Tag Archives : beta mummy

Doodle of Beta Mummy doing a zip wire off the end of Bournemouth Pier. The harness is highly unflattering and there are almost definitely sharks circling beneath her. But she is wearing some lovely Hotter shoes, so it's all good.

Staring Death in the Face with Hotter


Before I had my kids, I was always up for adventure.  Adrenaline junkie is probably too strong a term – I never had the urge to try bungee jumping or base jumping, or any other kind of jumping in fact – but I definitely enjoyed the buzz I would get from pushing the boundaries of my comfort zone.  I love skiing, and pre-kids would have happily thrown myself down a black run despite not being a particularly competent skier.  “What’s the worst that could happen?” I’d merrily declare.  But since having my children, something unexpected has happened to me.

Sunday lunch, the Beta Mummy way


I love a roast dinner.  Depending on my mood, my favourite is either roast lamb or roast pork.  Or roast chicken.  Or beef.  Basically I love roasted animal of any kind – but in my mind it’s all about the roast potatoes, the perfect roast potato is a glorious thing.  The thing about roast dinner is that there are a lot of trimmings, to really make it right.  You’ve got to have Yorkshire puddings, and stuffing.  At least three types of veg.  Gravy.  Maybe some pigs in blankets.  The whole thing takes a lot of time and effort to prepare, and then the whole lot gets scoffed in a disproportionately small number of minutes.

The Easter Beta Bunny.


Happy Easter everyone!  May your little darlings be little darlings, may family arguments over the last mini egg be few, may the hot cross buns be plentiful, and may you get the odd quiet moment here and there to enjoy a hot cup of tea (a.m.) and/or a nice big glass of wine (p.m.)*  🙂

I Can’t Have It All…


Women can have it all these days, so they say.  We can be mothers and sex goddesses and ambitious career women, and can generally achieve great things.  We can.

One could.

But right now I’m failing at all of the above.

the weight of responsibility

I’m a Beta Mummy, breastfeeding


You know what, I have been putting off doing a doodle about breastfeeding for so long, and despite many requests.  Why, I hear you cry?  Because,dear reader, along with the whole fandango/sunroof birth thing (also not doodled as yet), it’s just so bloody contentious.  Whatever you say, and whatever angle you take, the nutcases crawl out of the woodwork and think it’s ok to start hurling accusations, guilt-trips and insults around.  So I’ll say it from the off – I won’t stand for it, it is just not cool.

Be(ta) My Valentine…


The vomit-inducing avalanche of red and pink hearts, novelty chocolates and fluffy handcuffs bombarding my senses every time I leave the house or switch on the TV can only mean one thing…the January sales are far behind us and it’s time to crack on with the next Capitalist date in the diary – Valentine’s Day.

Beta Mummy COOKS…Easy Banana Loaf


Here we are again for yet another recipe in my Beta Mummy…COOKS! series.  This time, I’m going to treat you to one of our family favourites, banana loaf, something which I can guarantee the Feral Children will both eat.  That is because it is cake – what child doesn’t like cake?  And the absolute best thing about this recipe is that it contains actual real life fruit, so it’s actually very healthy.  Let’s call it one of their 5-a-day.

A doodle of 5 friends holding hands, sillouetted against a setting sun.

Why Every Woman Needs a Wolf Pack


My wolf pack is like a second family.  My wolf pack is a group of women who are like sisters to me, and who I can rely upon for virtually anything.  Despite knowing each other for only a few years – we met through baby groups – we love and would do anything for each other as though we have been friends forever.  I think every woman needs a wolf pack.  I could not survive without mine, and here’s why:

5.56am


5.56am.  A time I see a little too often for my liking.  I hear a “Muuuuuuuuuum” calling from the bathroom, or a “thud thud thud thud” stomping along the hallway followed by a crash as the door is enthusiastically thrown open.  I mutter “for fuck’s sake” under my breath, open one eye and peer in the direction of my radio alarm clock which I no longer bother setting.  05:56.  05-fucking-56.  It always seems to be 5.56.