Aimee Horton

When you love the little things.


It’s been a bit of a hard week this week. I’ve been fairly deflated and disappointed about a few things, but, and I can’t believe I’m actually typing this, the children have managed to still make it enjoyable! So what a perfect week to remember to Love the Little things – Morgana’s link hosted over at But Why Mummy Why? (more…)

When your baby turns 3.


I started a long post on this, and I have just deleted it.  After all you all know that birthdays make me broody, and a little bit emotional.  You all know that every year my boys get older I go and start looking back at old scan and baby bump photos, the first picture I posted on Facebook, and even go and hunt out a teeny tiny nappy.  You all know this. So I’m not going to tell you all about it again (as I cry into my gin and tonic whilst looking at the first photo of my boys together).

Instead, I’m going to tell you about My Chunky Monkey.  My fat little boy who if you just see him in a supermarket car park whilst being karate chopped into his car seat, or in B&Q being carried in full plank (literally) kicking and screaming by a worn looking version of my instagram feed photos, you’ll think he’s horrible.  If you read my status updates about him poo’ing in the swimming pool, spitting, stomping his feet, answering back, not eating his dinner, changing his mind, screaming because he doesn’t want to leave his brother at school, shutting the toilet seat on my back because he doesn’t want me to go to the toilet, ignores people who say hello to him, systematically placing blueberries into the goldfish bowl to prove that he’s never ever going to eat them, you’d think he was horrible.

And he is.  Sometimes.  But he’s also three.

He’s three years old, with wild hair, and a very loud voice.  He always has snot on his cheek, and food on his clothes.  He refuses to potty train, or try fruit and veg, he wakes up in the night and does a medley of Wheels on the Bus, One Direction and The Superman Song. He answers back, scarily in the same tone of voice I’m using, and sends me to the hall (31 one minutes in the hall ON MY OWN? Yes please).

He’s three years old with a wicked sense of humour (both meanings of the word), he is a performer, an actor, a clown.  He’s smart, not only with both his numbers and letters, but also in how he knows how to push his brothers buttons in one easy sentence “No, I’m five and you’re three”. 

He’s three years old and when he dances the whole house shakes.  Especially as he does the official dance moves from the One Direction video.

He’s three years old and tells you every time he does a trump then laughs about it, his bum is so fat he needs size 4-5 pants, and his head is so big that when you try and help him into a top it takes about 5 minutes for it to pop through the neck hole.

He’s three years old and knows how to use the iPad better then I do, to the point where he’s managed to memorise the restricted access password so I can no longer lock him into a specific game.

He’s three years old and whilst I tell everyone that he will only ever drink milk or water he is also a “tup of tea” thief, drinking my tea and dunking his biscuits in whenever he gets the opportunity too.

He’s the three year old that when he doesn’t get his own way will face plant into a bucket of soil.

He’s three years old and the most loving cuddly little boy I know, pulling you in for a “big kiss big cuggle”, nuzzling into your neck with one arm holding you into a firm head lock, or grabbing your face for a full on kiss.  He strokes your hair and your face, and just runs up and after making a dinosaur or monster noise pulls you into a massive big fat hug.

He’s three years old and a clown, the Norm of the school run, where everybody knows his name.

But most importantly…

He’s three years old and in January will be eligible for free childcare funding for fifteen hours.

Hurrah!  Happy Birthday Chunky Monkey x

When they turn five.


Oh. My. God. I have a five year old.

That’s right, the long awaited fifth birthday (by The Beast, not me),  finally arrived yesterday, and after nearly 11 months of waiting, it hit us like a gale force wind.

That’s right, when I wrote the post about him turning four I didn’t expect my eldest monster to wish a year of his life away so ferociously, but that’s yet another thing which school has been part of.  My sensitive, over thinking Stinky Spider-Man is really really bothered by the fact that the majority of his friends have all turned five over his first school year, and it’s not gone unnoticed, that they will all turn six soon too, some within days of starting Year 1.  It bothered him so much that I actually at one point seriously considered having an unofficial birthday party for him a few months ago just so he could get over it and focus on the things that matter.

But we’ve done it! We’ve made it, although I really have no idea how he is still alive and how I haven’t been admitted to hospital to have my stomach pumped (and my mind un-boggled), the pressure was almost too much.  Not only have we had the…


“Seriously Mummy…how many sleeps?”

But we’ve also had inexplicable behaviour.  Seriously, it’s not often I cry (in front) of my children, but something had to give.  I’m not proud, in fact, I drowned my sorrows in too much alcohol and expected an awful day.  HOWEVER it may have hit a nerve we were failing to do via any other punishment, because, on Monday we made it through the morning without a hitch and yesterday he spent all day at kids club.

It’s been a busy year for The Beast.  School, new friends, home work, play dates, attitude, frustrations, an unbelievable amount of growth in all areas ranging from height (I know you don’t believe me, but he is getting taller!), to personal development, and his hair, IT NEVER STOPS GROWING.  I can’t pin-point one definitive moment where I looked at The Beast and thought “oh my god he’s grown up” there have just been too many.

After I woke up to the words “I’m five now Mummy….now I’m nearly six” we did the traditional cake for breakfast, where I cried.  For some reason I just cannot handle singing happy birthday, even when The Chunky Monkey was shouting “NOOO STOPPP SINGINGGG EVERYOONEEEE” and M having to rugby tackle him to the floor and cover his mouth so not to interrupt the filming.

Now it’s “How many sleeps until my party..” (the answer is two, and one of those thank GOODNESS is at Nan and Grandads), I’ll let you know how it goes…I’m not at ALL highly strung about it (seriously, HOW will my house get clean? Will the cake turn out? Will everyone have fun? Will I have enough food? Will I poison anyone? Will the right people turn up?).

Here’s to you Stinky Spider-Man.  Let’s not wish this year away eh? It’s all going a bit too fast for my liking and there’s so much to see and do.