Natures Purest Pure Love Moses Basket

Natures Purest is probably my favourite shop. I love everything in it. In fact it’s a standing joke with my other half that a trip to York wouldn’t be complete without a visit. Everything in there is truly beautiful, and we have more than a few of their lovely products.

The Pure Love Moses Basket was our first. I fell in love with it when I was only two weeks pregnant, and no matter what else I saw (and believe me I looked) during the pregnancy, nothing else came close.

It looks beautiful, but if I’m honest so do lots of baskets. What makes this one stand out from the crowd is its softness. One touch and I was hooked. If you’re yet to buy one, go out and touch some baskets. I was horrified by how rough most of the fabrics were. Given the problems I’d had with getting child number one to sleep, I was determined that baby number two’s sleeping space would be perfect. And this basket certainly is.

When I got it home I wasn’t disappointed. He slept and slept and slept. From the word go he loved his Moses Basket. Even now it’s a big success, and whilst he will sleep in other places, on us and his his pram, there is nowhere he’ll sleep for longer than the Moses Basket. Let’s face it there is nothing more stressful than sleep deprivation, and no matter what as a new parent it’s something you experience, but there are things you can do to limit it, and this basket is one of them.

Beautiful, comfortable and soft – I would’t swap it for the world. There will be more than a few tears the day he grows out of it, from me as well as him. This is one product I wish we could keep forever.

The Mother In Law

There is something about the giving and taking of advice as a mum that means for some it’s almost impossible to get it right.

There is nothing I love more than sitting with a group of other mums, whose babies or children are at similar stages to mine and swapping ideas. Whether it’s the best way to get them to sleep, or the best way to get them to keep their bedroom tidy, the sharing of tactics is always welcome. It’s advice I’m more than willing to try to out, after all if it’s worked for someone else it might just work for us.

Then there’s my mum. I remember a moment of epiphany just after giving birth to child number one where I realised that after years of thinking my mum’s advice was nonsense, she actually right now had the answers to everything. It’s advice that with child number two I need to draw on less often, but nonetheless when she offers it, more or less I take it. And if it’s unwanted I feel comfortable enough to tell her that actually that snippet just won’t work in our lives. Her advice, taken or not, is welcome.

Last but not least, there’s the mother-in-law. A position that with child number two thirty years from now I’m likely to be in. And really, the poor woman just can never win. My mother in law is a fantastic woman, she adores her family, would do anything for them and is just a really truly lovely woman. But, when she gives me child rearing advice my hackles are up. Immediately. It doesn’t matter how good the advice is, or how well meaning she is when giving it – my brain just hears – you could be doing a better job with my grandchild. You are getting it wrong. Aware of my lack of rationality, I outwardly smile and look as though it’s advice I’ll take on, but inwardly I seethe.

No matter how much I need the advice, my poor mother-in-law just can’t win. What’s more, it seems that I’m not alone, with my mummy friends agreeing. And I can’t help but wonder why. Maybe it’s not as it seems on the surface, maybe it’s not that I’m frustrated with her, but frustrated with myself. I want more than anything to impress her, to show her that I’m doing a good job. The problem is mine, not hers.



There is nothing that takes up more of the conversation between new mums (and indeed dads) than poo.

If you would have told me prior to child number one how obsessed I would become with the subject I would have probably laughed and told you not to be so ridiculous. How much, what colour, which consistency and how often – it’s a subject that never grows old.

And whilst we’re on the subject, the quantity can be truly overwhelming. Maybe over the years the memories have faded, maybe child number one was genuinely less messy, or maybe I have just become inept with age, but I honestly can’t remember this amount of poo the first time round.

Number two could poo for England. He can easily explode five times a day, and boy does he explode; up his back, down his legs, at us from a 50cm radius, you name it – it gets covered. We can easily go through three outfits a day. Now number one may not have slept, but I don’t remember a single poo escaping her nappy. I guess it just goes to show you really can’t have it all…

Ewan The Dream Sheep

How I lived without Ewan with child number one I will never know! In fact I would go so far as to say if you only buy one baby product, then this really should be it!

It was recommended to me by a friend in the very early days with child number two. And it’s been worth every penny. Now, stay with me a second – because I’m well aware that this sounds a little mad having been not so long ago on the end of a very similar description. Ewan is a white sheep with purple hooves, who glows red and can be a washing machine, a heatbeat or classical music player. Bonkers I know, but trust me it works. So much so, that Ewan does not only sleep in the bottom of the Moses Basket, but comes out with us in the bottom of the pram.

The theory is that babies in the womb can see a red like glow and that the glow accompanied by the heartbeat soothes babies as you settle them to sleep. But whatever the reason, it really does work. And let’s face it, in those sleep deprived early weeks anything is well worth a try. I can’t help but wonder whether even number one may have been lulled  to sleep by the ingenuousness, one thing’s for sure, it would certainly have been worth a try.

In fact yo can probably blame said sheep for the fact that I’m sat here writing this review, number one is at school and number two is fast asleep as I sit and listen to Ewan beating away. My only complaint is that on particularly challenging nights, I do occasionally feel like paying a sheep sitter, to sit next to said sheep setting it off after the twenty minute timer has run out.

So if you’re looking for the perfect present for a new parent, look no further. I promise this is one battery run toy they will thank you for ever for.

To Dummy Or Not To Dummy

To dummy or not to dummy? That is the question.

Child number one came around the time I had a delightful eleven year old thumb sucker in my English class. She was a wonderful intelligent girl, but I have to admit the amount of slobber she covered my books with filled me with dread. I declared there and then, that my child would have a dummy. A dummy I reasoned could be thrown away once its usefulness was outgrown, fingers were harder to get rid of.

Ever the discerning child however, number one was not to be persuaded. No matter how many times I put the dummy (or dummies as of course I convinced myself that it was the fault of the dummy not the child) in she spat it out. She wouldn’t even entertain the idea. Germaphobe that she is I needn’t have worried about her sucking her thumb either, it never became an issue. The dummies were relegated to the bin and I didn’t have to resort to chopping off her fingers.

But now of course it’s decision time again. Number two will I know take a dummy – discovered after a 24 hour stint of light therapy when jaundice turned him a peculiar shade of yellow, and is now showing more than a passing interest in his fingers. But somehow my determination of earlier years has faded somewhat and despite the fact that I’ve won the battle against the other half who was adamant we didn’t need a dummy, it seems somewhat a hollow victory.

Do I really want the comfort of mummy to be replaced with a piece of plastic? But then again, do I really want to take the chance of an 11 year old slobbering thumb sucker? I can’t help but feel it’s one of those damned if you do, damned if you don’t situations. Probably like so much else in this motherhood lark, it’s one of those things that doesn’t really have a right answer. Not great, as I like child number one would much rather that shades of grey were in fact black and white.

So I guess for now I’ll hover on the fence. Buy the dummies and keep them on ice, waiting for an emergency. And ultimately child number two will decide, after all either way, whichever mistake I make he will survive.