I couldn’t help turning my phone on for a sneaky wee peek online last Wednesday though, when I knew that Save the Children were launching Name A Day as the next phase of their No Child Born to Die campaign. I was thrilled to see coverage of the launch in a prominent position on the BBC and Guardian websites, as well as ALL OVER Twitter and Facebook!

The call to Name A Day is twofold.

Firstly, Save the Children is calling on David Cameron to Name A Day when he will host a global summit on child malnutrition.

2012 is a pivotal year in the fight against hunger and malnutrition.

Every hour of every day, 300 children die due to malnutrition because they are left so weakened by relentless hunger that they can’t fight off illnesses like diarrhoea or pneumonia. For those children who survive, long term malnutrition causes devastating and irreversible damage, stunting their growth and leaving their bodies and brains permanently damaged. Despite these shocking statistics, progress on tackling malnutrition is slow.

This year we have a unique opportunity, as world leaders will be in the UK for the 2012 London Olympics and the eyes of the world’s media will be focused on the UK.

It would be fantastic to see David Cameron taking advantage of that opportunity and taking action.

Secondly, Save the Children are calling on their supporters – folk like me and you – to Name a Day in support of the campaign when they do one thing to save children’s lives.

On their chosen day, people will be offered five simple actions that they can take such as tweeting a link to the campaign film or making a meal out of food cupboard staples.

Over the course of the campaign Save the Children will ask people to take further action to put pressure on David Cameron to take action and Name a Day to tackle child malnutrition once and for all.

The more people they can get signed up, the more pressure there is on David Cameron to host a world hunger summit.

There are so many passionate people involved in this campaign – from food critic Jay Rayner to top baking blogger The Pink Whisk – and thousands of supporters have already signed up and named their own day.

It’s so easy for you to get involved too. Visit Save the Children’s Name A Day page, and help save a life today.

The swimsuits and shorts have all been washed and put away… the photos are up on Facebook… and most of my tan fell off in the shower this morning. Yup. Our holiday is officially over.

But what a holiday it was. One of those weeks that leaves you feeling relaxed, happy, and so very, very lucky.

We decided to make life easy for ourselves by spending a night at an airport hotel before we flew, rather than trying to haul our bags and ourselves across London at stupid o’clock on a Sunday morning. It turned out to be a good plan, not least because there was a big red shiny BMW on display in the hotel lobby, and DorkySon thought he was in heaven. I think he would have been happy if we’d just turned round and gone home straight after seeing that.

But we didn’t. We hopped on a plane and somehow managed the thirteen-hour flight without any tantrums or hissy fits (not even from me!). The constant stream of snacks, Peppa Pig sticker books and new toy cars definitely helped, as did the lovely, friendly BA cabin crew who DorkySon managed to charm in the first five minutes.

“Hello,” he’d say, coyly glancing out from under his eyelashes. “I’m a very shy boy.”

By the end of the flight he’d even had a visit to meet the pilot in the cockpit, although his confidence deserted him when confronted with all those shining lights and switches and buttons, and he declined the offer to press one himself.

DorkySon maintained that cautious attitude all week. He wasn’t at all sure about the pool (“too scary”), the beach (“too noisy”) or the sea (“too big”) to begin with. But by the end of the week we had persuaded him to try out all three, and he started to really enjoy himself. The little geckos that ran all over the place fascinated him, and being able to run around barefoot seemed to compensate for the trauma of having Factor 50 rubbed on him every couple of hours. Most of all, though, he just loved spending time with his Aunty and Uncle. He adores them both, and has spent some time every day since we got back giggling and smiling at the photos I took of them together.

DorkyDad and I did pretty well too. The first pina coladas of the day were usually served about 11am. Staying with family meant that we could sneak out for a couple of hours on the beach every day when DorkySon took a nap, knowing that he was safe and secure with some excellent babysitters. We all sat on the porch with a glass of wine and watched the sun go down every night. And we even managed a date night – dinner, dancing, and a walk along the beach to look at the stars!

As I said, lucky us.

The week went far too quickly (although I’m not sure that our hosts would agree with that!) and it was back to earth with a bump when we had to return home. None of us liked the feeling of putting socks and shoes on again, after a week in flipflops. DorkySon had a meltdown at the airport when he had to put his Binky thorugh the scanner. And there was a problem with the catering on our flight home, so instead of a hot dinner and breakfast our only food for thirteen hours was a packet of Rice Krispies scooped out of a plastic cup.

But when you’re all filled up with sun and love and happiness, those wee things don’t seem to matter too much.

The first night back, DorkySon’s body clock hadn’t adjusted, so we were all up until the small hours. But on our second night home, he fell asleep on the floor of his bedroom about 7pm, halfway through getting his pyjamas on. He didn’t stir for the next fourteen hours.

“What a good sleep Mummy,” he said, when he finally roused himself. “And I had good dreams too. All about our holiday.”

DorkyDad went out for a walk one day, and came back telling me about a brilliant bit of beach art that he’d found – some pieces of rubbish that folk had found by the shore and turned into sculptures.

The next day I went out to try and find them myself, and it took quite a while… my eyesight is a bit rubbish and I’d been avoiding getting too near the group of sculptures because I thought they were a group of real people sitting relaxing!

I’m a total sucker for this kind of thing. I love street art and guerilla knitting, but I’d never seen a beach installation like this one before. I hope that if we’re ever lucky enough to go back to Turks and Caicos (or Turtles and Cakes, as DorkySon calls it!) this group will still be there, maybe even with some new members!

Sea, sun, and sandy toes.

Growing up in a family where Mum and Dad both work in the creative industries my children are rather spoilt when it comes to arts and crafts. In fact, our dining room table gives priority to pens, pencils, crayons, glue sticks, scissors and lots and lots of paper. I have struggled with this in the past but I now just embrace it. At mealtimes we just slide it all to one side and make room for food. If we have guests coming over to eat with us, it all gets scooped into a cardboard box!

Children love to draw. Learning to make their mark on paper is an important milestone in their development. My youngest is 11 months old and just at that turning point between eating the crayon and scribbling with it. It’s so exciting to watch, if you don’t mind a bit of a multi-coloured face occasionally!

Here are just a few of the things we love to do:

Draw a shape and then encourage your child to add eyes, a smile, a nose, arms, legs etc. Or to make the shape into a car, tree, flower etc.

Talking through a description of a picture and watch your child’s imagination and drawing skills flourish as they create the picture you have in your mind on the paper. This is great for your imagination too!

Fold pieces of paper and staple them together to make a little book. Encourage your child to create a little story in the book with pictures.

Copying pictures from books.

Drawing pictures of their day out or their holiday.

Don’t be afraid to draw with your children. They will love your drawings, however simple they are! Drawing fires their imagination and enables you to go on little adventures with them as you watch them draw and talk about their drawings with them.

My children love it when we put their images up around the house. They are so proud to see their artwork on the walls. Since falling in love with washi tape this has got a whole lot easier too. The tape is like masking tape and you can stick pictures, photos etc to the walls without ruining wallpaper or paint. The children can even do it themselves. It always makes me smile when I notice a little drawing stuck a little bit wonky on the wall or a kitchen cupboard. I also have books which I stick some of my favourite pictures in. I then take a deep breath and tip the rest into the recycling bin! At the rate my children draw we really couldn’t keep them all!

There are so many great resources online for drawing, colouring and creating with your children. A few of my current favourites are:

The Crafty Crow

Meet the Dubiens

First Palette

And, although it’s a long way off, every October The Big Draw is a fantastic thing to get involved in. There are hundreds of events across the country to inspire everyone to get drawing.

Have fun and get drawing!

It’s 1994 and I’m sitting in my sixth year studies physics class. Actually, I’m perching on a high stool and jiggling my foot, a habit I wouldn’t grow out of till I quit caffeine five years later.

Outside the classroom, a male classmate (who I have either a live or a dormant crush on, I can’t remember) is talking to a girl in the year below.

“So, are there any girls in your class?” she asks.
“Kate’s in this class,” he replies.
Her tone is sarcastic “No, I said girls.”

I pretend I can’t hear anything. So do my other classmates. But I’m burning up.

This episode still pops into my mind every now and again as part of that filmstrip of all-time humiliating moments that starts playing when my self-esteem starts wobbling. At the time it happened, I had almost waist-length hair, was wearing an ankle-length skirt (and DMs, but it was the mid-90s) and some degree of make-up (something else I’d grow out of pretty quickly). But I was still conscious enough of not feeling like “a proper girl” that i found stuff like that very difficult to challenge.

In the early 80s, I was a short-haired pudding-bowl-cut primary school pupil who would occasionally get called ‘son’ rather than ‘hen’ in the dinner queue. Recently, I spotted my late-primary-school haircut on several people in the Scott-and-Charlene’s wedding clip that was circulating on YouTube. It was one of those haircuts that looked better if you had cheekbones and earrings, both of which I lacked.

I grew my hair out for secondary school. But I found hair styling a bit of a mystery. I didn’t have enough pocket money to spend on clothes, and didn’t find discussing grooming to be particularly interesting.

At the same time, I was starting to develop a real interest in science. By the time I got to Standard Grade class, I was conscious that I was going to stand out as a girl in science. I huffily refused to go to the WISE (women in science) bus when it came round, reckoning that if I was the best in the class anyway, I didn’t need their help, and in fact was rather offended that it was offered. (Now, as someone who thoroughly enjoys women-in-science get-togethers, I see that I may have been missing the point.)

From schooldays through two physics degrees and into the workplace, I tried to assume a workplace persona that I thought of as minimally-female. I would dress up for going out (I have plenty of balldresses in my cupboard) but my day-to-day outfits were distinctly on the functional side. When a colleague in my first job told me drunkenly that he “didn’t really think of me as female” I simultaneously bristled a wee bit and thought “yep, actually that’s what I’m aiming at.”

But at the same time, I would look at colleagues who did show their girly side with a wee bit of jealousy. “How is she getting away with being giggly and wearing jewellery and colours and still getting a good physics degree? Is that even allowed?”

It took me a long time to realise what constraints I was putting on myself, and move from feeling “kind of neuter” to really loving being a woman.

This is one of the rare situations where I can genuinely say that reading someone’s blog post changed my life. In 2006 I read a post called ‘On Lipstick and Revolution’ by a favourite blogger Shannon at Peter’s Cross Station, in which she talked about butch and femme, and the different gender roles she (as a femme lesbian) had taken in her life: “theatre diva/crunchy hippie girl/punk-rock girl/motorcycle mama… sexy black-tights-wearing city girl/down-to-earth camping, canoe-paddle-wielding nature lover…” Suddenly a bright light went off in my head. Well, three really.

The first one: whatever type of woman I want to be, I’m still a woman. I own that identity. Nobody else can take that away from me.

The second one: I don’t actually have to choose between different manifestations of being female, and I don’t have to be consistent. When I go from work trouser-suit to belly-dancing outfit, that’s not a contradiction: it’s just another facet of my many feminine identities.

The third one: what’s the worst that happens if I try on being a bit more (conventionally) feminine occasionally? I wore pink shirts to work. I wore skirts (until I got the steel-toe boots job). The world didn’t end. I didn’t actually need that protective genderless armour to get respect in the workplace.

I feel like finally I’ve got to a place where I’m really happily and wholly female, with a definition that works for me. I don’t feel like a fraud in all-female groups any more. I still feel intimidated by perfectly-groomed fashionable people, but I no longer construe it as “I’m scared of her because she’s better at being a girl than I am”. It’s more like meeting a fearsome hipster or literary maven – being a bit overwhelmed at someone who is clearly a) much better at something that I am and b) cares far more about it than I do. But I’m less likely to take someone else’s perfectly-dressed presentation as an indictment on my inadequate womanhood.

Finally, at 34, I feel at home in my own gender.

There is a noise that I remember from school. It was the noise that a class collectively made when someone had done something stupid. It began with a sharp in-breath, which became an even sharper, three-syllable exhalation. It sounded like this: “AH-HAH-HAH!”

The emphasis was on the first “HAH”, with the phrase descending subtly from the high note of the “AH” through a middle tone and finally to the low concluding “HAH!”.

Have you got it? Can you hear it? That noise clattered in the ears of whomever it was directed at. It was scornful and malicious, conveying the message, “You’re useless, and we’re laughing at you, not with you”.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently. It rang in my ears when Diane Abbott made her ill-advised tweet about white people, and again when Ed Milliband mistyped “Blockbusters”. I heard it again when Joan McAlpine did or did not say that people who didn’t support independence were unpatriotic. I even heard its faint echoes when the papers rushed to dub the man responsible for the Costa Concordia “Captain Coward”.

Increasingly, I feel like the media is just rushing from corner to corner, pointing its fingers and yelling, “AH-HAH- HAH!” at anyone who seems like they might have slipped up. And I don’t feel very good about it.

The problem, of course, is 24-hour rolling news. The news is never not on now, so there always has to be new news. Doesn’t matter how trivial, embarrassing or half-baked it is, there’s a ravenous beast inside our TV that needs a constant diet of ticker tapes, headlines and graphics. So the news gets shallower and nastier, in order to make a story out of everything.

But what can we do about it? Genies are notorious for their reluctance to get back in their bottles, so we can’t return to the days of solemnly switching on the TV at 6 o’clock to receive a neatly packaged update. For better or worse, the news is now permanently crashing through the air, swooping round our heads and spilling out of our phones, computers, TVs and radios. The only thing we can change is how we react to it.

So that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m trying not to join in. I’m trying to stand to one side, keep my mouth closed and refuse to make that terrible noise.

My 4 year old daughter, my youngest, starts school this September. I have, in the last few weeks, put in her application for the local infant school where her brother went. She will be very happy there and she is DESPERATE to go. I, however, am finding this year a bit too emotional. She is my last baby and she is growing up so quickly I can barely believe it.

I had L late; I was almost forty when she finally showed up. This was never part of my plan; I had never intended to be an older mum, but things don’t always go according to plan, do they? Being about to send my youngest off to school, I have been thinking a lot about those dreadful few years when I thought I wouldn’t be able to have another baby. Of course, I felt totally blessed to have B; he is a delightful, affectionate boy who is full of life, music and football! I was totally content until he was due to start school, when I suddenly started to cry at the sight of any babies. I knew it was time to try for another. And B was desperate for a brother or sister, so all seemed good.

It had taken three months to conceive B so I was confident that it wouldn’t be too long until we had another little Farrell keeping us up at nights. It just didn’t quite work that way. Three years it took; three long years of disappointment, looking after myself, eating the right things, not drinking, only to find at the end of each month I had failed again. The anxiety and pressure was so bad, and what was worse, Mr Farrell didn’t seem to understand how much each month was like a punch in the stomach for me. His attitude was, “Oh well, we’ll try again”, and to this day I don’t think he appreciates how full of despair I was.

I had given myself a cut-off point of the Christmas after my 39^th birthday. If there were no baby by then, there would be no baby at all. I was therefore delighted when, the October before, I became pregnant at last. However, my joy was shortlived when I lost the baby the weekend of my 39^th birthday. Those next few weeks are still a blur. I had some time off work (and so did Mr Farrell which really helped) and everyone was kind. I was amazed at how many stories people had of their own miscarriages; it was far more common than I had thought. But I decided I didn’t even want to think about babies for a few months. We would talk in February about what the next step would be, but not before.

At the end of January, I had a virus, or so I thought. A week or so later I took a pregnancy test and found it was positive. We tried to work out when I had become pregnant and, when we narrowed down the date, we were gobsmacked. According to my carefully plotted cycle (I had been at this for three years, after all!) there should have been no way I could have got pregnant on that date. I could only imagine that, after the miscarriage, my body was so out of kilter that anything was possible.

I had a wonderful pregnancy with B. This one was a totally different beast. All day sickness and unimaginable tiredness for the first thirteen weeks whilst I was also petrified of having another miscarriage. But L was a tenacious beggar. I got through this time and then knew that I just had to get past the blood tests and all would be OK. I was fully prepared for being higher risk than with B, I was in my 40^th year after all, but nothing prepared me for the 1 in 13 chance of having a Downs baby that came back. There followed a few desperate weeks when I had to visit the hospital to discuss options (the most horrendous thing I have ever had to do; thank goodness my mum came with me for support), the decision to have an amnio, even though this increased the risk of miscarriage and my husband’s utter refusal to discuss the worst case scenario.

The day of the amnio was both the worst and best of my pregnancy. I had a fantastic female consultant who was incredibly reassuring and, as we watched my baby on the ultrasound, she laughed as L grabbed hold of the needle in an inquisitive way. “There is NOTHING wrong with my baby”, was my overriding thought that day, although I then had to rest and hope there would be no miscarriage.

There wasn’t; everything was fine and, despite pelvic problems and being in the middle of having a big extension to accommodate the baby, the pregnancy progressed without hitch. L was born on the 5^th October, two weeks late, in no rush to come out. She is my little miracle baby who has brought real joy and a sense of completion to our family. But she is growing up so quickly and I am trying, amongst the madness of everyday life, to savour EVERY moment.

Caroline is Mum to two girls – one who never stops looking at herself in the mirror and another who can scoot at 32mph – and currently juggles part time working with her itch to write. She started writing at Scribbling Mum but can now be found writing at her new blog Letters from your Mum, lurking on twitter as @scribblingmum and writing at various other places around the internet.

Having been a working mum of two girls for nearly five years now you’d think I’d have learnt not get too comfortable, to not take my eye off the ball and be all like ‘this is easy peasy’. Because even after all of that time it really doesn’t take much to see the wheels come off and the whole well oiled family-work-life balancing act have a little wibble.

A few weeks ago our childminder gave us her notice. It has nothing to do with us and she’s stopping all together which, given that she’s also a friend and our next door neighbour, it’s a great relief it’s all so amicable. The thing is though, she holds the title of The Best Childminder in the World. My kids adore her, she can do no wrong in their eyes and I’m gutted.

I’ve also been lulled into a false sense of security and had forgotten just how easy she made our lives.

As she was telling me, my mouth said the right things (the ‘don’t worry’ the ‘it’s fine’ words) but my brain is always a good three minutes behind my mouth and as it caught up with the situation I could feel my tummy starting to bubble.

Our timetable works. It’s slick. We all know what we have to do and when.

Tennis? On a Friday at 4:40 so I can do the school pick up and tennis drop off. And, yes, I can be involved in a rota with other parents because I’m not working that day and able to take my turn.

Homework? Has to be done after breakfast on Wednesday and Thursday as time is too tight and bodies are too tired by the time we get home from work on the working days before.

Dinner? Needs to be quick on a Monday and Wednesday so is usually boring and with no actual nutrients – think hot dogs and beans.

School tights washed and in the draw for a Wednesday morning when their Dad does drop off? If they aren’t I’ll get a phone call to ask where they are. My out loud answer is ‘Have you tried the next draw down?’ as my head screams ‘Really? Are you serious?! Open your ****ing eyes! Six pairs of tights can’t have all upped and left the house can they?! I’m DRIVING!’

Sometimes my answer is ‘Ach, you’ll need to take a pair from the dirty washing.’

So as the panic rises and my chest tightens, a thousand questions fill my brain, each one without an answer or its answer only confuses the previous question even more.

Which of the other childminders would I want? Are they even available? No, no they’re all full on the days I need. Every single one of them.

Ok, what about a nursery? Do we go back to nursery as a childcare option? But that would mean taking Littlest out of the pre-school she loves and involve a car journey to get there.

And who would have Biggest after school? Is there an after school club? Oh yes, it’s looks a little like a Lost Property room for forgotten children, but lets push that to one side. What about school holidays, does after school club stop over the holidays? What do parents do then?!

And what about the fact that my husband’s just taken voluntary redundancy and might be around a bit more? But of course that’s an unknown, not to be relied on as it could change at the drop of a hat. Come to think of it … when he gets a new job he might be around a bit less so what does that mean?!

*screams*

I’ve always thought that buying or selling a house is the most stressful thing to do. But childcare when you’re working is worse. Because when it comes to someone other than yourself looking after your kids it’s not all about what works on paper, there’s no magic formula. It’s way more laden with emotions than that.

And whatever you do won’t be good enough. Unless you’re looking after them yourselves then there will always be some guilt lurking about, some time when your kid asks you why you’d rather be going to work than staying with them. Some price to pay whether it’s in emotions or pounds as you seek the utopia of family-work-life balance.

Maybe that’s the problem, in this situation there is one too many things to balance, the maths simply don’t add up.

At various points in this game either Family, Work or Life will be forced to stand up, straddle the see-saw with one foot going up, one foot going down all the while trying not to fall off completely.

Wow, sorry about that. I got a bit carried away there with my see-saw imagery.

So for now we’re sorted. Lots of change, a new schedule and what is effectively a patchwork quilt of childcare, shoddily tacked together. And when we hit summer holidays we’ll need to go back to the drawing board. My head hurts a lot when I think about it and I genuinely worry that I’ll have forgotten some vital detail that means the new plan won’t work anyway but heah, what else can I do?

I’m trying my best and my Mum told me that’s all anyone can expect of me so I’m cool with that.

“I started blogging in November 2011 as a way of trying to reclaim a little bit of time and space just for myself. Although I love being a mum, I feel I’ve lost my identity along the way and my blog is helping me to rediscover myself. So far, it’s been a harder journey than I anticipated, especially now that postnatal depression has reared its ugly head.

I blog about anything and everything that may pop into my mind with a healthy dose of Buffy the Vampire Slayer thrown in for good measure.

It may take time but just like Buffy, I’m on a mission to become A Hell Of A Woman.” 

It was one day in May or June of 2009 (I can’t remember the exact date) when myself, husband and a close friend decided to take a leisurely Sunday morning bike ride around the country lanes where we live.

Part of the route saw us cycling alongside a canal. For the majority of that time, we encountered no-one else and heard only the steady hum of our revolving tyres. But this soon changed as we started to approach a stretch of the canal which was popular with country-walkers (due to a combination of the scenery and a tea room) and which canal boats used as a resting point.

Ahead of us, I could see 2 dogs running loose and in our direction. One looked to be a small terrier and the other was bigger, like a lurcher, but with tightly curled wiry brown fur. I assumed they belonged to the cyclist who was also heading in our direction and who presumably wanted them to be able to have a good run. But I was shocked to see, in his haste to zig zag between and past them, the cyclist knocked the bigger dog in the canal.

Theres no way he couldn’t have realised what had happened but he carried on without a care or backward glance.

Now I appreciate the dogs weren’t his, and yes they shouldn’t have been running loose without their owner, but if this had happened to you, you would have stopped to make sure the dog you’d knocked into was okay, wouldn’t you? Even if you’re not a dog lover, would you really have been able to keep going?

I admit I was stunned that the cyclist showed not a moment’s concern for what he’d done. It was as though the life of an animal meant nothing to him.

I wouldn’t describe myself as a “heroic” person. I’ve never been in a situation where I’ve been required to take on the role of the good samaritan. But I’d like to think I’m a compassionate person and there was no way I was leaving that dog to drown. He may have been tall but he was panicking and wasn’t able to pull himself out of the canal.

I jumped off my bike and approached the water’s edge slowly, so as not to scare him any further, and keeping my voice low, I cautiously extended my hand to gauge his reaction and to see whether I stood any chance of being able to help him. As luck would have it, he was friendly so I wrapped my arms around his middle and tried a combination pull/lift maneouvre; my thinking being that if he could at least get his front paws on the grass then he could probably pull the rest of himself up and out.

Now I’m only 5 foot 4″ and at that time probably weighed about 8.5 stone; having a panicking, waterlogged dog in my arms threw my centre of balance completely out and we both toppled forwards. I can’t swim and my breath caught in my throat as I went headfirst toward the water. Fortunately, husband caught me around the waist in time and together, we hoisted the poor dog out of the canal and rubbed him down as best as we could. 5 minutes later, the dog jumped up and off he trotted as though nothing had happened!

I wheeled my bike behind the dog hoping he’d lead us to his owner so I could let them know what had happened. I must have walked past 10 elderly walkers, all of whom had stood and watched me and my husband pull the dog from the canal, and not one of them said anything to me.  Not one word. It was as though it had all taken place inside an invisible bubble. I remember thinking it was very strange that none of them made any comment; no passing remark about anything at all.

The dog was quickly reunited with his owner who looked very annoyed that he’d had to come out to find him and you know what? He offered no word of thanks, no smile, nothing. He barely managed to acknowledge me. The mind boggles. Sometimes I really don’t understand people.

Not long after, I found out I was pregnant with my first son. I do look back and wonder whether the impetus to save the dog was driven by my burgeoning pregnancy hormones. A need to protect life, human or not. What do you think? Have you ever had a similar experience? Have you ever jumped into a situation in order to help someone you’ve never met before? I’d love to hear your stories.

When I think back to that day, I still feel really proud of myself. One day, I’ll feel like that again.