Hello dolly

I thought that having boys would release me from clutches of dolls. I never could stand them as a child. All my Sindy dolls would instantly have their hair coloured with felt tips, cut off into strange asymmetric styles and their limbs gruesomely dismembered from their bodies. I was not a girly girl when it came to playing with dollies.

Son number one has always been in touch with his feminine side, but he expressed this in a desire to dress up in his best girlfriend's fairy dresses. I could never take him on a play date with her without him coming downstairs strutting his stuff in glittery tulle and a sparkling tiara. Even now he is seven he still lovingly steals glances at the sequin encrusted dresses on display on the girly side of clothes shops. Poor lamb, still there is plenty of time for him to moonlight at Madame JoJo's when he is older.

Son number two and four are man's men. They love nothing more than kicking a ball around or trundling trucks across the floor boards. They would sooner don a builder's hat than a princess dress and have no interest in dolls, prams or nurturing anything, apart from the notion that they should be allowed unfettered access to the snack cupboard. In otherwords they are boys through and through.

Son number three though is a caring little soul. If anyone in the house cries or looks upset he is at their side in a flash. He blows smacking kisses at them and tries to fling his tiny arms around them. If his twin is upset he will stand with a look of the utmost concern in his deep brown eyes, gently stroking his brother's back. It entirely passes him by that the reason his twin is crying is usually because he has been told off for staging yet another attempted raid on his brother's food, toys or personal space.

His sweet nature appears to carry across to inanimate objects too though as after a visit to that self same best girlfriend of number one he discovered a dolly. He grabbed it's squishy body to his little chest, the scarily lifelike eyes swivelling up under coy eyelashes, and he carried it around with him for the rest of the afternoon.

When he ate he tried to share his food with the dolly, upturning his cup into its face. Later on he gave a tiny doll-sized bottle and cuddled it to help bring up its burps. Or at least I think that is what he was doing. He was the model father to that dolly, it was just a shame to leave it behind.

When I told his nanny all about his antics she cried in recognition that all he does when he is at playgroup is pick up the dollies and wheel them around in a buggy. Being a twin his favourite is a double buggy and apparently he cannot be prised from it during the group.

Now I am sorely tempted to buy him his very own dolly to play with. I just don't know if I can cope with its beady little eyes following me around the room and there will be hell to pay from his big brother as I still haven't bought him that dress I promised him years ago.......

Hello strangers

To quote the inimitable Harry from The Only Way is Essex 'OH MY GOD'. So much has happened in the last few weeks which is why there has been radio silence chez FDMTG. And then I go and kick off my first post in ages with the shameful confession of my new guilty pleasure - the so dreadful it's addictive The Only Way is Essex.

I just love it, they are all so touchingly cardboard and shallow, with their Tango spray tans, oh-so-unnatural hair extensions and deliciously chavvy accents. The real reason I adore it so much is because at heart I will always be an Essex girl myself. Had I not been plucked out of this most maligned of counties at the tender age of 12 I have no doubt that I would have misspent my youth flaunting my cleavage and suggestively licking my lip gloss at The Sugar Hut in an unveiled attempt to shag blokes like Mark. Oh the shame.

My infinitely classier and more high brow husband is still shocked at just how authentic an Essix accent I can come out with. When I put it on his middle class sensibilities have him cringing in disgust as he begs me to revert to my everyday, classless tones. So I am loving the antics of the Essex crew and marvelling at their attention to detail when it comes to dolling themselves up.

It's no wonder we never really see any of them doing any work, as they must spend all the hours they aren't propping up the bars in the nightspots of Brentwood, getting their nails/hair/make up done, being spray tanned, sticking on vajazzles, working out at the gym and researching where to get the best boob job. And that's just the boys. 

I guess I am living proof that you can take the girl out of Essex, but you can't take Essex out of the girl.

Aside from my latest addiction the other things that have been keeping me from blogging are, in no particular order, a family crisis of too much tedium and painfulness to share, multiple birthday parties - thank God they are all over now and the momentous occasion which saw the final boy take to his feet (warning super cute video alert, though due to all the maternal shrieking it's best viewed with the sound off). Oh and throw in much work related stress and perhaps it is no wonder that the poor old blog has been pushed to the back of the queue.

But now I am back and raring to report on the mischief made by my all-walking family. I finally feel as if I have four sons, as opposed a mixed bag of sons and babies, however I do think that collective noun for my sons should be a 'chaos', as their capacity to wreak it has increased ten-fold with their developing perambulation skills.