what-do-ya know...

You all know I have a pigeon pair: One golden-haired, blue-eyed just-turned-three year old princess two weeks out of the terrible-twos (progress: we've only had 2370 tantrums this last fortnight, aren't the three's so much more pleasant!) and a sandy-haired, greeny-brown eyed sonny boy who is a year and a halfish now and - well - a species unto himself.

Folks, it's sonny-boy I want to talk about today. And, if you have a sonny-boy, I need your help. Your advice. And.... perhaps your shoulder?

Oh, I love the boy. Love 'im to bits. Would leap in front of a bus for him...

But sonny-boy is a climber. An adventurer. A discoverer. He likes to be dirty. Smelly. Wet. He likes to eat... and eat. And eat some more. He's Curious George, he is. A cat with 9 lives. Like most boys, I can only imagine.

All this I can handle.

What I can't handle is coming out in the morning, to find my 17 month-old son sitting up on top of the kitchen bench with a packet of popcorn kernels in his paw, flinging them wildly about with joyous abandon. Have you any idea just how far a packet of popcorn kernels can spread throughout your house?

At every opportunity, my son climbs up on the kitchen table. He then makes his way across and pulls himself onto the kitchen bench when he can reap unfathomable havoc.

But no sooner have I dragged out the (overflowing) Dyson to vacuum up popcorn than I turn around to find my son with the box of Rice Bubbles. If you can imagine what a packet of popcorn looks like on your floor... can you also imagine a family-pack of Rice Bubbles?

How do you discipline such a child? At 16 months, he certainly doesn't understand the concept of a 'naughty corner'. That would involve sitting still. Saying a firm 'no' just gets me a cheeky smile before he goes right back to whatever it is he is doing. A smack on the posterior earns me a laugh. The kid LAUGHS at me for smacking his bottom! So what do you do??

These days, I must be merticulous about closing the door to the bathroom. But my son waits for my daughter to climb up on the toddler-seat and if I'm out of earshot, heaven help me. It is not unusual for me to come in from hanging out the washing or some such, to hear the sounds of splashing coming from the toilet. My son can be found brandishing the toilet-brush like a sword, stabbing it with wilful abandon into the toilet. Or worse, dipping his hands into the toilet like its his own personal swimming pool. More often than not, I find an entire roll of toilet paper, soggy and unravelled all over the floor. And if Fern has not quite managed to - ahem - flush her business down the loo, the outcome can be catastrophic. On one particular occasion, the damage caused by hurricane Elliott in the toilet was so widespread and intimidating, I got stuck in the shower for three quarters of an hour with both kids, praying my husband would return home from work to rescue us. It took two adults to clean up on that particular occasion, and its not an isolated incident.

My son also takes a penchant to the garbage bin. He likes to play with the contents he finds inside. Use it as his own personal pantry if he has a rumbly tummy.

My son likes to eat dog biscuits.

It can take two adults just to change one nappy.

He will not watch the telly. Or read a book. Or play with toys for longer than 5 seconds. How do you therefore entertain such a child?

Help, peeps! I need your taming-tips. What do you do with a jumping-jellybean with more energy than a firework and the ability to scale tall buildings in a single bound?

Here's an hour in the life of me with my son. Needless to say, I rarely have the opportunity to get bored. I swear, this path of destruction all occurred in the space of one hour (yes, I keep liquor in the bottom cupboard. Yes, in 17 years I'll be asking for trouble):

SOS!!

The Glitz & Glamour of Motherhood... pt 674

Today was Melbourne Cup day! I was invited to a fancy charity afternoon tea complete with fancy frocks, stilettos, champagne, strawberries... you know, all that stuff.

I didn't make it.

No folks, I had something far far more glamorous to attend.

I've talked previously about how glitzy and glamorous motherhood is.

Well it is, isn't it?

This afternoon was no exception. I picked up Fern from preschool and headed home, for once organised enough to have rice precooked and in the fridge ready for making fried rice for dinner (normally I consider dinner about 12 minutes before it needs to be served) and was feeling rather good about making it to the gym for a 6.30pm class.

We arrived home and I asked Fern if she needed to go to the toilet. Strangely, my daughter seems to have stage fright, and will not do - ahem - number two's at school. No - despite the fact I am paying someone else to deal with toileting angst once a week, Fern prefers to wait until she is in the sanctum of her own bathroom to do her business. And whatevs.

But no, Fern didn't need to go.

Except I knew better.

And - over dinner - my mother's intuition and expert nose caught a bouquet of something untoward. I looked toward Elliott, because he is renowned for the ole dinner sneaky-poo.

But it wasn't him.

Suspiciously, I pulled the back of Fern's skirt back to have a look, and as I did something frightful came away in my hand.

O.M.G

O.M.G

Elliott was completely covered in food as usual. I grabbed both children and made way for the bathroom. As I peeled clothes off, the catastrophe went from bad to worse.  I mean, without being too graphical about this I have never. ever. seen so much you-know-what in my entire life. It was so bad, all three of us had to jump in the shower together.

It was so bad, it spread all over the shower.

So bad, there were bits on Fern's shoulders.

So bad, it was in Elliott's hair.

So bad, I used an entire container of Body Shop strawberry scrub to get rid of the smell.

So bad, I had to wait in the shower for half an hour with both kids until Dan came home to carry the kids out.

Half a bottle of disinfectant, three quarters of a spray-bottle of BAM, three cloth nappies and a pair of rubber-gloves later I emerged from the bathroom.

It was 7pm.

Needless to say, I did not make it to the gym.

Glitz. Glamour. You have not experienced either until you are naked and wet from the shower, down on your hands and knees with an old cloth nappy, scubbing poo from the floor while your childless friends are at parties, sipping champagne from crystal flutes...

Little Miss innocent.......

How bout you? Did you frock up and watch the gg's? Hopefully your afternoon was somewhat more 'glam' than mine!!

Look Who's Walking Now?

So... last week I believe I may have voiced my concern re: boy-o's wanton ambivalence toward the practice of getting about on two, rather than four limbs. And I really was concerned.

Turns out I needn't have been.

Yesterday, my son stood up and took five steps.

No fanfare. No fuss. Like he's been doing it all along. And perhaps -- just like that character Andy in Little Britain - you know, the one meant to be a quadriplegic in a wheelchair, who can leap out and swim the English channel when his carer's back is turned... perhaps my son has been practicing when my back is turned, secretly laughing behind his grubby little hand all the while I carry him about when he should.have.been.walking.

No matter.

Boy-o is officially on the move.

And about time, too!

 xx

He who will not walk.

"Boy-o does not walk.

Well, to be fair he does, but only if he's holding onto something. Like my finger. Or the furniture.

But most of the time, he's content to crawl.

And the irony is not lost on me that at six months, I was bragging my head off to anyone who would listen (including you -- sorry, folks!) that my son would be walking within weeks! At six months, my son was crawling. Standing before seven months.

Surely - surely walking would be the next logical step?

It appears not.

Boy-o, as it turns out, is an incredibly efficient crawler. He's fast. I (who was once the Nunawading Little Athletics under-sevens champion - I'm just saying) once got down and raced him just to see how good he really is. He beat me to the line with no sweat at all.


Fast.

Worriedly, I asked a doctor as his 12-month weigh-in (disguised as an immunisation) whether it was normal not to be walking. My daughter-o didn't crawl til 9 months and even SHE was walking by 13 months.

The Doctor smiled indulgently and told me no, there was nothing wrong with his legs and no, I probably didn't need intervention. Yet.

When Elliott was 10 months old I went to get a skin-cancer check (gotta be careful!) and something the nurse said has stuck with me.

Upon witnessing my son tear his way across the surgery on his hands and knees in half a second flat to grab the scalpel placed seemingly out of his chubby-baby-pawed-reach, she said "you know, I bet your little boy will be a late walker".

"Why do you say that?" I said.

"Because look how good he is at crawling", she said. "He has no need to walk."

And at the time, I took little stock.

But now, Im sitting up and taking notice. Because unfortunately there seems to be little Elliott can't do that he could do if he was walking: He climbs up and down stairs and onto the lounge and our bed and can get out of the bath if he desires. He can make his way out of the house and up the stairs and over the grass and into the cubby before I even notice he's missing!

No folks, my son has decided he has no desire or need to walk.

And so he doesn't.

Why should he? He knows if he stands holding onto my knees screaming up at me he'll get picked up... sooner or later. Little bugger. And crawling is so easy to him. Walking is scary apparently -- and he hasn't quite worked out that you can bend your legs when you take steps. He prefers to walk stiff as a board with one paw wrapped firmly around your finger for support. I mean, how much support can you get from one finger?! But the second you let that finger, BAM! He hits the deck in a panic.

At what point should I be worried? He's only 14 months now, but will my son be crawling into University lectures if I don't intervene... ?

I'd love your own experiences on this -- when did your child walk and were you worried about it? Am I going to be laughing at myself worrying about this in 3 months time?!!? Do share! xx

Elliott and Dan. Not walking. Not a problem!

"Busy Bags"... the instant, mobile BOREDOM BUSTER!

Completely by chance while playing about on Facebook, I stumbled upon a local photography business called The Storehouse Project. I liked what I saw and probed further, visiting Emma's blog. Turned out I visited at just the right time, because Emma was seeking volunteers for a "busy bag" swap. Until then, I'd never heard of a "busy bag" but five seconds later I decided it was the world's best initiative and signed myself up!

What is a busy bag, you ask? Why, it is a little zip-lock bag of creative goodness stowed away in your handbag/ car/ anywhere in fact... that you can pull out and entertain your dear small offspring at a moment's notice!

The bags contain a simple activity - something your young child can create or do that afterward, you can simply zip-lock back again for future emergencies!

You're liking this already aren't you?

The swap I have held my own hand up for involves 12 volunteers -- each of us constructing 12 little busy-bags of our own choice. Each person chose a unique activity so that next week -- on swap night -- we bring our activities along and swap with one another so that we each end up with not one but 12 delightful busy-bags to hide smugly away, knowing that at a moment's notice, we can pull one out and get a half-hour or so of reprieve!

You can imagine just how useful these would be at the doctors surgery... on an airplane (oh gawd I wish I'd had one of these last week for Elliott on the plane to NZ!)... in a restaurant... and in any number of other situations!

A little stumped on what to make for my own busy-bag, I did a web search and unveiled some of the following ideas:

from here

from here

Button Snake from here

If you love this idea and want to host your own local busy-bag swap, I found this link with a bunch of really great activity ideas to get you started. Another good one, complete with a linky-thingamy is this one, with tons of pages of cool and creative activities for kids!

Wondering what I'm going to make for my bag?

Well I'll share with you... I plan to make some mini-chalkboards! I am somewhat chalk obsessed at the mo so it seemed kinda obvious... Not entirely sure how I'm going to do it yet but I will need to sort it out quick-smart, because the swap is on Monday night! I'll post pics of my masterpieces over the weekend once I've made them, if you are interested.

Aside from having a tiny bit of stage fright about rocking up to somebody's house that I don't know and meeting a bunch of girl's that I also don't know to exchange these bags, I am quite excited about it, and isn't it a great way to meet new people! 

I'll report on how I fare next week - should I be brave enough to bring my camera along to the swap?

x

Now I am 11 Months...

This time 12 months ago, I - the size of a forklift, and probably weighing about the same - was a focused woman. I knew "it" was close. Mere weeks away. And I was ready. Physically, at least. There was a room with a cot in it waiting for a little human being to arrive. But mentally, I couldn't quite wrap my head around it. I already HAD a baby, didn't I? Was there enough room in my already-at-capacity heart to include another? To be honest, I wasn't sure...

Here's what I wrote, this time last year:

My Bump!

Seeing as it's Friday, I thought I'd treat you all to this little look at my 'bump'. I'll be 36 weeks pregnant tomorrow... Fern thinks it's hilarious and keeps "ticka ticka ticka" (ie. tickling) my belly at every opportunity. Who knows what an 18-month old baby truly understands, but I know mine has noticed my growing bump and is fascinated by it. If I ask her what's in there, she points to her own tummy and says "bubby!"

Poor Fern. She's in for a real shock, and in just a matter of weeks. And so am I, for that matter. At the moment, she is my very best friend and the centre of my universe. Its hard even for me to imagine it any other way. But the cozy world as we know it is about to be rocked upside down... so for now we're enjoying the last precious moments together, my daughter and I, just the two of us...

It seems sort of funny now, reading back on that. To think that at that point, my life was already complete. But of course what I didn't realise was that at the same instant my little son was born, my life was complete AGAIN. That my heart just expanded to replace the deflated tummy as though there had always been room for two. 

And now of course, I can barely remember it being just Fern and I. Because now it's Fern and Elliott and I. The Three Muskateers. 

Next month we'll be celebrating my Elli-Boo's first birthday. And what a celebration it will be... for him and for us. Can't wait.

x

Elliott - the Human Jellyfish

Folks, I have a little problem.

Again?! I hear you ask? Havn't you just finished moaning about the fun and games of toilet training and how your children refuse to eat anything without a heartbeat? What now?

But at the risk of sounding very whiney indeed, I share with you a little issue I am having with my darling, honeycomb-breath son. 

That there picture you see above you is my sonny-boy. I am standing in the living room with my camera trying to take a picture of - oh, I can't remember - and lil Elliott is standing on top of my feet, with one arm wrapped around my leg; the other holding my tracky-dacky-pants-cord to his drooly mouth.

The thing is, at the moment my son is taking the concept of "attachment parenting" to a whole new level. With no warning, my previously adventurous, happy-go-lucky boyo has become a (oh gosh I hate to say this out loud) whiny, clingy jellyfish!

I understand that babies get upset when their parent leaves the room. But folks, this has gone one step beyond. Elliott wants to be in my arms, pretty much all the time unless he is in his cot sleeping. The second I put him down, he starts whinging, crawls over to me, stands up and monkey-grips my legs. What can I do? So eventually I pick him up and - miraculously - the crying stops. I wait a couple of minutes. Put him back down. Repeat process!

Both my blessing and my curse is that I've pretty much been with Elliott 24/7 since the day he was born. And somewhere over the last 11 months (oh gosh, is it 11 months already -- must get onto his monthly photo!) he has grown a little - well - fond of me.

And maybe I'm a little to blame... I may have whispered a little negotiation with my son in the early days that I would promise to cut his sandwiches for him for the rest of his life if he promised to stay with me forever (in Mother and Son fashion). ooops.

Oh, I know this is just a stage. And this too, shall pass. Next year he'll be embarrassed to be seen with me and I'll be begging him for cuddles, undoubtedly!

Isn't parenting fun?

x

NOT mother of the year, then?

I care a lot about my children's nutrition. Well, in the sense that they rarely eat fast food, they get juice only at parties, and I avoid the frozen convenience section at the supermarket...

From 6 months onward, I lovingly steamed, pureed and froze little containers of vegetables rather than rely on jars... I hand rolled my own sausages, fer goodness sake!

And, like hungry sparrows each of my delightful children opened their little cherub, strawberry-scented mouths to take in the delicious, homecooked, goodness I provided for them.

Yes, at 6 months my children looked like the cover of an Annabel Karmel cookbook. Indeed, many of my recipes were extracted from those tomes. And I congratulated myself on setting up a marvellous food-foundation for their future.

Fast-forward two years and this is an illustration of a typical mealtime at my place:

Does this look like the cover of an Annabel Karmel cookbook to you?!? Folks, where have I gone wrong?

Last night, I cooked up:

- Snow peas, carrots and peas
- Fish Fillets with soy mayo

and instead, my daughter ate:

- cold 2-minute noodles
- Dora the Explorer yoghurt
- Half a piece of vegemite toast.

It is a repeating pattern. It doesn't seem to matter what I make, my daughter turns her nose up at it, pushes her plate away in disgust and would cheerfully go to bed hungry. Except - despite my pitifully weak threats - I can't let her. Thus the vegemite toast.

She won't eat vegetables. Not even hot chips -- are they even a vegetable?!
She won't eat cheese on toast.
She doesn't eat baked beans. Or spaghetti. Or chicken schnizel. Or stroganoff. Or hamburgers. Or tuna mornay. Or anything from the "Feeding Fussy Kids" cookbook by Antonia Kidman NOTI thought would be the answer to all my problems.

She will eat toast.
And cornflakes.
Mini sushi-rolls with tuna.
Cheese biscuits.
Yoghurt.

And that's about it.

I'm at a complete loss. And as - night after night after night after night - she rejects my meals, I am losing my motivation to even try. I hate cooking, always have. I only try because I love my kids and want them to eat well. But when my Labrador eats the meal I spent an hour preparing for my children, its hard not to let it get me down. I've well and truly lost my mojo.

Have any of you been through this? Have you any tips or never-fail recipes you could share with me? I am not quite ready to give up just yet.... but I'm getting close!

x