Which goes something like this:

1. Take off snot and food-stained perma-wear: jogging bottoms and comfy cardie. 

2. Locate creased, squashed trousers and equally creased, squashed shirt from back of wardrobe.

3. Remember sensible, civilised people iron these things. Ponder a moment where iron might be. Locate iron, then do shirt + trousers while mentally running through the approximately 57 other chores that need doing. 

4. Get dressed. Marvel at the fact it takes more than 30 seconds to do so. Marvel a bit more at the fact that I used to do this every day.

5. Retrieve make-up bag from box of soft toys (toddler's current favourite past-time is dumping out contents of said make-up bag - proof below).

6. Do make-up and marvel at the fact that I don't look like complete cr*p (no amount of make-up will totally hide the under-eye bags though). 

7. Check every surface of clothing for snot trails and food stains. Find several, but go at them with a wet wipe instead of getting changed. 

8. Empty coat of used tissues and half-eaten packets of biscuits.

9. Contemplate heels, but get sore feet just thinking about it and opt for the usual, almost-flat mum-boots. 

10. Dump more tissues, wet- wipes, a nappy or two, a plastic key and more half-eaten packets of biscuits out of handbag. 

11. Head for the door, fail to locate keys. Head back in while trying to remember where toddler last tried to 'unlock' a screw. Find tucked inside tiny shoe. 

12. Finally leave, feeling strangely light without a buggy/change bag/coat full of tissues/wriggling toddler who hates the buggy.

> and afterwards....

13. Come back home to pile of tissues, wet wipes, a nappy or two, a plastic key and more half-eaten packets of biscuits. Feel reassured that the above probably won't happen again for another 13 months (note:  I do work, but from home!).

Ladies and Gents, we are Nearly There. We have almost Done It. Earlier this month Mr P&P handed in the final draft of his thesis, and tomorrow afternoon he’s defending it.

I’m not sure whether it’s fair to say “we” have almost done it because I certainly haven’t been the one surgically attached to my keyboard since November, whilst also putting up with a teething grumpy gremlin and an increasingly exasperated wife. I haven’t had to stay up until the wee hours just to get some peace to write, and then get pummeled by tiny elbows at 6am every morning. I haven’t had to deal with the massive amount of pressure that comes with a big deadline.

Nevertheless, I’m going to stick with ‘we’ because in every other way we’ve gone on this journey together. Now we’re about to come out at the other side of it. And what a side that is!

After gallons and gallons of rain this winter (yes, even in Italy), the sun is finally appearing. We will finally be able to let the Bean get all his climbing, running and leaf-munching urges out of his system before he gets home.

This weekend we’ll be at my parents’, together with my brother and his family. That’ll mean not one but three climbing, running and leaf-munching midgets taking over a house that I won’t have to clean up afterwards!

At Easter we’re taking the Bean back to the UK for the first time. Where I will stuff him with crumpets and let him feed the ducks.

At some point this year we will (we will) go on a family holiday just the three of us. I’m thinking southern Italy, sea, and sand that’s just asking to be tasted.

I. Can’t. Wait.

I know there will still be teething, lurgies and 6am elbows. Probably at the weekend.
There will still be work, laundry and toddler tantrums to negotiate.
There will still be moments when being parents to a ‘determined’ sort of child makes grumpy gremlins out of all of us.

But there is light at the end of the tunnel, and I couldn’t be more proud of Mr P&P of having battled his way through it.

The reason we call the Bean the Bean is because that's what he looked like as a newborn. A teeny tiny curled-up kidney bean. He wasn't scarily small, but he was by no means a big baby. He still isn't. Although he's 13 months now, some of the clothes labelled '9 months' still fit.

What he lacks in stature, however, he makes up for in sheer pizazz. It's what makes him enthralling (and utterly exhausting) company. I will never forget the reaction of a family support officer at our mum and baby group when she saw him sitting bolt upright at 2 months. She said "he seems like a rather determined little boy". Which was the most un-Italian and most quintessentially British way of saying "hold on to your bootstraps mum, you're buggered".

Of course, we've just gotten used to him Terminatoring towards whatever he wants. I actually really, absolutely adore his determination. Yes we've been flapping haplessly in his wake since he started crawling at six months, but there's something so satisfying about seeing him take a good look at the world and then go and conquer it.

Like today at the playground. It's been our ordinary Sunday activity since he was about 11 months old. As ususal he was by far the tiniest kid there. And yet off he trotted, his steps still wobbly and his little arms tucked up like a mini T-rex. He had a go on everything, just like the big kids do.

Did I stand there like a glowing, gloating, infuriatingly proud mum? Yep.

Hello big dog. I don't care you say "from age 2 upwards". I'm having a ride.

When I started this blog, I told my husband that I was writing for myself.

After all, I’ve been writing for fun since I was little - short stories, diaries, travel articles. I now write for a living in the guise of a reasonably successful and slightly overworked translator.

This new blog is way to keep track of and share the more recent developments in my personal life: getting married to a furry, geeky, ultra-gentle Brazilian, emigrating to Italy, having a climby, pasta-loving sort of baby.

It’s a way to collect my thoughts on all the things that interest me: hand-making things, cooking, living an ecologically responsible life in a big city, figuring out a way to parent on a teeny tiny budget.

I love writing about all this stuff. I love writing for myself….

and for everyone else!

I also love the positive feedback I’ve been getting. I love that people think my recipes look tasty, that my crafts are clever, that my stories about the Bean are funny. I love love love it when they tell me they read every post.

So I’ll be honest: I also write because I want people to like my writing. I think of little else these days but how to make this blog even better. I hover over my facebook page, scroll through twitter, scrutinise my stats. I write when I should be getting some kip. It’s an obsession.

And now, if you feel so inclined, you can add another dimension to this obsession. You can nominate me for the 2014 MAD Blog Awards. I’m taking a deep breath and throwing in my lot…

Just click on the dooberry below:

There are lots of categories to choose from, including Best New Blog, Best Blog Writer, Best Craft Blog, Best Food Blog - Loads. So, you know, I'm sure you can fit me in somewhere. Go on, you'd make me so very happy!

(And if you need inspiration for which, erm, other blogs to nominate, I thoroughly recommend a read through these beauties:

Hurrah for Gin
Lulastic and the Hippyshake
Free Our Kids
Mummy Daddy Me
Gingerlillytea
Wonderthrift
Two Boys One Mum
Sorry About the Mess
Space for the Butterflies

This morning Mr P&P suggested I rename this blog “Stone Cold Tea”.

Because, once the Bean has been dispatched to nursery, the pile of discarded pyjamas and feelies has been swiped off the bed, Armageddon-sorry-breakfast has been cleared up and poohmageddon-sorry-the Bean’s nappy has been rinsed, a lonely, undrunk, stone cold cup of tea sits on the dining table.

Always.  

“Stone cold tea” definitely sums up motherhood for me. A few other things spring to mind:

Sod’s law
Or, perhaps more aptly, baby’s law. The first nappy that goes in the nappy bucket is a pooey stinker of a mess, destined to fester until the next laundry load. The meal you made lovingly ends up on the floor but the smelly shop-bought goo is gobbled up. The one day we need to be somewhere early, he has a lie-in.

Insanely intense
Intensely happy: watching my newborn son in his cot from my hospital bed, wondering how the hell we made something so perfect, and how he ended up with a Mohawk.
Intensely challenging: Not really liking breastfeeding despite wanting to. Still waking up 4-5 times a night most nights. Trying not to panic when he gets so sick he even vomits up water.
Intensely funny: realising that his number-one, absolute most favourite thing to do is bounce across the bed butt-naked. Ata boy.
Intensely puzzling: how does he manage to eat the skin on the kiwi and like it?!

Fidgeting goalposts 
They go left. They shimmy right. They do a complete 360° on you.
When you think he’s finally sleeping through the night, he goes and has a growth spurt. Yesterday he was obsessed with clementines, today he won’t touch them. Last month ago he could only crawl, now he hurtles through the flat on two feet clutching a swiped umbrella. Pointy end up.

Soggy-slimy-sticky
Soggy tissues Sticky hands Slimy bed sheets Slimy nose Soggy sleeves Sticky toys SOGGY SLIMY STICKY MUMMY!

What else? What word or phrase sums up parenthood for you?

This dish is never going to win any prizes for good looks (although maybe that’s due to my crap ‘plating up’...), but Oh! Does it taste good!
Everything, everything hinges on a good quality tomato sauce. In fact, many things in life do, don’t they? And yet it’s surprisingly hard to achieve, especially when, as in the UK, you usually only get water pretending to be a fresh tomato.

Usually I’d say that a proper Italian tomato sauce needs fresh tomatoes, but even in northern Italy winter tomatoes can be a bit sad. Hence, I’ve gone for tinned plus extras: yellow pepper for sweetness, balsamic vinegar for an acidic note and a little more sweetness.

Strictly speaking then, this isn’t just a tomato sauce. You can definitely taste the pepper, especially after letting it stand for a day or so. But who cares? It works beautifully over pasta, as a base for other pizza toppings, spread over chicken breasts and baked, or, like in this recipe, poured over gnocchi and mozzarella.

It’s also perfect for freezing, which makes up for the fact that it’s a little time-consuming to make.

A last word on the pepper: I peel mine with a vegetable peeler before I start cooking it. It makes it easier to digest and it’s a lot less faff than roasting the whole thing and then getting your fingers covered in charred skin as you attempt, usually in vain, to get the skin off (or is that just me?).

Serves: 4
Pots/pans to be washed up afterwards: 2 (+blender)
Prep time: 15 mins
Cooking time: 40 mins

Ingredients:
600 g potato gnocchi
1 large yellow pepper, peeled and roughly chopped
2 tins 400 g of tomato
2 cloves of garlic, crushed
1 ball of buffalo mozzarella, chopped into chunks
a few sprigs of fresh herb such as rosemary, thyme, oregano, basil
balsamic vinegar
olive oil
black pepper
sea salt
optional: a knob of butter

Heat a generous lug of olive oil in a frying pan and add the peppers. Cook over a low (LOW!) heat for at least 20 min. until soft and starting to caramelise.
Add the tinned tomatoes and herbs, plus a splash of water. Leave to simmer and thicken on a medium heat for about 10 min. Two minutes before it’s done, stir in the crushed garlic.
Transfer to a blender and leave to cool. Discard the herbs (except for basil, if using).

In the meantime, boil your gnocchi according to the packet instructions or, if using fresh gnocchi, boil until they bob up to the surface. Drain and drizzle with olive oil.
Blend the sauce.
Melt a knob of butter in the frying pan you used for the sauce. Pour the sauce back in and re-heat for a minute.
Take off the heat and stir in half a tablespoon of balsamic vinegar. Taste and add more if needed. Season to taste with sea salt and black pepper.

Pour over gnocchi and stir in the mozzarella chunks. Serve immediately to avoid claggy-gnocchi syndrome. 

Once you've become a parent, it's all about the little things. I guess life in general should be about the small pleasures, but as a new, still wet-behind-the-ears parent, the little ordinary things take on astronomical meaning. And by "things", I mean "triumphs". Small but significant battles won in your quest not to lose your marbles entirely, victories in the face of ever-present bleariness, self-doubt and over-worry. I'm not talking about "sleeping through the night" (god forbid). I'm talking about shoes. Shoes that stay on the Bean's feet. *Gasp*

Little M has been standing up and cruising for months, but I could never find any better solution to him not slipping than simple bare feet. Normal socks were obviously out. Anti-slip socks he pulled off. Hand-me-down booties he pulled off. I tried tucking his trousers into his socks, but he still pulled them off.

I don't actually think there's much wrong with bare feet, but the Italians are funny about stuff like that. They are terrified of catching cold and dress for the season, not the weather. At the Bean's nursery they were starting to look at me all funny. Hinting that I should buy some pretty leather and suede slippers for him, like all the other Littles wear. I refused - they cost a fortune.

And then I found these babies at the Gap. They were reduced price. They're grippy. They're pliable. They're roomy. They're spotty and ultra-cute.

And the very best thing? The Bean loves them. Actually wants to wear them and will try to put them on himself. I'm the picture of super-smug smugness at the moment.

Mum 1 vs. Baby Universe 347.

Small things. Small triumphs.

This toy is very simple and easy to make - using mostly recycled materials! - but it's incredibly versatile. I made it when the Bean was almost nine months, and I'm pleased to say that, four months later, it's still one of his favourite toys.

Essentially, it's a shape sorter made out of a prettied-up shoe box and jam jar lids. 

It's been both satisfying and interesting to see how the Bean has played with it in different ways as he's got older. 

At nine months, he picked the lids out of the slots and then let them fall on the floor to see what sound they'd make.
At ten months, he still picked the lids out, but also understood that the box opened up so he'd put the lids in and shake them about.
At eleven months he figured out how to open up the box by himself. He understood that the lids fit through the slots, but he lacked the dexterity to do it by himself. He also started fitting the small lids into the big ones. 
At twelve months he is able to push the lids through the slots by himself. He can't judge the different sizes by eye yet, so it's a case of trial and error (and sometimes brute force) to see what goes in where.

At some point, I expect him to start dragging it around by the handles (for now he looks at them quizzically) and we could also use the lids to talk about colours and shapes. 

To make this you'll need:

A sturdy shoe box (I used the type that has the lid attached to it)
A big paper shopping bag or wrapping paper
clean jam jar lids of different sizes and colours
lots of sticky tape
rope (I used the handles my shopping bag came with)
A short, sharp knife

Instructions:

Cover the box with the paper, and tape down any edges.
Reinforce any bits that could be ripped off easily with extra tape.
Tape the bits of rope onto either side, to make the handles.
Using the knife, cut slots of different lengths into the top of the box.
Reinforce the edges with yet more tape

Done! As the toy gets used and abused you might have to re-tape some of the edges.

Like this simple shape sorter? Have a look at Easy home made toy #1: Wigwam!

Even though M’s teething seems to have calmed down and the tide of snot is receding, this week has been meh. Meh because the list of things I have to do is endless and the list things I want to do is even longer. Inevitably I don’t do anything properly and I end up feeling extra-meh and terribly sorry for myself. 

I went for a swim, which made me feel better. Better apart from a comedy-moment in which I sneezed mid-stroke - bubbles. lots. of. bubbles.

I sat in the steam room (more tidal snot) and had a think. Gave myself a mental talking to: I’m pretty lucky I have time to go to the pool, that I can work and look after the Bean and write a bit, however badly. 

So already I was feeling a bit sheepish about having a moment, and then a message pinged in my facebook chat thingy. One of my closest friends is separating from her husband. They have a gorgeous boy of two-and-a-half, who is now separated from his daddy by a few continents. My friend has had to move back in with her mum.

Now my heart is breaking and I feel more than a little sheepish. I’m really, really bloody lucky. So Milan is wet and smoggy, so I can’t think of any way of introducing my little boy to leaves and bugs and animals but through books, so we have no idea where we’re going to end up in 17 months’ time. So what? It’ll be spring soon, and then we can go wherever we like. Together. What more could I possibly ask for?

My lovely friend, I'm so terribly sorry this is happening to you.