Top 5 Life Hacks For Living With 3 Kids Under 3

 

Someone reposted this image on Instagram yesterday and kindly described it as a "lived-in" room, rather than the chaos it actually is! But yep, accurate representation of what my toddler's room often looks like, although I actually unearthed these books from under his bed when I changed the sheets, so they were sort of "put away". Sort of. 

Anyway, the recurring refrain I hear these days when people find out I have a 2.5-year-old toddler and 7-month-old twins is, "Wow! YOU must have your hands full!" Ha. Ha. Ha. Like I haven't heard THAT ONE before. 

Yes, we often quite literally and figuratively have our hands full. But on the whole? It's not too bad. And that's partly down to the routines we have in place (and also because our eldest is with his nanny and her son during the day - a critical mention!). I thought I'd share some of them here, since I get asked about how we "manage" a lot! 

So, here are my top 5 life hacks for surviving - I mean, living with - 3 kids under 3:

Cook dinner in the morning - this is my favorite tip and one that I invoked when my eldest was a tiny baby. When I was on mat leave and my husband was working during the day (as is our respective roles now), I found it easiest to prepare dinner first thing in the morning, then re-heat it at night, as the evening inevitably always signalled cranky kids, fussy bed and bath times, etc. Ordinarily, my husband would cook dinner after work (since he's working from home at the moment) while I do bath time with the twins, but this way, he gets to spend some quality time in the evenings with our toddler (or I do, if we switch) and we aren't tempted by the Uber Eats or Deliveroo apps on our phones. So yeah, it's a little weird, but I tend to make dinner as soon as I bring the twins down after their first feed in the morning, which is usually around 6:30 a.m./7:00 a.m. 

Have strict morning and evening routines in place - everything runs like clockwork at our house, because we keep an eye on the, well, clock and ensure that we're not more than +/-5 minutes off of schedule. For example, in the evenings, we have sole parental responsibility for our eldest after our nanny leaves (soon-to-be-nursery!) at 5:30 pm, which means we play and catch up with him together when one of us gets the bottles ready for the twins. The twins are fed at 6 p.m., in the bath by 6:30 p.m., upstairs having stories read to them by 6:45 p.m., and asleep by 7:15 p.m. in their cots. Dinner is ready by 7:15 p.m. and John, our toddler, and I will eat together then, before our eldest has potty time for 15-20 minutes in front of his favorite TV show (currently Blippi on YouTube - "I'm an excavatorrrrrr!"). Bathtime for him is at 8:15 p.m. and he's in bed by 8:30 p.m, down between 8:45 - 9:00 p.m. (he typically wakes at 7:30 in the morning).

Do 10 things at once - okay, maybe not 10. But at least three. While dinner's cooking, I also throw on a load of laundry, put something in the oven that I can batch freeze for the twins' baby-led weaning journey (yes, I just referred to their feeding as a "journey" - no idea why), and prepare our toddler's breakfast before he wakes so that it's ready when he comes downstairs and I don't hear, "READY YET, READY YETTTT?"

Prepare for the evening in the morning - as soon as the twins finish their morning feed, I make the bed and prepare their cots for the evening, ensuring that their sleeping bags and pacifiers are in each cot, the curtains are drawn, and that their towels are set out for bath time. It may seem a little OTT, but it is an amazing time saver at night and makes life just that little bit easier.

Bring in the troops - sometimes, it all gets a bit too much. And without family nearby to occasionally lend a hand, we can easily feel overwhelmed. There have been times when John's had to work late, and so, rather than try to be a "hero" (and invariably be faced with three separate meltdowns from three separate kids all at once), we've asked our nanny to stay later to help keep an eye on our eldest while I wrestle the twins out of the bath or drafted in a neighbor to babysit for a couple of hours. 

So, those are the best tips I've found that have helped our family so far. If you have 3 under 3 (or even 2 under 3), how do you survive? I'd love to know!

To My Toddler: About To Become a Big Brother

Dear A,

In a short while, your world will change - my world will change - in ways we couldn't have imagined. And that makes me both happy and sad: happy that you'll (hopefully) gaining two healthy siblings but sad that our time together, just the two of us, is coming to an end.

Every morning, when you stir around 6 or so, and I try to get you to stay a little longer in your cot, telling you softly, "Down down, please", while fishing for your dummy or handing you some water, I chide myself under my breath for relenting too easily, too quickly, and picking you up - hefting your legs over my 33-week-pregnant-with-twins belly and carrying you to the guest room, where we both cuddle for half an hour or so in bed. As you immediately turn into me and run your little hand up and down my arm, or tuck it into my robe for comfort, I worry, "How will I do this when the twins arrive? How will I do this when I'm recovering from birth?" And I feel your small, warm feet dig into the tops of my legs and I think, 'I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.'

Because right then, right there, I don't care. Whatever the future brings in tantrums and tears and screaming fits, it's worth it: those precious 28, 29, 30 minutes I get to spend with you in the darkness of early dawn; the stillness.

On Saturday, you climbed up into your Montessori learning tower and helped me make sweet potato casserole for Thanksgiving dinner. I handed you marshmallows, one by one, and you carefully placed them on top of the mixture, exclaiming, "Oooh!" each time. I never imagined I'd have a child one day to share my Thanksgiving traditions with - and the sudden realization that it was actually happening shook me to my core.

On Sunday, I was tired from cooking, and I got down on the floor with you to watch Carl's Car Wash on YouTube, which I had never done before. You love that show, with its catchy tune, friendly characters, and assortment of vehicles going through the car wash. I laid on my side and felt the babies stretch, then kick and punch - the walls of their world getting smaller and smaller as they grow. I nestled my head into your side and wrapped my arms around your waist, expecting you to be too mesmerized by your show to notice. But you leaned into me: your head gently resting on my arm, your cheek collapsing into the crook of my elbow. Tears pricked my eyes then, because I knew you loved me too.

My firstborn: I love you so fiercely, it hurts. There isn't a moment from your childhood so far that I don't want to claw back: your gurgles, your first carrot puree, your first smile, your first steps, your first haircut, your first, your first, your first. You first.

I will understand in the coming months if you sleep worse, eat worse, act worse - want/need me more. You won't understand why I can't lift you as much or cuddle with you in the dark or lie on the floor to watch Carl's with you. At least, not immediately. But I promise you, we will have one-on-one time together each day, whether it's for 5, 10, 20 or 60 minutes - because I can't bear not to.

You are going to make the most wonderful big brother; we know it.

And we love you. To the moon and back.

Love,
Mama x

Gestational Diabetes

When I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes in this pregnancy, I was relieved - then resentful. I had suspected undiagnosed gestational diabetes as the underlying cause of my son's premature birth (and his abnormally large birth weight, plus low blood sugar and jaundice), despite the fact that I'd been tested at 28 weeks and told by my midwives that the outcome was "normal". Looking back, I had so many classic symptoms of diabetes - symptoms that I repeatedly reported to hospital consultants, GP, and midwives, with each one dismissing them as "normal" in pregnancy.

This time, at a different hospital and with a monochorionic (identical, two babies sharing one placenta) twin pregnancy, I pushed the consultant to test me sooner for GD. She said it was unusual to test so early, but agreed to at 21 weeks.

And my blood sugar readings were raised - to everyone's surprise but mine.

From there, the diabetes team moved quickly: scheduling a meeting with the diabetes nurse, who gave me a blood glucose testing kit to use once in the morning and one hour after every meal, and another meeting with the hospital dietician, who helped come up with a meal plan in an attempt to lower my blood sugar levels.

Initially, we tried to control my GD through diet and exercise. But despite being extremely restrictive (at one point, I was eating zero carbs, which was neither healthy nor sustainable) and going out for a walk immediately after every meal (not the easiest when you're pregnant with twins, especially as the pregnancy progresses), my glucose levels remained high - and I felt like such a failure. Like I hadn't tried hard enough.

The diabetes nurse was incredibly kind, and assured me that it had nothing to do with me - typically, GD develops during pregnancy and disappears after birth (though, given my family history of diabetes, it's likely to stick around permanently). It occurs when the body cannot produce enough insulin to support both you and the baby - or, in my case, the babies (apparently, twin pregnancies have a higher rate of developing GD).

The nurse suggested I start on Metformin, a pill, but I asked if I could move directly onto insulin, as I'd heard the Metformin caused stomach upset, which I really couldn't deal with when I was working and looking after a toddler in the evenings. They immediately agreed and prescribed Novorapid before meals and Humulin, before bedtime - so, four injections total, per day.

The resentment came in when I realized that, despite the insulin, I'd still need to follow a strict Keto-like diet, which was the last thing I wanted to do when pregnant. I constantly craved pasta and missed cakes; I was angry that I felt deprived and hungry a lot.  

Now, in my 32nd week of pregnancy, I can honestly say that this diagnosis of gestational diabetes has been a blessing in disguise. I've never felt healthier and better in myself: less sluggish, more fit, and just generally healthier.

Of course, I have moments where I'm annoyed because I would love to have a slice of cake for dessert instead of Skyr, a handful of raspberries and one square of 90% dark chocolate, but once I got used to the diet, I found that I stopped craving a lot of sweet things (though I find myself missing carbohydrates, for sure).

What surprised me was how many misconceptions people have about diabetes. A lot of friends volunteered to bring me "vegan cake" or "savoury muffins", which was very sweet and well-intentioned, but vegan cake still has sugar (natural or refined) and is high in carbs, and savoury muffins are (unless made with a flour alternative), also a total carb-fest.

I did have a few dreams where I was stuffing my face with bread and endless bowls of pasta (oh, how I miss pho and ramen! AND WHITE RICE!), but ... at the end of the day, I want to give these twins the best chance of being healthy at (and after) birth.

And the fact that I feel better for it all after this lifestyle change is the figurative icing on the cake.

Frankly, I'm Terrified

The first thing the midwife said to me when she read my file and saw that I was expecting identical twins (and that I had an 18-month-old at home) was: "You'll need to let some things go."

She was kind, but firm in her advice. And what she meant was: I won't always have a clean home. I won't always have time to put my son to bed and massage his legs after bath time and read three stories after dinner. I won't always be able to head out into the world with a full face of makeup and a chic, put-together outfit (not that there's much of that these days anyway, unless I'm heading into work!).

John has been gently reminding (read: nagging) me to start by letting some things "go" now - for example, stop making separate meals for our son (one weekend morning, I found myself simultaneously stewing apple, oranges, prunes and cinnamon to help with his constipation and preparing a slow-cooker chicken soup with four different types of veggies so I could freeze it and ask his nanny to give it to him for lunch).

"Your perfectionism will destroy you - or us," he said.

And he's right.

At the very root of the anxiety and depression I've struggled with for years is this obsession with "being enough". Doing enough.

And after the recurrent miscarriages I experienced, together with my son's difficult birth and subsequent hospital stays, the way I dealt with the trauma was to do my best to provide the best for my child.

To me, this meant breastfeeding him exclusively for nearly a year (until his interest naturally waned and he became fully weaned), even if it meant I was waking up at 3 or 4 a.m. to pump when he was asleep; even if it meant I bled from over-pumping; or that I couldn't get my hair cut for months because I was so anxious about getting back in time for a feed.

And when he transitioned onto solid foods, it meant preparing meals from scratch for him (luckily, his nanny does the lion's share of this now and she is an excellent cook), ensuring he had a fresh supply of whole fruit replenished every week, and that I was baking sugar-free cakes and waffles that I knew he'd love as snacks.

It meant creating the perfect nursery for him: with perfect Scandi-inspired decor, the perfect breathable pillow to rest his head on, the perfect sheepskin mattress topper to "keep him cool in the summer and warm in the winter", the perfect organic cotton cot sheets, and the perfect hand-knit doll that I felt would best comfort him at night if he were to wake.

He doesn't need any of these things - I know that. I know it. (Though - can I just say - his bed looks insanely comfy?)

And I know I've been doing all these things for myself, more than I've perhaps been doing them for him. Reassurance. Insurance. An apology for those terrible first days and weeks. Because somehow I still see it as my fault.

Because each four-layered muslin blanket and soft toy is a whispered, "I'm sorry."

And I know what he wants more than anything else - more than any green garbage truck replica (his current favorite) - is for me to play with him; to hold and cuddle him. Which I do. As much as I can.

And so, I'm scared. I'm scared that I won't know how to cope when the twins arrive and I literally can't "do it all".

Because doing it all - or attempting to do it all - is what keeps me sane, even when it's driving me to madness.

My goal in the next few weeks and months is to try to gradually begin to find a balance in all of this ... and to find time for myself and my husband too.

But it may be the biggest challenge I've ever faced, and I'm terrified of this journey.

18 Months

Dear A,

Last night, you had a coughing fit. I went to your room and you were sitting up, crying - feeling very sorry for yourself. I picked you up and smoothed your hair back and held you in my lap until your eyes rolled back and your lids began to flutter closed. It was then that I noticed your feet were propped up against Goodnight Moon on the sofa. When did your legs get long enough to do that? I marvelled at this new discovery. As hard as I tried, I couldn't remember a time when your feet barely extended past my side - hovering mid-air, as I nursed you to sleep. I closed my eyes, partly through exhaustion, but partly because I wanted - so badly - to remember that time. 

I couldn't. 

You have grown again.

Last week, I took you to a play centre: a little town designed for babies and toddlers, with mini garages and a mini store and mini Bentleys and mini ice-cream vans and mini everythings. You always go for the cars. But halfway into the session, it was carnage: older kids commandeered wheelbarrows, shoving them into unsuspecting bare ankles while their moms chatted and ignored; smaller babies threw soft vegetables. A fabric eggplant landed by my feet. You'd wandered off - probably in search of a car to steal - but I was watching you across the room. As soft oranges flew and a wooden London bus was mounted, I saw you looking. Searching. You weren't scared - I wouldn't let you be. Just looking: tummy poking out, feet slightly turned in, arms in T-rex position. And then: you saw me. And the smile that crossed your face - oh, my darling. A thousand cliches come true. In that instant, my heart had never felt fuller. Until you reached me - over the fake grass, past the ice-cream van with the wooden cones now discarded on the floor - then it nearly burst. 

Last month, we took you to the beach for the first time. The pastel beach huts, lining the neat semicircle of the promenade, were shut for the morning. No one was visiting, except for the early-rising dog walkers, because high tide was just an hour away and the beach would disappear soon. The clock was ticking. Yet, time somehow slowed. I remember it being very bright - the sun was already fairly high, and your father slathered sun cream on your legs and face as I fastened your hat below your chin. You'd never even seen the ocean before. But somehow, you just knew: charging ahead with delight, curling your toes around the sand beneath your feet. You aimed straight for the water. I held your hands as the first tiny wave lapped towards us, covering your ankles. You shrieked with joy. You wanted to go further in. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" I laughed, holding you back. The second wave caught your bloomers and soaked the edges. Again, you laughed. And I felt the happiest I'd been for a very long time. 

Because I remembered: we met in the ocean. 

An hour after you were born, I was wheeled - drugged and half asleep - to the maternity ward while you travelled by incubator upstairs to SCBU. In my post-labor/post-birth daze, I had a vision: we were both submerged, deep in the inky blue darkness of a vast sea. I saw you first, paddling towards me, gently pawing your way to me as I held my arms outstretched. Waiting. Ready. Your face had a curious, but certain, expression. 

You knew. So did I. 

You were not wrenched from me with forceps 18 months ago in an operating room with bright lights and doctors in scrubs and masks. You did not meet me for the first time wrapped in a white towel stained with both our blood, my finger shakily grazing your left cheek. You did not leave the hospital with notes that read, "born in poor condition". I did not weep for hours for you in the shower when we were apart. 

No, that is not how we met. We met before - in this brilliant blue ocean, surrounded by the force of love pulled from another dimension. I knew you, and you knew me, already. 

Firsts

Last weekend, I drove with my baby in the car for the first time.

It was terrifying.

We were on our way to a first birthday party (there have been lots of those lately!) just an 11-minute drive away. And though there were no meltdowns from either of us (thank goodness) and though I successfully navigated two incidences of cars playing chicken with me on narrow roads (one of which was a police car with sirens on full blast), I was still shaking when I reached my destination and close to tears when I asked my friend to check that where I parked was okay.

But, I did it, and I talked to A in the car the whole time - trying to keep myself calm while listening to his sweet babbling.

On our way home, my GPS didn't take me the back the way I came for some reason, and I ended up on the roundabout of my nightmares, plus the freeway! Instead of panicking, I just laughed. Much like my first solo trip to IKEA (where I took a wrong turn and ended up on an industrial estate before going the wrong way down a one-way street while a bemused driver watched as I reversed onto a busy road), I took it as a sign from the universe that I could handle the unexpected.

And, thankfully, although I got into the wrong lane for the 20th time at yet another roundabout while exiting the freeway, I managed to get us home and through the door in one piece.

I know I need to practice more and I know my confidence drops the less I drive here.

But.

Oh, how I miss the wide lanes and generous parking spaces in the US!

Stay tuned for more driving adventures ...

p.s. how sweet is this hanger from Red Hand Gang - and this Tobias & The Bear tee (a gift from a friend!)?

To My Son, On His First Birthday

Dear A,

I got a paper cut the other day when I was opening a box of party decorations for your birthday. It was one of those stiff, cardboard Amazon envelopes and it sliced into the crease of my middle finger and palm, just as I tore it open. I yelped, but forgot all about it until I went to wash my hands later and felt a sharp sting: ah, that paper cut.

Just like how, after twelve months of getting to know you (of loving you), I've forgotten how much it stung to hear the words, "I'm so sorry, but the embryo stopped growing some time ago," in a darkened ultrasound room. The tears I cried when I saw the pregnancy test read 'negative' again. And again, and again. How I felt ripped in half when you were taken from me in the delivery room and whisked straight to the Special Care Baby Unit in an incubator your Daddy called, "the little fire engine".

Those paper cuts were cuts on my heart, but you healed them.

You know, your Gung Gung wrote me the nicest note when I told him about my miscarriages (note: your Gung Gung is one of the kindest, funniest human beings in the world, and you are too lucky to have a Gung Gung like him). He said: "Jaime, don't feel too sad about it, because it was not meant to be. Take good care of yourself, and a real healthy little person who is truly belong to you will come along [sic]."

And he couldn't have been more right: you truly belong to me, and to your Daddy, and you to us. You, with your expressive eyebrows and your mischievous grin; you, with your long lashes and perpetually flexed feet; you, who loves to explore your surroundings safely from atop the "Mommy Perch" i.e. in my arms.

My darling: on your first birthday, I want you to know just how loved you are, and how your Daddy and I wanted you - you - in our lives so very, very much. You have brought us more joy and laughter than we could have ever imagined and you make me, your mom, so happy every minute of the day.

Even when you sneeze oatmeal on my work clothes. Even when you bust out of your sleeping bag after I tell you not to. Even when you flip on your stomach and push the bear nightlight off the changing table when I'm getting you dressed in the morning. Even when I wake up with your feet firmly wedged between my eye and my nose, your big toe occasionally twitching (btw, sleep training officially resumes after your party. Sorry, mister!).

All these things make me smile.

And I hope we make you happy too: when Daddy blows raspberries on your tummy in the morning; when we take you to the park and push you on the swings; when I make cinnamon apple waffles for your snack.

I love you, A, always and forever. Thank you for making these past twelve months the most wonderous days and nights of my life.

Love,
Your Mommy xxx

The Juggle Is Real

I stole this line from an Instagram friend (@anglopologie), but it sums up my first week as a working mama pretty darn well.

I mean, it was a shock to the system!

I'm currently working four days per week: Monday - Wednesday in the office and Thursday from home. On Monday morning, I anxiously woke before my alarm went off, peered at my little one's sleeping face, crept out of bed, and proceeded to dress in the dark (I plan my outfit the night before now!). Gone are the days I'd change 5-6 times before leaving the house because I was unhappy with my original outfit. And buh-bye rolling-out-of bed-at-the-very-last-minute!

I did my make-up in a flash and scooped up the baby, who looked as bewildered as me to be up at this time of the morning. I changed him ("No, really, stop - STOP - wriggling. Mama does NOT have time for - STOP. STOP IT!") before plonking him in his high chair downstairs and proceeding to run around like a chicken with its head cut off in the kitchen, defrosting frozen cubes of food I'd prepared the day before for his lunch, while making peanut butter toast fingers for his breakfast and periodically feeding him spoonfuls of oatmeal.

Before I knew it, I heard a key turn in the door and our nanny arrived with her baby in tow (who's three months younger than mine), shouting a cheerful, "Good morning!". I threw on my coat and babbled, "He's not finished with his breakfast. He's due a poo today. He can have a yogurt as a snack and the porridge fingers I made last night. OH. I accidentally left his snowsuit in the washing machine, so you'll need to put him in the back-up-snowsuit if you take them outside. THANK YOU!"

And - silly move on my part - as I closed the door behind me, I looked back. What did the movies teach us? TO NEVER LOOK BACK. And I did, and it was THE WORST. My baby's high chair is (foolishly) positioned in view of the front door. So what did I see when I glanced back? The worried and confused expression on his little face; his neck craned to get a better look at me, his brows upturned in two perfect inverted commas. Right before the door clicked shut.

My eyes pricked with tears as I sped-walk to the bus and my emotions were made all the more worse when the bus route took us past the hospital and - I'm not kidding - the actual room I labored in. I mean, crazy, right?

But as soon as I got on the tube, I was in "work mode" again and everything quickly became both strange and familiar: the crush of commuters angling for an empty seat; the passive-aggressive 'tuts' and sighs when someone took up too much room in the doorway or aisle; the rush to get out of the station.

At work, everyone was very lovely and kept exclaiming how glad they were to have me back. I spent my first day or so filing away some papers (and re-reading previous emails I'd sent, surprised at my confident and authoritative tone and wondering if I'd ever achieve that level of assurance again) and scraping the dusty crevices of my brain for answers when co-workers came to ask me questions. They were there - just a little out of reach. I realized I need to re-familiarize myself quickly; like returning to school after summer vacation.

I nervously checked my phone for WhatsApp updates from our nanny (she sent pictures of a smiling baby clutching a balloon, then eating a mini quiche with his hands) and bolted out the door at the end of the day, running - no, sprinting - for the train home.

And he was not happy to see me. He was angry. I opened the door to a furious baby, standing in his Stokke Tripp Trapp chair, flapping his arms and angry-crying with an accusatory look as if to say, 'Where have you BEEN?' But, as soon as I picked him up and we had a cuddle, he forgave me (and when his dad came home from work early, he was even happier - I thought he'd take flight, his arms began flapping so maniacally!). We did his bath-time routine together as a family and put him to bed, before John and I cooked dinner together and caught up on our day.

By the time Friday rolled along, I really, really cherished having the whole day to ourselves - just the two of us. More so, admittedly, than if I were home all week long.

I still feel a little sick to my stomach on Sunday night just thinking of the workload ahead of me (I'm effectively cramming five days into four) and I'm sad that my juggling act has taken a real toll on this blog and my Instagram presence, but - I hope to carve a tiny slice of time out of my schedule to keep writing and creating.

Sending lots of love to working mamas (and SINGLE mamas - how do you do it?) out there. The juggle is very, very real.

One Whole Year

My baby's bedtime routine makes me drowsy. I have, on occasion, settled him in his cot and fallen asleep beside him - only to find when I wake that it's 10 pm and all the lights are off downstairs, with John already in bed upstairs.

Our routine begins with a warm bath, followed by a leg massage and milk straight afterwards, then at least two stories ("Goodnight comb and goodnight brush! Goodnight nobody, goodnight mush.") and then a lot of hand-holding and adjusting of various stuffed animals. It's very sweet, but also incredibly soporific.

Sometimes, he has trouble getting down, and I pick him up and sort of do this bounce thing. His head drops on my shoulder, his hands grip my arms, and slowly, I feel his breathing slow and his weight drop into my hands - that's how I know he's falling asleep, and I gently place him back in his cot.

Last night, I was doing this bouncing thing and staring straight ahead at the felt garland hanging above his bed - white clouds alternating with grey snow-capped mountains. Suddenly, I had a flashback of standing in the same spot, 11 months earlier, staring at a blank wall and just feeling so, so sad that I'd come home from the hospital without our baby.

And that, when I did, I was terrified of him; this small (yet robust!), jaundiced little human asleep in his bedside cot: arms raised by his ears, mouth set in a tiny down-turned line. Every time he looked at me, I felt like I'd been caught out - a fake, a fraud. Not capable of being his mother. Totally clueless. Unworthy.

And then the seasons changed, and the frost melted between us - literally and figuratively. We went to Baby Sensory classes: me sitting cross-legged with him on my lap, both hands clasped protectively around his belly, watching him watching balloons being tossed in the air or stars being projected onto the ceiling. I sang to him: during diaper changes, bath time, car rides ... all the time. I took him along to Baby Cinema, where I ate popcorn and watched Sandra Bullock orchestrate the perfect getaway in Ocean's 8 in a darkened, air conditioned theater, while he gurgled before falling asleep in my arms.

Today, nearly a year has passed and I'm soothing this baby who reaches out to me; who cries when, to his consternation, I've walked out of the room (we're working on this!). Who giggles uncontrollably and chews on a finger when I threaten to "roll him up like a sausage and eat him like a sandwich" while slinging him over my shoulder and burrowing my head into his stomach. Who is settling in with his new nanny before I head back to work next week.

This past year has been the most adrenaline-fuelled and terrifying - but happiest - dream ever.

And I don't ever want to wake up.

Am Sick; Will Travel

We just returned from a two-and-a-half week trip to Hong Kong and Japan ... and it was nothing short of amazing. The sights; reconnecting with family; the food (!!!) - we had a phenomenal time and some jaw-dropping moments.

Except.

All three of us were sick at some point - and I don't mean a little sniffle kind of sick, I mean a high temperature/food poisoning/hacking cough/ear infection kind of sick. 

John was sick for the entire trip (he had four different colds and food poisoning) and had three full days of meetings in Singapore, Hong Kong, and Japan. Our baby was recovering from a upper respiratory infection on our way to Hong Kong, then got the dreaded "spluttering virus" (as John and I called it) followed by an ear infection towards the end of our trip in Japan. I developed a stomach bug on my birthday and was treated to the spluttering virus straight afterwards. 

I'd like to say it didn't affect our trip, but it did. Walking around Tokyo with a fever and a sick baby wasn't fun - when I wasn't attempting to syringe Calpol and Nurofen into his mouth (the UK equivalent of baby Tylenol and ibuprofen), I was either running to the bathroom or shivering with chills and aches. And poor John spent at least a day in bed, but gamely soldiered on and completed all sorts of hikes and even a canoeing excursion (which, I don't know how he completed, feeling as bad as he did!).

One night in Tokyo, it was clear that our baby was super uncomfortable and pulling at his ears ... we contacted our Airbnb host and asked if he knew of any nearby hospitals that would take us, but he couldn't really help, so we called six hospitals, one by one. Out of these six, only two receptionists spoke English and one insisted that we needed an "agent" in order to pay for any treatment (they meant medical insurance, which we had, but something was indeed, lost in translation!). The other, thankfully, was able to give me a number for an English-speaking medical assistance hotline and a very helpful man found a baby clinic less than a 10-minute walk away from our Airbnb, where were able to see a pediatrician who prescribed antibiotics for the ear infection and an expectorant for the cough.

But, my goodness - those two hours we spent calling around the hospitals were so stressful! It felt like we were getting nowhere and meanwhile, our little one was becoming increasingly distressed as his temperature climbed.

I know that tending to sick babies on vacation is part of being a parent (it felt like a rite of passage!) but I was surprised at the deeper, underlying lesson I learned about being sick while travelling: that, instead of "pushing through" the discomfort of being ill, it's okay to accept that you might have to spend a day or two in bed, no matter how much you want to go out and explore the exciting place you're in. Even though there were so many things I didn't want to miss out on in Tokyo, I realized I wouldn't have enjoyed them when I was feeling so sick (and, more importantly, that it wasn't worth making my child feel worse by traipsing around - though he was cozily sleeping in the sling 100% of the time!).

Have you ever been sick on vacation? How did you deal? Let me know!

#ShopSmall Spotlight: Small Bob

When our baby was born four weeks early, I was completely unprepared. I had no clothes for him, let alone any that would accommodate my postpartum, nursing body. I spent the first few days of his life shuttling back and forth between our hospital's Special Care Baby Unit, where he stayed after I'd been discharged. Nothing could have readied me for that feeling of arriving home without our baby. When we finally brought him home five days later, I was overjoyed. But he was readmitted to the hospital just two days after that. Crying, I called my best friend from the hospital room as he slept soundly in a tiny cot, stripped down to his diaper to receive phototherapy treatment for jaundice. I was distraught, recovering from a difficult and traumatic birth, and worried sick about my baby.

"What can I do for you?" she asked gently.

"I have nothing to wear," I sobbed. John had been running back and forth between the hospital and our house to bring me his oversized t-shirts and sweatpants, as nothing fit. I spent most of the time in the hospital topless as I had no nursing-friendly tops, but I didn't care what the doctors or nurses thought as I was completely focused on feeding my baby (plus, I was like a zombie!).

My friend showed up just three hours later with a bag bulging full of nursing tops and bras, the softest sweatpants I'd ever felt, and maternity tops in Breton stripes. Plus a packet of gummy bears and two glossy magazines.

I cried again.

Because sometimes, after birth, all the focus is on the baby, and not necessarily on the mother (if at all). I'd labored for 42 hours and endured a forceps delivery, plus an episiotomy. All I cared about was my child, but in that moment - when my friend brought over that huge bag of gifts - it felt so nice to be taken care of too.

And that's what I love about Small Bob, a company founded by Mica Martino in 2017 that sells thoughtfully curated gift sets for babies and mamas. From wonderfully soft Organic Zoo onesies to gorgeously scented rose and patchouli bath salts, these sets make the perfect gift for first-time (or repeat) mamas. Because - speaking from experience - self-care was the last thing on my mind hours after I delivered. But I also quickly learned that I had to have food, sleep, and relaxation in order to provide the nourishment my baby needed.

You can build your own gift set with Small Bob or purchase one of their stunning existing sets. I'd love to build a bespoke set for a friend - I'd throw in some hand cream (because you're washing your hands all the time with a newborn), a BIBS pacifier, and some baby milestone cards.

Small Bob also carries a range of their own nursery art - simple yet impactful prints in pretty pastels that would look sweet in any nursery (we've stuck ours up with some washi tape).

I'm thrilled to be sharing this wonderful brand with you and I hope you love it as much as I do. I'm running an exciting giveaway over on Instagram, if you're interested - the winner will take home a piece of Small Bob wall art of his/her choosing!

My gift set was provided courtesy of Small Bob, an independent brand I love. All opinions are my own. Purchase your own unique gift sets here.

Mama Talk: Mat Leave

The other day, I came downstairs and John had placed our baby on his playmat sitting in an upright position, where he (the baby, not John) played with the dangling toys he'd only previously looked up at while lying down. John was in the kitchen making tea.

I freaked.

"How long has he been sitting like that?" I asked. "How could you leave him like that? What if he falls?"

John shrugged. "He's been sitting like that since I put him there 15 minutes ago. And it doesn't matter if he falls - there's padding all around him," he pointed out, gesturing at his strategically placed pillows around the (already padded) playmat.

I approached the baby cautiously with my arms open, ready to catch him at any sign of toppling. He smiled a big, gummy grin and stuck a maraca in his mouth (his latest obsession) - still happily sitting with his legs splayed out in front of him.

I suppose I freaked because it's the first time I've seen him sitting unsupported like that, without the safety of a garish inflatable play nest around him, or my hands poised behind the small of his back - millimeters away, in case he fell over (which he did in music class last week, missing the mats and hitting his head on the wooden floor instead - which made me feel like a terrible mother).

I suppose I freaked because we're interviewing nannies for when I return to work in January and almost nine months have passed since he was born and how did that happen?

I suppose I freaked because - although we've enjoyed a fair of blue skies and sunny days despite it being mid-October - the chill in the air and the encroaching darkness is bringing me back to the dim memory of those cold, dark days I experienced at the beginning of his life, when I was discharged from the hospital without him.

Because my maternity leave hasn't felt like a "leave" at all. More like an arrival.

Like a train pulling into a station, these nine months have felt like the arrival into motherhood I have long been (impatiently) waiting for.

And so, I find the term "leave" so fascinating. Although technically, yes, I've taken a "leave" from my day job, I haven't been absent; I've been present in every single other aspect of my life.

I've been right here.

So, when friends ask, "How do you feel about going back to work?" I'm not really sure what to say. The truth is, I'm excited and looking forward to it, and I know that our baby will be in good hands with whoever we hire, but the real answer is ... mixed.

It's not leaving him behind that I struggle with, but rather, leaving these moments behind: the moment when nursing became enjoyable and one of my favorite bonding experiences with my baby; the moment when he sat up for the first time, completely unsupported and without toppling over; the moment he tried a satsuma segment and found it hilariously icky.

To savor these moments is not enough; it's that I have an inability to let them go.

I have loved every moment of my maternity leave - even the scary, dark, and uncertain ones. I've steered this ship through a storm, and I'll see it through many more.

But for now, I just want to soak up every cuddle, every feed, and every music class.

A - I'm so lucky to be your mama.

What Podcasts Are You Listening To?

Recently, I've fallen into a new morning routine: I put the baby in his highchair, make myself a bagel (and porridge, fruit and yogurt for him), and ask Google Home to tell me the latest news headlines. Then I sit down to feed him and ... tell Google to play me a podcast.

It was an idea that John had long ago, when our baby was much younger and I still didn't have much semblance of a morning routine ... I was an exhausted feeding machine and my only respite was the time I had in front of the TV while I fed and fed ... and fed. I barely had the energy to do anything else. Observing me watching the nth episode of Gilmore Girls (for the nth time), John said, "I know, why don't you listen to podcasts instead? That way you can still go around the house ... doing stuff." I think I wanted to reach over from my position on the couch and - using what little reserved energy I had - throttle him. At that time, television was my only saving grace; it helped keep me sane, comforted, and entertained all at once.

But now as my baby's a bit older and beginning to comprehend the world around him (and I've got a bit more freedom - emphasis on "a bit"), I'm conscious of the amount of TV I have on in the house. Don't get me wrong: when I really need to get something done (like shred the pile of papers threatening to become a trip hazard by our home office door) and every single toy is just not good enough, I have been known to dunk the baby in front of the YouTube channel playing his favorite songs (I like Super Simple Songs, FYI) for 15 - 20 minutes. It happens.

So, I'm loving my - our - new podcast routine. I get to listen to something relatively engaging while getting things done and my baby isn't a TV zombie (yet).

Through Google podcasts, I've learned something new through TED Radio Hour (which takes excerpts from Ted Talks and interviews the presenter) and listened to fascinating interviews via NPR's Fresh Air (like that uncomfortable one with Leonard Cohen's son, Adam Cohen - well, at least, I found it a little awkward when he declined to read a poem on air after being asked to).

I listened to this incredible podcast about Jorge Bracero, who played an instrumental (and truly inspirational) role in Puerto Rico's recovery in the aftermath of Hurricane Maria, which hit the island in September 2017. I then found his Facebook page and told him just what I thought ("You're incredible! A hero!"), and he replied to say thank you! It was pretty cool.

One day, John came downstairs and asked me what I was listening to. "I don't know - it's a podcast about mushrooms, I think," I replied, spooning another glob of prune puree into a wide little mouth that resembled an eager baby robin's beak (my child's method of eating involves opening his mouth as wide as his jaw will allow, raising his eyebrows into two inverted quotation marks, and making appreciative "Mmm mmm" sounds as he swallows).

"This is so boring!" John exclaimed. "And this guy's voice is so annoying!"

"Well, kind of," I said. "But I've listened to all the other ones and there's nothing else on that I'm interested in."

So, I'd love to know ... what podcasts are you listening to? Do you have any to recommend? I'm not really into podcasts about politics (because they just make me angry, and I prefer reading articles about this anyway) or finance (because I sort of glaze over), but I do have a wide range of interests ... I'd be up for anything, really. Especially anything random, but interesting.

Please help! I can't listen to another podcast about the powers of psychedelic mushrooms or Miriam Webster's "Word of the Day".

Thanks! And muah. 

Interior Inspiration: The Baby Shelfie

As the end to our kitchen renovations draws tantalizingly near, I've shifted my focus to the nursery, where I'm hoping to move our little one imminently (though every night of sleeping next to him in his co-sleeping crib, I think to myself, 'Just one more night!').

It's pretty blank, save for a changing table, a single sofa bed, a rug, and a toy box, but we've ordered his "big boy cot" (a present from Granny, my mother-in-law) and I'm hoping to replace the framed poster on the wall where his cot will go (so not baby-friendly!) with wallpaper and some kind of soft wall-hanging (I've been trawling Etsy, but if you have any links, send them my way!).

So, I was super excited to get this bookshelf from Great Little Trading Company, which I'd pined after for quite a while. 

I built it myself (which basically involved putting a few screws in and using an Allen key once) and basically felt like Rosie the Riveter (though I waited for John to get home and mount it on the wall because I don't trust myself with a drill).

Annoyingly, one of the rods arrived warped, but I've rotated it in such a way that it doesn't show too much (I don't think). I wrote to Great Little Trading Company and asked for a replacement, but since they didn't have spares, they gave me the option of picking out the part I needed from a new set (and then returning that set to them - yawn, who has time for that?!) or opting for a £10 gift card ... I took the easy option, as I can see myself buying something else from them down the line (I love their toy boxes - we have a little pull along one).

Which leads me to the question ... what was your favorite book as a child? We've been reading 'Goodnight Moon' every single night (which my mom and dad read to me when I was small) ... and I keep skipping the same page every single night ('Goodnight nobody, goodnight mush.').

Let me know in the comments below!

The End of Summer

It was the kind of end to summer that felt unreal.

The kind where we sat out on the deck and ate watermelon chunks so cold and sweet, they hurt my teeth. The kind where crickets began to sing as the sun descended into the horizon, like an orchestra reacting to dipped lights in the theater.

It was the kind of end that saw us driving miles to Anacortes, stopping at Five Guys for milkshakes and burgers along the way. We packed our car onto a ferry to Friday Harbor; drivers turning their side-mirrors in before meandering up the metal stairs in search of stale pretzels and views of the Puget Sound. Some just slept.

California's wildfires brought a haze to the island that made everything grey and muted. Even the sun. I squinted and looked up, but didn't see blue for days. It was the end of the summer, but could it be the end of the world?

Because if it was, we were enjoying the best of the best: orca sightings just a few feet from where we stood; dolphins teasing us with their fins at sunset; seals doggy paddling to shore. Oysters so creamy, they tasted like nuggets of sweet butter; sandwiches that cost a fortune but were worth every penny. Birthday cake ice cream and spot shrimp and seafood Cobb salad with Ranch dressing and excellent table service.

Mornings spent watching the sun rise outside with a coffee in hand and a baby asleep in my lap, both of us wrapped in a blanket. Afternoons spent casting fishing lines into the water over and over again without success and crabs caught instead. Evenings spent marooned in front of the TV watching Jurassic Park and Disney films.

And because it was the kind of end to summer where I looked up one day and saw a baby I'd never met before - one who rolled from his back to front before looking to me for praise and approval - and I saw parents who looked older and a dad who just looked more tired ... because it was that kind of end, my heart seemed to escape its place in my chest and shoot through my throat, because it had nowhere else to go.

It hurt.

A lot.

But it was also exciting, and lovely, and bittersweet.

And it was the kind of end I wouldn't forget.

Six Months

Sometimes, I lift you onto my lap to nurse at night - just 20 minutes after I put you down to bed. In the crook of my arm, I feel that damp patch of sweat at the nape of your neck and your hot little head as it nudges forward and back.

I stare at your crazy long lashes still wet with tears, sticking together to form a neat little scalloped pattern.

With my other hand, I read texts on my phone from the other NCT moms - messages exchanged at a furious pace as we all work (seemingly!) in unison to get "you" - that's you, babies - to bed.

Distracted, I don't realize that you've finished feeding, and are now just using me as a human pacifier. I pull you off and gently put you back down in your cot, but you want to hold my hand. I slowly pull it away and replace it with the knotted ends of a soft fleece comforter in the shape of an elephant.

A finger replaced by a trunk.

Downstairs, your father not-so-gently reminds me that my maternity leave is halfway through and I "still" haven't obtained my UK driving licence. I roll my eyes and walk to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water.

But something begins to knot in my chest and it has nothing to do with driving; it's the realization that six months have passed and I can't remember a time when you didn't look like you do now and I want to hold your hand forever and I can't and I want to co-sleep with you always but you'll be in your own room soon.

It's that I still remember the midwives shouting at me to push and the consultant obstetrician shaking her head and me signing a piece of paper in the operating room and whispering that I was allergic to Cyclizine to the anesthesiologist because I was too tired to raise my head and then the pulling and pushing and you weren't breathing.

So, I watch you breathe. Every single night.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

I watch the little fleece elephant on your tummy go up and down.

Up.

Then, down.

You grab my fingers on one hand and pull them towards your chest.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Like you're rowing a boat to Sleepy Town.

And just like that, six months fly by and I've flown by the seat of my pants and every time I look into your laughing eyes, it's like they're telling me to keep up.

I'm trying. (But sometimes, I don't want to. I just want to love you.)

Interior Inspiration: Nursery Decor

I haven't put much thought into decorating or furnishing the "nursery" (I use " " because our baby is still sleeping in our room, as per NHS guidelines). While other parents were busy painting their nurseries in Farrow & Ball's "Borrowed Light" and hammering floating shelves into the walls to display copies of "Where the Wild Things Are", I was too busy fretting about whether my baby would make it to term or not ... so, the nursery remained very much our "laundry" room where we hung clothes to dry (and still do) until a few weeks - and even months - after our baby was born.

Then, we accommodated a chest of drawers that doubled up as a changing table ... and that was it. But slowly, over the past few months, we've added a few things to make it a little more nursery-like, in preparation for the day he finally moves into the room.

Night feed after night feed, I found myself going down the rabbit hole of Instagram accounts - bookmarking Scandi-inspired nursery decor and pastel-coloured cushions sold at eye-watering prices. On one of my early morning scroll-pasts, I stumbled on the beautiful prints from Munks + Me. The whimsical and imaginative (but not too "cutesy") prints caught my eye, and owner Kris kindly sent me three prints to add to our nursery wall (I especially love the rainbow and the lion!).

Another welcome addition to the nursery was this gorgeous "Keur" changing basket from La Basketry, which is available in turquoise and yellow. Handwoven in Senegal by a group of female artisans, the beautiful basket comes with a comfy mattress (which my little boy helpfully had an accident on not too long ago ...!) and is made of two local materials: a local Senegalese grass and recycled plastic strips. It adds real warmth to our nursery and my little one loves wriggling in it while staring at the antique map we bought at a flea market in Bordeaux whenever I change him.

Nookoo is a local business that sells homeware and children's clothes and accessories - I love their products. The mini cloud light sits on our changing table/chest of drawers and is helpful for evening changes, but we'll also use it as a nightlight when the baby moves into his own room.

We also have this Flensted mobile from Nookoo - have you seen these beautiful paper mobiles? We bought one for my niece when she was born. The giraffes are a nod to John's trip to Kenya last year - a place we hope to visit with our baby one day (maybe when he's a bit older!).

And finally, I'm wild about this Great Little Trading Company toy box I bought in their sale a few months ago. I use it to tidy his toys away at the end of the day, but it's so well-made and sturdy - it also looks great.

Although I can't imagine our little one moving into his own room right now, I know the day will come very soon ... the saying, "They grow up so fast!" is cliched, but oh-so-true. Sigh.

Do you have any favorite destinations for nursery decor? Let me know!

Posters courtesy of Munks + Me. Changing basket courtesy of La Basketry. Light and mobile courtesy of Nookoo. All opinions are my own.

6 Things You Can Do For a Nursing Mama

I have been nursing for 5 months now and it's damn hard.

There's a scene in the aptly named "The Letdown" (available on Netflix) that made me laugh/cry: Audrey, a new mom, joins a new-parent-support group and struggles to get her baby to latch on at the first meeting ... various people, including the group leader, chime in with (read: yell)  their unsolicited advice until she explodes, packs up her bag, and walks out of the meeting (while accidentally leaving her baby behind - classic).

That's basically what it's like. It is not like those Botticelli-esque paintings where a cherubic child (or actual cherub, even) gazes adoringly into his mother's eyes while suckling at her breast (I can't believe I just wrote the words "suckling" and "breast" on here - now twice - has this really become that kind of blog?) or even like the mom you see in a coffee shop wearing a linen ring sling who just easily hefts her baby to her boob discreetly and the baby, satisfied, pops right off and gurgles lovely cooing noises.

No.

It's tongue tie and "how's the latch?" and hiccups (I'm talking literal and figurative here) and milk stains and vomit and more. So much more.

Anyway, my friend and I were talking about how frustrating it is to feed a newborn and, more specifically, how frustrating it is when our partners casually walk into the room and go, "Oh, you're feeding. I'll go watch TV" or "Is he feeding? Okay, cool. Bye."

Nah. Not "Cool, bye." More like, "Oh, you're feeding? What can I get you? Water? Cake? A muslin?"

Here are 6 things you can do for a nursing mama - especially in those early days of nursing (cluster feeding, anyone?):

Make her some damn food. She's hungry. I promise you - she's freaking ravenous. A bagel, a slice of pizza (or a whole pizza) - whatever. Just make her some damn food.

Make sure there's some cold and delicious water within easy reach. Hand it to her every time you see her about to feed.

Do the laundry! Yes! Wash the mom's and baby's clothes! Because feeding is exhausting and those are chores that definitely need to be done!

Hand her a muslin. Because burps = puke. Or better yet ...

Offer to take the baby away to be burped once he's fed. My mom did this for me and it was ah-mazing. I melted into a puddle on the sofa or else ate the cold bagel I unsuccessfully tried to eat over the baby's head while I was feeding him.

If the mom is expressing, wash and sterilize any bottles, pump attachments, pacifiers, etc. Self-explanatory, really.

Okay. Rant over. I just had to get that off my chest! (Pun intended.)

(Also: I put that Organic Zoo sweatshirt pictured above on my baby for the first time a few weeks ago and he immediately puked on it.)

Full Circle

I waved off my parents this morning after a two-week visit and my heart is torn.

It was one of the most surreal moments of my life so far: introducing my son to his grandparents; hearing myself refer to them as "Por Por" and "Gung Gung", having only ever associated those names with my mother's parents.

And as I handed him over to be held, he fixed them with a look so certain that it shook me: pure recognition. As if to say, "What took you so long?"

How did he know?

Over the next two weeks, I watched as they doted on him: my dad humming the University of Oregon fight song ("Go Ducks, go!") as he marched him to sleep, my mom coaxing him to smile and gurgle (which he did, and seemingly only at her encouragement - no one else's) - and I felt sad that we would have to say goodbye so soon.

They babysat while I sneaked off for an hour's blissful postnatal massage; watched him as I attended a hospital appointment in Surrey, my mom texting me to say, "He's fine! Take your time! Window shop if you want, get some retail therapy." I bought a soy hot chocolate at Costa in Waterloo station, watching dizzily as commuters rushed past me - remembering that part of my life that's still in there, somewhere.

I took the tube home and asked my dad - an architect - to sketch our house, as a keepsake.

Our first home.

I passed him on the landing in the mornings as I carried the baby down the stairs and glimpsed him working, intently, in his sketchbook.

After he left, I stared at the drawings and took in the pencil strokes until tears threatened to dampen the pages: each blade of grass in the garden, and a faithful rendering of our Audi A3 parked in front.

And so, I've come full circle: mirroring my parents' trajectory of living abroad, starting a family abroad, and waving goodbye - back and forth, back and forth. A 9 or 10-hour journey (depending on the tail wind) back and forth, across the ocean and another country, transversing time, memories, love, continents. Little toes that seem to grow by the day. Smiles that become increasingly forthcoming. Chubby fists that extend overhead; arms outstretched and wanting.

Waiting.

If I thought that being an expat was hard, being an expat with a kid is much, much harder.

Travel Link-Up: How The &*%$ Do I Travel With A Baby?

This month's travel link-up topic is "Travel Challenges" - and it couldn't be more timely. We're heading to a friend's wedding in Antibes later this month and I just ... I mean ... how the &*%$ do I travel with a baby?

"It's the best time to travel!" they say. "All they [babies] do is sleep!" they say. (Mine doesn't - at least, not during the day, which is better than not sleeping at night, I suppose!)

I thought I had enough worries travelling on my own, but now I have things to think about like diapers, bottles, strollers, pacifiers and ... how do I get him to the airport in a cab (answer: we'll book a cab with a car seat). Through security (dreading this in particular)? On the plane (answer: probably in a wearable carrier)? I've been told to nurse him during takeoff and landing to help his little ears adjust to cabin pressure, but I can totally picture myself fumbling and him crying and both of us being a mess together on the plane!

In short ... HELP!

But on a lighter note, I'm looking forward to staying in the very Instagrammable Airbnb John found in Cannes (a pool! Pretty tiles!) and seeing my friend get married in the beautiful French countryside.

And I'm glad the flight to Nice will be short as it'll be "practice" for our longer flights to the US and Hong Kong later this year to see relatives, but I'm having serious anxiety - not to mention the fact that he'll have had his second round of vaccinations a few days before, so will probably be a little ratty on the plane.

If you have kids, or have travelled with kids or small babies before, do you have any tips? As I said before, HELP!

This month's Travel Link-Up is hosted by Emma, Angie, Polly and Binny. Head over to their blogs to read more about their travel challenges!