Pink stinks. Or does it?

Here's a question: is it ever okay for boys to wear pink? I ask because I was confronted with a dilemma today. I needed to buy Louis some snow boots to wear next week because wellies are just too chilly; ditto his brown boots. I found some great Columbia ones in one of the posh Kensington ski shops. For a mere £20. They're black and really rather funky. But although they're the right size, there is no way they're going on his feet. And trust me I've tried. And tried.

So instead I went to Decathlon, that French magnet for all things sporty and cheap, which is handily but a short hop from our 'hood. But this being February and still the middle of winter, you can imagine what their selection of kiddie snow boots looked like. (Is there a shortcut key to inject a heavy note of sarcasm??) All they did have were rows and rows and rows of pink ones; the neutral coloured toddler ones apparently sold out in early December. What to do? (You can probably guess where this is going from the picture.) So, I got him to try them on, figuring if I had to fight either the boots or him then I'd just leave them on the shelf. But the first slipped on like a dream, and he demanded the second one too. They were also less than half the price of the Columbia ones. Just.

Reader, I bought them. Yes, pink snow boots. I did briefly figure I might be able to get a fabric pen and colour them a different shade. But realistically that's not going to happen. Thus far he's just been stomping round the house in them: he really loves his "snowman boots". Is that cruel? Bear in mind his lovely blonde locks are already too long - we had another failed attempt at a trim this morning - and that he's often mistaken for a girl, including, ahem, by the Decathlon check out girl. I wanted to check what the Pink Stinks campaign policy was on boys in pink but they haven't got back to me. I'll update this if they do. For now, though, can he pull it off? Or is it just too cruel? Then again, making him walk round with cold feet won't exactly win me mummy of the month.

The C word

Steam engine!

Steering

The boys who brunch

And Louis' wheels

It's started. I thought I'd be able to hold off for a few more years.... but no. I haven't even been a mum for two years and already I'm wondering: just how much longer can we live in London? Yup, it's time for the C word: the countryside. It's not that I'm suddenly fantasising about living in Dorset, or wherever us townies seem to congregate when we Leave The Big Smoke. And nor have I come down with an early case of inner London school stress. But there is something about living somewhere so urban that it's a good 25 minutes even to a park - and not even a great one at that. Okay, so he could probably kick a football around the council estate car pack at the back of our house but it's hardly ideal.

This particular burst of angst was sparked by a Sunday outing to deepest Kent to visit a very close friend. Or more specifically, his grandfather's steam engine. Sorry, traction engine, to give it its proper name - although Louis still thinks we saw a 'steam train'. He had an amazing day, riding on the steam engine, visiting the sheep, playing with the (little) dog and helping drive the mini tractor. Plus lunch in the very nice local village pub. Granted that's not exactly your typical day in the countryside but there was something about all that space. I get the same feeling when we visit Grandma P: she's lucky enough to live just yards from the sea (even if it is just the English Channel).

I might feel more London love if we lived around the corner from one of the beautiful parks. But that's realistically never going to happen and there's nothing like a long tube journey to take the edge of a park outing. I don't even want to move somewhere less central that is nearer more green because then I'd moan about getting "into town" as I'd have to start calling it. It's a conundrum, but lacks an easy solution. The obvious answer is to do nothing. But I can't help feeling that's not a long-term resolution.

Snow blind

I usually forget everything I read. I could own only 10 books and I'd probably still be surprised how each one ends. I can barely even recall what happens in Rebecca despite having read it countless times. Which means most of my pre-Louis reading was utterly pointless, and not just because it turns out I'm not such a fan of baby "tips". But one piece of advice did stick in my mind from a book called something silly like the Yummy Mummy handbook (but which turned out to be surprisingly good). It was to avoid taking your new child skiing. At all costs. Apparently all the thrills of a ski trip - the mountain peaks, the sub-zero temperatures, the eye-watering descents - aren't exactly baby friendly.

So we steered clear of the slopes. For at least a year. And this despite being a stone's throw from Colorado's top powder resort last March. But 12 months on and my anti-skiing resolve has weakened. Or, rather, melted. After all, two years ago my stomach was the size of a small mountain so I had to give skiing a miss then too. But now. Now is a different story. Okay, I'm aware that skiing has to be about the least toddler-friendly holiday. And that's if they're old enough to hit the nursery slope; even resorts that start them young balk at 20 months. (Something to do with baby bones still growing. Although surely that applies all through childhood?)

But what to do with Louis? Other parent friends bailed on a joint trip - I had hoped we could take it in turns to babysit - and funnily enough Grandma Penny didn't jump at my ultimate elegant solution: getting her to come too! So instead we're testing out a ski package that bundles a creche into the mix. I have my doubts about whether it will work out. We've never left Louis in any sort of nursery (although watch this space) so I suspect he'll have something to say if we try and abandon him all day. Especially given his low tolerance threshold for group activities: he'd had enough of the local library's storytelling session well before it had finished and started saying 'Luli home, Luli home'.

Still, given our expertise in tag-team parenting, I'm hopeful that DJ and I can at least take it in turn to hit the slopes. And contrary to some parents, my ideal holiday isn't actually one where I never see my toddler. Now all we need is for it to snow where we're going.

Sleep damaged

Very awake

In case any regular bwb readers are wondering why I haven't moaned about Louis' sleeping lately I have a confession. Since about Christmas, we've actually had some nights that have been, whisper it, OK. Well, better than ok. I've clocked up at least six hours of sleep in a stretch at some points. (Oh, okay, well, once. The other couple of times he's slept soundly I, of course, haven't, waking, wondering what on earth is wrong.) 

I didn't want to mention it because I obviously didn't want to jinx it. But I'm safe now because Louis is still Louis: we've had plenty of shocking nights stirred into the mix. Including some classic evenings last week when I abandoned gave trying to get him to sleep after I'd passed the two-hour mark and just brought him back downstairs. One ended with him and DJ rocking around the kitchen at 10.30pm. Which was pretty funny. But I digress. The breakthrough, I'm sad to say, has all revolved around milk. Turns out there's a direct correlation between the amount he gets in the night (from me) and the amount he sleeps. Well, that and the number of hours Daddy J spends rocking him and singing the Gambler. (Thank you!) 

The reason I'm writing about sleep is because (as ever) it's on our minds. In particular, I'm curious: what kind of a toll does missing all that sleep take? (Some nights he barely manages eight hours and he doesn't exactly catch up on it during the day.) Compare that with his cousin, Tommy, who we reckon clocks up an extra three hours shut-eye in every 24 to Louis'. Which, by my rough calculations, means by the time they hit two years, Louis will have spent four MONTHS more of his life awake than Tommy. Four months! (As will I......)

Now consider that scientists reckon kids' brains do most of their most crucial developing at night, while they are sleeping. And that research is now blaming pretty much every modern disease - obesity, hyperactivity (ADHD) etc - on a lack of sleep. An article at the weekend on this very subject even claimed that some scientists believe that sleep problems during formative years cause brain damage. Now can someone please tell me what I'm supposed to do when Louis just won't go to sleep before 10pm? And, more importantly, how much I'm meant to worry about it? 

Crossing the line

Babyccino

"Sosee milk"

And again

And again

As a Mum, you're constantly battling not to do things. One of the hardest is not crossing the line. My course faltered today when, in an attempt to grasp one of my Louis days rather than let it grasp me, I decided we'd go to that south-east London Mummy magnet, the Horniman Museum. So far, so good. (I'll gloss over the fact that, as per, I left an hour later than intended.) Mummies like it because kids like it - there's lots to see, with the mini aquarium a particular hit. Plus there's precious little else to do in that particular corner of London.

But first, again as per, I needed a coffee. Or, a "cossee" as Louis calls it, seeing as he can't do "fs" for some reason. As ever, I asked for a small cup of warm milk for Louis - or "sosee (frothy) milk" in Louis speak. Because we were smack bang in Nappy Valley land, instead of getting a small cup of frothy milk, Louis got a "babyccino", complete with sprinkling of chocolate. And I got a bill for 50p. Which I don't mind, but considering it was a tiny espresso cup with about three teaspoons of froth, it lasted Louis all of about 30 seconds. So I asked for a little bit more. And got charged another 50p.

It's not that I'm bothered about the money, but there's something about the babyccino branding that makes me feel like a fool for crossing that line, that mug line, which separates sensible Mums who don't waste their cash on all sorts of baby paraphernalia and other Mums who do. Especially when £1 doesn't even buy you five minutes to drink your coffee. I realise I probably sound stingy but "babyccinos" just make me feel I've been had. Like I do when I buy anything made by Organix (I'm thinking particularly of those mini boxes of raisins) or those pouches of fruit purees (surely a banana or two would do the same trick?).

Happily, our particular grotty bit of south London hasn't cottoned on to the con of babyccinos. When it does, it might really be time to move. Especially since I'm willing to bet that there's a strong correlation between the prevalence of babyccinos on cafe menus and house prices. Now there's a house price index that might make interesting reading.