Sorry Freddie

So H Bomb goes to nursery 1.5, sometimes 2 days a week.

a) he loves it (never plays up!!) often bear hugging his besties Elliot and Thomas first thing in the morning before making a beeline for the cornflakes. They have pet fish and an amazing playground and garden.

b) I am supposed to be returning to work 4 days a week in September so it gives him that 'constant' in his life.

c) it gives Freddie some one-to-one attention.

d) it enables me to get household chores and admin done -eminently difficult with someone perpetually tugging on your leg asking for you to retrieve the 8th Fireman Sam figurine from behind the sofa - oh that's where my now expired spa voucher is... Manicured feet are overrated anyway.

e) look at me justifying sending my baby boy to someone else for a day.. And a half, sometimes 2. Despite knowing it truly is good for him and the above reasons - I am afraid I do get strong pangs of guilt. Oh joy.

So this morning I dropped H off in his room (left Fred flirting with Jade in reception) and he insisted I sat down next to him and his cornflakes (actually today he chose weetabix because they came in individually wrapped packets just like a little prrrresent) and sing 'Incy Wincy Spider' to him (there are actions..). So I obliged and once I was done, went to pour him some milk before leaving. I love that he is too young for - the sight of his mother waving her hands in the air at the table in front of his mates at 8am - to ruin any kudos.. Anyway digress...

I picked up the milk and it was warm, WARM... guilt, oh yes, there you are again. My (big) baby boy gets warm milk on his cereal at nursery. He has never had that at home. I must make good.

We get home and out comes the weetabix. No microwave. Right. Fill the kettle, boil kettle, sit cup of milk in bowl of boiling water, sing 'twinkle twinkle little star' to placate my (little) baby boy, wait for milk to heat, wait for milk to heat, repeat waiting. Pour warmed milk into weetabix, mush it up. It's gone quiet. Turn around to baby fast asleep in high chair. Epic fail. More guilt.

I guess all that flirting must have been exhausting.