Peace at last in the kitchen thanks to our lovely FunPod

I first came across the Little Helper FunPod at a friend’s house when my son was still just a bump. I thought then what a good idea it was and now, with a lively toddler running around my feet all day, it seems an even better one. So I was delighted when the lovely Kim, who came up with the idea, agreed to send one over for me to test drive.

Picture this. You are trying to make the dinner. Pots of boiling water are bubbling on the cooker, sharp knives are on the worktops and your little bundle of joy is hanging from your legs wanting to come up and see what all the excitement is about. Well that was me every mealtime – attempting to keep him safe and get the food on the table while feeling guilty the whole time that I was ignoring his attempts for attention.

And then the FunPod arrived.  I hate to sound like a PR machine but this thing is truly fantastic. I love it and so does the little man. The idea is simple. The pod is basically a solid wooden box with four feet at the bottom and a removable foot plate that slots into place and adjusts according to your child’s height.  The moment we finished putting it together I popped him in, pushed him up to the worktop and he stood there next to me, happily messing about with some playdough and watching me as I made his dinner.  The next day, he rushed into the kitchen, saying “FunPod, FunPod” and pushed it across the floor to where he wanted to go.

We have used it every day since. I have him with me stacking plastic cups, stirring bowls with my wooden spoons, or his favourite, transferring handfuls of teabags from the packet into a mug and pretending to make a cup of tea (we drink a lot of tea in our house). It has even become his little den. He sits down at the bottom, playing with a toy or hiding from us, emerging with a big grin and shouting “Peepo”.

It comes in a variety of finishes – white, black, red, buttermilk, maple, natural wood – basically something to suit all decors. Ours is walnut accessorised with Postman Pat stickers. Very fetching.

Here are the downsides. You do need the room in the kitchen. It is a sturdy piece of furniture – it has to be to stop it tipping over. It is fairly heavy although my 22-month-old has no trouble pushing it across the kitchen tiles, and it isn’t cheap. They come in at £112.99 on the Little Helper website (www.littlehelper.co.uk) although you can get it for less elsewhere. It might sound a lot for what is effectively a wooden box but it is well made, safe and it works. Kim and Sean Johnson came up with the idea seven years ago to keep their daughter safe in the kitchen and now their little invention can be found in homes across four continents. There is a reason why some things take off and some don’t, and this thoroughly deserves the success it is enjoying. 

Help with the washing up at last

Young love

I have always found it rather amusing how babies and toddlers can be playing right next to, or even on top of each other but remain completely focused on what they are doing as if no-one else is there.
The little man has always been independent this way, showing no interest in interacting with children his age (he is mildly interested in older children but not much) and keeping them all at arm's length, quite literally. If one comes too near, he will hold out his hand full stretch to ensure they don't come any closer. That is until Lucy came along.
Lucy is two weeks younger and I have been firm friends with her mummy since we met weighing our little babies at the local community centre. It has taken a while for the love to blossom between them, although as the lady in the relationship, Lucy has always taken the lead showing her affection.
It began with her following him around, shouting his name and trying to feed him breadsticks. It was very sweet to watch as she tried to look after him, like a proper little wife. He wasn't keen for the attention but, lured by the promise of food, he tolerated her efforts at domesticity. Lucy has always been a quick learner and clearly she had already clocked that the quickest way to a man is through his stomach.
Then the little man began talking about her, even given her a cute nickname - Lucy-Lou. He would call it out when we were visiting somewhere we had previously been with Lucy and her mummy, and say it as we got close to their house.
So the other day, we took them on their first proper date - to the sealife centre at Weymouth. While they spent most of the time running up and down the small grass hills, and a disappointing amount of time looking at the wildlife we had paid to see, they were simply happy in each other's company. They danced to the music in the cafe, stood side by side to watch the penguins being fed, and the little man didn't even mind the occasional cuddle with his Lucy-Lou.
She just needs to bake him a cupcake or two and he is all hers.

Bonding over penguin feeding time

Dancing together at the cafe

DIY playdough

Wasn't the weather on Sunday horrid? The rain and wind was so strong our green plastic bin was hurled about the garden. I watched its unhappy course with fascination from the safety of our living room, happy to be inside. That said, being shut away does have its downsides, especially with an energetic toddler displaying all the early signs of cabin fever. Books read, puzzles done, Postman Pat watched and I was running out of ideas - so I decided to make some playdough.
The little man loves playdough - so much so that you have to spell out the word rather than say it otherwise he tends to get into an excited stupour before you have all the bits and pieces ready, and you end up getting all the bits and pieces ready with him following you around wingeing and trying to climb up your leg.
I realise I might sound a bit smug telling you I do DIY playdough but smugness didn't come into it - if anything it was sheer laziness.
I had two options that day - brave the elements and bundle a disgruntled almost two-year-old into the car to drive to the shops for some, or google how to make playdough and have a go myself. The latter sounded less wet with fewer tantrums.
And I am so glad I did. It was EASY. Everyone should do it. I found a recipe, bunged all the ingredients in a saucepan over a low heat, stirred for a few minutes and there I had it - an enormous ball of playdough, ready for some serious shape cutting. Far too much in fact. I gave some away the next day to a grateful fellow mum down the road.
The end product of my endeavours was beautifully soft and worked a treat, entertaining the little man for a good chunk of the day. And after he had finished, I popped the playdough into a tupperware box and shoved it in the fridge for next time. Job done.
If you haven't discovered the joys of making playdough yet, here is the recipe I used, and it was brilliant. Happy cooking.

Ingredients: 3 cups flour 1.5 cups salt 6 teaspoons cream of tartar (yes, I did have some in the cupboard - they are well stocked) 3 tablespoons oil 3 cups water Colouring as required Method:
Stir play dough continuously over a low heat until mixture leaves the sides of the pan.

My not-so-dirty secret

I have a confession to make - one that I have kept from close mum friends for months now for fear of being judged. So here it is. Deep breath. I have gone and got myself a cleaner.
I know, big deal, what's all the drama about? The thing is, I know a lot of my fellow mummys, many who work far more hours than me, don't have a cleaner and still manage to fit in going to the office, feeding, clothing and entertaining their offspring while whizzing round with the vacuum cleaner and giving the loo a jolly good clean. And I only have the one to look after. So why couldn't I?
It is a question I repeatedly asked myself when the little man's daddy proposed that, with a happy boost to our income, we might be able to get some extra help around the house. He was keen to point out that this suggestion wasn't motivated by a desperation to do something about our slovenly home (a wise move) but more that he could see I was struggling to keep up with my various job titles - domestic goddess, high-flying journalist, mummy - and why, when we were lucky enough to be able to afford it, would I choose to do otherwise? After finding myself scrubbing the bath at just before midnight, I reluctantly agreed.
But what would my friends think? Would they judge me, thinking I'm spoilt, or worse, lazy? Actually my friends are all lovely and I'm sure such thoughts wouldn't even enter their heads - in fact, they would be happy for me.
The more I thought about it, the more I realised the person I was afraid of disappointing was me. Shouldn't I be able to do it all? If I admitted defeat, what about when more children came along. How would I cope then if I couldn't now?
But then our fantastic cleaner visited and did in two solid hours what it usually took me all week to do, leaving me free to spend quality time with the little man. I confess it felt rather odd at first having a stranger cleaning up after us but I have got used to this over the weeks and any misgivings were quickly forgotten as I basked in the knowledge that one of my things-to-do had been ticked off the list without me lifting a finger.
I do still feel the occasional prick of guilt but I know that, when I return home tonight after a day's writing, I will find a sparkling home that will lift my heart as I step through the door. And tomorrow, when I would have been polishing the silver, I will be playing with my little boy instead.

Please get in the pram - please

The great thing about being part of a close knit community, as I am lucky to have in the small town we live in, is there are always plenty of other mums to give reassurance when you are faced with a new challenge. My latest one is the pram – he no longer wants to go in it and will kick up quite a fuss when he sees any plans of putting him anywhere near it.

While I can understand that, after months of being taken here and there with no say himself, he is asserting his tiny independence but it wears a little thin when, having abandoned the pram, I end up carrying him halfway to the park with the other half spent running around in circles, examining drain covers and almost treading in dog poo (he did tread in dog poo in the end, and so did I when I tried to stop him treading in dog poo).

When I arrived at the park, red-faced and late, I was greeted by a sympathetic welcome from all my lovely mum friends, each one confessing that they had been through exactly the same and offering suggestions on the best way to tackle it. One admitted getting hold of her daughter’s ankles and yanking her down into a sitting position before she knew what had hit her, while another said that she would let her son walk alongside the pram and when he asked to be carried would insist on continuing the journey on four wheels or not at all.

This was all good advice and much-needed but the best thing I took away was the feeling that I was not alone and it was this that gave me comfort as I spent the evening scraping dog poo off our shoes.

The best way to mash bananas - with a harp of course

Oh to be a child again. They get to do whatever they want (within reason) with none of the restrictions of social niceities and good manners that we adults have to put up with. If the little man has a mouth full of food and sees something else he fancies eating, he will simply push out whatever chewed up morsel is inconveniently in there with his tongue, making room for another tasty treat. Genius. Of course, I will put a stop to this at some point - visions of him spitting out food in front of startled dinner guests when he is married and in his thirties is not the future I envision for him.
And they are not afraid to show their feelings - however public. The other day, we were visiting friends in Wells and making our way down the very pretty high street to have a coffee. Unusually one of the pavements has a small trickling brook running along one side and naturally the little man wanted to get in and splash about. I didn't want him to and gently tried to move us past the temptation which resulted in him lying face down on the floor, crying and refusing to get up. Fair enough, I thought - sometimes he can play in the water, at bathtime and when he is smothered head to toe in waterproofs, and now he couldn't so I felt his frustration. Despite the stares from passersby, I admired my son's unbridled freedom of expression.
But the best example comes courtesy of my friend's little man. She is a professional harpist and one day came into the dining room where she stores her precious instrument to find her three year old carefully pushing a whole peeled banana through the strings. She asked him what he was doing, to which he replied: "Mashing bananas mummy". Obvious really.

Scrummy-wummy yums yums anyone?

I just love the feeling of life coming round full circle that you get when you have a child. It's the delight I get watching my little boy playing happily with the toys that I once took such delight in, or seeing my dad balance him on his knee for I'm the King of the Castle as he did 30-odd years ago with me.
Perhaps the most touching is hearing the little man's daddy gently singing songs to his son that he remembers his mum singing to him. When he wipes his hands after a meal, out comes the special rhyme and instead of tears and tantrums (having your hands scrubbed is not every toddler's idea of a good time) it becomes a fun game with smiles and laughter. There is a reason these things get recycled - they work.
And sometimes it is fun to start your own family traditions. We are coming up with some pretty mean dance routines; each of us developing our own special move. And while referring to wind (and I don't mean the meteorological kind) as windy puffs was great fun when I was five, we call them parpy pops in our house.
But using wobble-dobble to refer to dessert, as in 'Anyone for wobble-dobble?' was a touch of sheer genius by my parents that I don't think I can top. Or can I? Who's for scrummy-wummy yums yums?