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As I was saying, by Monday night I was on the phone to my mum, blowing snot bubbles and generally not behaving as a 40-year-old woman should. (Yes! I know! 40! And pregnant! There’ll be more of that later, and that’s a dire warning for you right now. Going through such an obvious mid-life crisis is galling to put it lightly, let me tell you.)

Tonight, I am a New Woman. I am Mrs Bloody Incredible. Why? WHY? Because Teddy has cut a tooth! Why the buggery-wotsit do these small goblins not tell you that there’s a tooth coming through? Why do they put you plum in the seventh circle of hell for an entire weekend when one’s husband is AWOL and not mention the fact that something is giving them gyp? What is going on in their tiny, not quite fully formed synapses that makes them decide to hide their pain? And instead howl like bejeesus at varying times of the day for no apparent reason other than it being a different time of day? One day he LOVED the pasta I made him, the next day I might as well have been force-feeding him poo-shaped fusilli.

But today – today! – he has been both funny and fun. He has blown a raspberry when asked what noise his bottom makes (this, if nothing else, points to his future career, as previously mentioned) and has giggled beautifully in public, drawing all the best kinds of admiring glances and covetous looks. (As an aside: if you happen to see a small child in public behaving either charmingly or like the worst kind of sod imaginable – the soddiest sort of sod – always cast them a covetous look. It really, really helps.) And then I discovered the tooth, and decided to, rather indulgently, delete all those black marks on his wallchart which were getting dangerously close to Whoops! Mummy’s Removed All The Tractors IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.

And then we had supper, which went exceedingly well. And this is where I have to share one of my most brilliantist ideas ever. In terms of feeding toddlers, that is.  I have had other brilliant ideas – and some of them have been to do with things that actually earn me money, astonishingly enough. I fail to recall any of them at this point in time, however. So. Teddy, as previously mentioned, is a fussy little bleeder when it comes to food – not his doing, obviously, mea culpa, etc etc, guilt guilt, guilt. Veering wildly from baby-lead weaning to spoon-feeding every four hours in a baby’s formative months is not the best plan for a well-adjusted olive-eating baby, it turns out. Still. This is where we are. A fussy bleeder he is, and I just have to cope with it. So. Again. The one thing that he is guaranteed to chuck into his gob, where all else has failed, is brown food. Any kind of brown food. But not red, oh no. And certainly not green. And so my latest invention is the following:

Steam some broccoli and some cauliflower until they’re really soft. Squeeze three sausages out of their nasty skin bits. Squidge both of these things together. Get a packet of ready made puff pastry (oh shoot me, whatever). And make sausage rolls!

I know! Genius! Yes, if you must know, I am choosing to ignore the fact that by steaming the veg until it’s mushy and then cooking it again inside pastry, the nutritional value has fallen to almost nil, but at least it’s there. And it’s also in Teddy’s gob and it’s not been spat out again. Where’s my bloody medal?

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