Photo by Martin Godwin

It's leap day tomorrow and my girls will be four years old. We'll be celebrating their special birthday on the BBC Breakfast sofa, which should make for a suitably interesting anecdote for them to tell at dinner parties when they're older. They were in The Guardian on Saturday and seem to be taking this unprecedented media attention in their stride, although I did overhear them discussing "the next time we're on television", which may result in some degree of disappointment.

Do tune into BBC Breakfast at 8.20am tomorrow, Wednesday 29 February, and see two four-year-old leaplings on their first ever birthday. Georgie is insistent she's going to wear her brother's jeans for the occasion. I say, we'll see about that.

I'm thinking about having a sex change. It's a big decision, I know, and I understand from the pamphlet I picked up at the doctor's surgery that I can't leap straight into surgery. I have to live as a man for at least a year first. Well that suits me. In fact I plan to start today.

Firstly, I'm going to sit and watch the rugby all day in blissful ignorance of the fact that the breakfast things are still on the table, the washing machine has finished its cycle and the beds aren't made.

Then I'm going to pop into town for a coffee. I'll walk past the pile of letters which need posting, and I won't check the fridge to see if we need milk. In fact, I won't combine my jaunt into town with anything remotely useful, such as collecting that prescription or taking the library books back.

When I get home the post will have arrived. I'll pick it up and shuffle through it, opening the bills and placing them neatly on the kitchen worktop along with their now-redundant envelopes. At some stage, I'm sure, they will mysteriously make their way upstairs to the office to be filed.

While I'm in the kitchen I'll notice that the pan in which I cooked my eggs this morning is still on the hob. I'm conscientious so I move it to the sink. I could clean it, but instead I will leave it to soak. It doesn't need soaking, but by filling it with hot soapy water nobody can accuse me of not doing the washing up.

The children will doubtless have returned from school now and be demanding snacks and television. They will be presenting arguments of such epic proportion that my wife will have her hands full trying to contain them without the use of tear gas. I will decide that now is the time I need to retire to the downstairs loo with a book for a period of at least 40 minutes, occasionally shouting helpful comments such as, 'can't you stop them fighting? I've read the same paragraph three times now.'

Live as a man for a year? Pass me the trousers.

I may be a hundred miles away from my husband this week, but that's no reason not to acknowledge Valentine's Day, so I've lined up a super-saucy prize for any of you who still have the energy for seduction. Frankly my own ardour gave up the ghost a few children ago, so it's all yours. This giveaway is for all you women who woke up this morning hoping for a surprise gift of foxy knickers, and instead got a creased Clinton's card and a bunch of half-dead carnations. Good job it's the thought that counts.

When I was in my early twenties lingerie from Ann Summers was the height of naughty erotica. They've kept all those naughty nurse outfits, but their range also contains a surprising number of stylish little numbers which certainly wouldn't be out of place in a Cotswold Mother's wardrobe. So what would I choose? Well, as I said, nowadays in the bedroom I boast plaid pyjamas and a pair of furry slippers, but if I were to throw caution to the winds and attempt a little seduction, I'd do so in the Gabrielle Cami Suspender set. I don't know who Gabrielle is, but I envy her that look of gay abandon, plus I reckon the outfit would do wonders for my baby-ravaged stomach.

If you fancy winning a Gabrielle Cami Suspender set, worth £55, just leave a comment below to enter. I'll pick a winner at random after midnight on Monday 20 February 2012.

For an extra entry, tweet the following;
'I want to win a Gabrielle Cami with @ann_summers and @MTJAM  http://tinyurl.com/8xrtsez '

Good luck - and happy Valentine's Day.

p.s. I'm being rather unfair on the men here - I'm sure lots of women have woken up this morning to fantastically well thought-out gifts and cards. So if it's the man in your life who has been forgotten, here are Sarah McGiven's thoughts on Valentine's Day shopping ideas for men: the gifts we should have bought our husbands today.

I'm on my own with the children this half-term. The thought of kicking about the house for a week fills me with horror, so when a press trip to a UK holiday resort was dangled before me, I grabbed it with both hands.


I compiled my packing list which, summarised, looked something like this:

• several bottles of wine
• a case of gin-in-a-tin
• DVD player and numerous Disney DVDs
• Calpol 
• Medised
• Some clothes

Day one of flying solo at half-term. Things can only get better, right?

I can't bear Valentine's Day. Not because of the 'oh it's so commercial, why do we have to wait till February 14th to express our love for each other' argument, but because the last time I received a Valentine's card which wasn't from someone who was already shackled to me and therefore has to send me a card, was 1994. And even that was a mistake, according to the post-man, who wrestled it back from my clammy fingers to re-deliver it next door.


However, if you're a fan of all things Valentine, and don't have my odd compulsion to be stalked by anonymous strangers, you'll be wanting to celebrate it. And what better way than by sending these Valentine roses?  Serenata Flowers is an independent online florist offering free standard delivery on a wide range of flowers. So if you'd like to send the Fairytale Love bouquet (it's Valentine's Day, I think they're allowed to be a cheesy) to a loved one, or better still have them send it to you, now's your chance.

Enter simply by sending me a Valentine's card leaving a comment below, making sure you've left an email address or Twitter ID when prompted to do so.

For an additional entry, tweet "I want to win Valentine Flowers with @serenataflowers and @MTJAM http://tinyurl.com/87fl4ps"

The draw will end at midnight on Monday 6th February, after which time I'll pick a winner at random. In order to get your prize out in time for Valentine's Day I'll need to get the winner's details to Serenata pretty quickly, so please check your emails on the 7th as if I haven't heard from you within 24 hours I'll need to re-draw.

Good luck! Oh, and happy Valentine's Day.

My five-year-old son has a best friend. Forged in the very first week of his first term at school, their friendship has remained steadfast over the last few months, despite the ups and downs of classroom life. Towards the end of last year my son was ill for a full week, staying home from school to recover. By lunchtime on the first day he was missing his best friend.

"What do you think R is doing right now?" I asked, trying to jolly him out of his gloom.

He sighed and thought for a while. "Probably just sitting in the corner looking sad," he said sorrowfully. "That's what I'd be doing if I was at school and he wasn't there."

On day three, round about six in the evening, he suddenly and unaccountably burst into tears. "I miss him so much!" he wailed, great wracking sobs causing his little chest to heave. We reached for the telephone and called R, catching him just as he was being put to bed. I withdrew to a tactful distance to listen to J's half of the conversation, which went something like this;

"I miss you R [pause]. I can't come to school tomorrow [pause]. I really miss you too [pause]. I love you."

He put down the phone with a great sigh, but with his tears dried up and his brow unfurrowed.

The next day we ignored all risks of contagion and brought the boys together to play, where they happily slipped into silliness.

I'm awed by the intensity of their relationship at such a young age, and intrigued to watch it develop. I wonder if they'll still be the best of friends in five years' time, or whether they'll have moved onto other friendships. For the time being I'm simply glad my son has found someone whose company he loves, who is kind and gentle and whose parents I like. Long may it last.

Over the last few years I have accumulated quite a cache of drugs. Nothing wildly out of the ordinary, just an array of prescription painkillers with a sprinkling of sleeping tablets thrown in for good measure. Most of the packets were out of date and several were untouched so I thought it wise to get them out of the house before the children found them. Aware that Boots the Chemist will take unwanted drugs I bundled them up into a carrier bag and headed for the High Street.


I spoke to a cashier and explained that I had some drugs to dispose of.

"Are there any controlled drugs in there?" she asked.

And that is where the misunderstanding arose. Perhaps I wasn't listening properly, perhaps I'm simply rather dense, but for whatever reason I thought she meant prescription drugs.

"Oh yes," I confirmed, "lots. In fact almost all of them are."

Her expression changed. "Are they all yours?" she asked, head cocked and one eyebrow raised.

I wondered if this was on a par with airport staff verifying that you've packed your bags yourself, so I nodded firmly. "Absolutely. All mine. Every last one."

"I see," she said, looking me up and down. "Would you just wait here a moment?"

She retreated to the other side of the store to consult with a man in a white coat I took to be the pharmacist. They eyed me with quizzical expressions and whispered furtively to each other, while I waited politely with my carrier bag of drugs.

It was then that I realised I'd made a bit of a mistake. My bag was full of prescription drugs, generously dished out by GPs to anyone presenting with a bit of an ache. Controlled drugs are something else entirely. Controlled drugs are those designated as such under the Misuse of Drugs act. The heroin substitute Methadone, for example.How foolish of me to have misunderstood.  No wonder they were looking at me with interest. I was quite sure I didn't look like a smack-head, but head-to-toe Boden is fitting camouflage for a barbiturates habit.

No big problem, of course. A minor misunderstanding which, whilst demonstrating my lack of intelligence, would be easily rectified. A few strides over to where the pharmacist and cashier were talking, a swift smile and a "gosh how silly of me - of course I meant these are merely prescription drugs. See?"

So of course that's what I did, isn't it?

No.

I ran away.

Even as I write this I'm at a loss to explain what on earth was going through my head, as I legged it down the personal hygiene aisle, sashayed past the nappy section and burst out through the automatic doors, my carrier bag of perfectly legal drugs banging against my legs. I can only tell you that what I felt standing there in the store with my bag of drugs was akin to the way I feel when I spot a police car in my rear-view mirror. Instantly and irrationally guilty.

I have no idea what the pharmacist thought and I am unlikely to find out, as my chances of ever setting foot in Boots again without a heavy disguise are extremely slim.

I sloped home with my heart pounding, in need of a Valium. Fortunately, I had several at hand.


 

Yesterday I opened a satisfyingly fat card from America, quivering in anticipation (me, not the card) of the annual round robin letter from Bill and Jenny, and their exceptionally talented children Ned, Ashley and Brianna. The Spackmans have been writing to us - sorry, I mean to the previous owners of our house - for five years and there's no question about it, they're going from strength to strength. What with Bill's promotion ("it's a shame he's on the road so much, but we sure love that paycheck!") and Jenny's graduation as a Naturopath ("the energy passing through my hands is just awesome" blimey, lucky old Bill...) it's as though nothing can go wrong for them. Granted, poor Ned missed out on his grades last year, but he's made the soccer team this year and certainly seems happy in the obligatory cheesy photo, which shows poor Ashley (or it might be Brianna) with an unfortunate eighties-inspired hairdo she'd do well to move on from. Still, bad hair or not, the Spackman daughters are finding their way in the world ("both girls have the guys running around after them..." really, with that hair? "...and of course come home each weekend to see Mom. We're truly blessed with perfect kids" Vomit).

Tempted though I am to take the Spackman's up on their apparently unqualified offer to "drop in if you're ever in Texas," I'm not sure I could compete with such paragons of perfection. My own round robin newsletter - were I to produce one - would look something like this. Happy New Year.


Dear person I met once and regret exchanging addresses with, 


2011 was a blast. 


The Husband is well, I think. Married for nearly eight years and never a cross word - in fact, we hardly talk to each other at all nowadays. 


J is now five, can you believe it?! He played a shepherd in the school nativity and he was absolutely shit.


The twins will be four next month and are still as badly behaved as ever. G has decided she wants to be a boy and keeps asking me to shave her head. She wears J's clothes and wants to grow a willy by planting a seed in her vagina. I knew I'd regret giving the sex talk so early. E's tantrums have reached epic proportions. The local police have an ASBO in draft form; the neighbours have only got to give the nod, especially since that incident with the cat.


I left work in the summer of 2011 to work from home and take on the childcare full-time. It's been hugely rewarding and really just one long party. At least, that's how I justify the litre of gin I get through each week. Obviously the three months of stress-related cystitis and the temporary alopecia was a challenge, but the doctors say the accompanying amnesia is really a blessing. I live for the holidays, when I get to be with the children every second of every single day. Such fun. Next week I'm being committed to a lunatic asylum for assessment. I'll miss the family but I'm looking forward to the break.


Yours till next year,


Emily

Ah, the end of the school term. Traditionally a time to reflect on one's performance and consider areas for improvement.

So how did I do?

Let's compare my performance at the start of the term, a mere ten or so weeks ago, with the final week of term.




Then: packed lunches made the night before school, containing a variety of home-made delicacies such as pesto pinwheels and scotch eggs, two pieces of fruit and a pot of natural yoghurt, lovingly decanted into a miniature Tupperware and drizzled with honey.

Now: packed lunches hurled into boxes at 8.15 each morning whilst I scream randomly about who's eaten all the fruit, eventually defaulting to hyperactive fromage frais, a packet of crisps and a jam sandwich made with the end slices no-one wants to eat.

Then: a leisurely walk to the bus stop, pausing every now and then to comment on a snail-shell, the view or to greet elderly neighbours.

Now: a frantic race up the hill, bellowing at the children to KEEP MOVING!, inadvertently stepping on said snails and glaring at elderly neighbours who attempt conversation.

Then: clean white polo shirt every day, knife-creases ironed into shirt and trousers and school sweatshirt carefully pressed. Uniform laid out before bed each night, ready for the next day.

Now: shirts in varying shades of grey, nothing ironed and sweatshirt mishapen thanks to a run-in with the hottest setting of the tumble dryer. Uniform balled up and thrown on the floor each night, ready for the next day.

Then: no television until after all homework has been finished, supper has been eaten and children are ready for bed.

Now: CBeebies timed to switch on approximately thirty seconds after arrival home from school.

Have you done any better?
 

A while ago I wrote about Naked Beans Night - the family tradition I started by accident when my children were babies. Recently I was invited to share my tale with the listeners of CBC Radio, Canada's national public broadcaster, as a guest on a programme about the lessons children learn by accident.

I duly ensconced myself in a sound-proofed broom cupboard at BBC Oxford to record the segment, only slightly put off my stride by the BBC van which had reversed into my car just minutes earlier.

All DNTO episodes are available as podcasts on the station website, or as free podcast downloads from iTunes. The Accidental Parenting episode is packed with stories from parents and children, interspersed with a great play list. To hear my segment of the show, press play below.

Naked Beans Night: Emily Carlisle discusses accidental parenting on CBC Radio by EmilyCarlisle

It never ceases to amaze me just how much laundry is created by three small children and a husband with a cleanliness obsession. No sooner have I washed, ironed, folded and put away the Pisa-like pile of clothes, than they're back in the washing basket, taunting me with their newly acquired stains.

Samsung sent me a brand new Eco Bubble to review and naturally I asked if I could have a second one for one of my readers. I know, it's somewhat less sexy than the last product I offered you, but I promise you it'll still press your buttons. The selling point of the Eco Bubble is that it uses 30% of the energy of some other washing machines, and I'm really impressed by the effectiveness of the 'super eco' programme, which washes in cold water. There are tons of different cycles, including a handy 15 minute wash, and the dial selection is intuitive - handy for someone like me who never reads a manual if she can help it.

A family of five produces a lot of washing, and in the past I've been guilty of cramming as much as possible into the machine, just to get through it all. It's a false economy, of course - over-filling the drum just means the clothes won't wash properly and you're liable to damage the washing machine. My new Samsung Eco Bubble has a staggering 12kg capacity and will happily take a double duvet without groaning under the strain.

The 12 kg Samsung Eco Bubble retails at £899 but leave a comment on the blog to be in with a chance of winning one for yourself. Each comment gives you one entry - tweet the following for an additional entry;

"I want to win a 12kg Samsung Eco Bubble washing machine with @MTJAM http://tinyurl.com/ckf6xed #EcoBubbleMTJAM" 

Closing date: Friday 9th December 2011



Terms and conditions:


One winner will be chosen from all comments and tweets left, using a random number generator, after midnight on Friday 9th December 2011. There is no cash alternative. I will contact the winner by Saturday 10th December 2011 to request a delivery address. If I don't receive a reply by Saturday 17th December 2011 I will select a new winner.  The winner must provide a UK delivery address. 

Mother has three children. Two thirds of her children have bad coughs. One child with a cough wakes three times each night, the remaining child with a cough wakes twice as much. The third child has no cough but has eight tantrums between 7am and 7pm - twice as many as the other two children put together. 


How much gin does Mother drink? 

"Do you want to marry me?"

I caught the question, uttered in an accent I couldn't place, as I picked my way through Oxford Street last week. I turned my head but couldn't identify who had spoken - or to whom - and reluctantly I allowed myself to be carried along in the throng of people leaving the Underground.

Who was he asking? And why was it phrased in that way? Not will you marry me? but do you want to? More like a business proposal than a romantic declaration. Had she just broken the news of an unplanned pregnancy, and he was doing the honourable thing? Maybe she needed a visa, and his offer provided a practical solution to her dilemma. Was it the hundredth time of asking? Had she changed her mind more times than the wind? Was he despairing of yet another row? Do you want to marry me, or not?


I could write a dozen stories based on a single overheard conversation, and I love to eavesdrop. Snatches of arguments drifting from an open window, or the tail-end of bar chat. Hairdresser laughter, bus-stop banter, or the window-cleaners' hollered hecklings. All grist for the creative mill. Hearing accents, local expressions, vocal tics and curses adds so much colour, inspires so many ideas my fingers start to twitch, searching out a keyboard, a pen, a pencil.

When I lived in Paris I spent a lot of time alone. I'd go to the cinema and listen to the couple behind me make whispered plans. I'd sit in cafes stirring my espresso and smiling at the women discussing their husbands' sexual prowess. I'd listen to the English girls on their French exchange and the furious waiter slamming his tray down with an ever-varied range of expletives. Colour so rich and varied you could never be bored.

"Do you want to marry me?"

I hope she does. And I hope it's for all the right reasons.

You all know I'm no prude when it comes to adult content. After all, when I realised I'd accidentally left a sex toy in a cupboard I was delivering to the locksmith, you were the first to know. And of course I came straight to you for advice when deciding how on earth I was going to dispose of a broken vibrator.

So I thought it was about time I revisited the topic, with a little something to reward you for reading. I got in touch with Vibrators.co.uk who invited me to choose a product from their vast selection of eye-opening toys. I have to confess that I wasn't entirely sure what most of them did, or even which bit you were supposed to use. But some of them were extremely pretty, so in the end I chose something I'd be happy to have on my mantle piece.

"Having been asked to review a sex toy for a friend, itself a strange enough occurrence, I found my curiosity piqued to the point where I was nodding vigorously and holding out my hands for the discreetly wrapped brown box, eager to discover the treat inside. And what a treat – 8” of waterproof, odour free, candy floss coloured fun! The first ‘ooh la la’ was the packaging – like an oversized iPhone4, the box is satin-smooth and bears a picture of the vibrator, with a lily in the background. Very arty and minimalist.
The toy itself is a beautiful shade of pink and covered in embossed fleur-de-lis, making it certainly the prettiest item of its nature that I have come across (ahem). Its various settings, 6 constant speeds and 3 vibration patterns, make it almost musical although its ‘music’ is discreet and low.

Deciding to give it a thorough reviewing, my husband and I clicked its buttons with almost gay abandon to whizz through the menu of settings, before settling on something that sounded like an asthmatic humming bird. The toy’s shape and fabric make it enjoyable as a stimulator of a number of bodily areas, although the top speed setting on tender parts made me gasp and decide to opt for a gear change.

All in all, this is a toy that will stay at the back of the top shelf of my cupboard, away from the prying eyes of my children. The adults however, will be back for regular visits."

Imagine you had a son who died. I know - you don't want to. Of course you don't. Why would you? But walk in my shoes, just for a moment.

Imagine your son died. Imagine that the days and weeks which followed were marked by rising panic which choked the words in your throat until they escaped as wails, without form or substance.  Imagine that you stayed upright each day only because you knew the days to be easier than the nights. That at night-time grief and guilt joined forces, pulling the steel band around your chest so tight you had to stand to breathe. That sleep rarely came, and that when it did, it was punctuated by such horrific images that waking again was a relief.

Imagine that people were kind, in the main. Imagine they visited, and wrote, and sent flowers. That they said the right things - and the wrong things, in some cases - and they held your hand as you cried great racking sobs of despair. They were kind when you fell apart. They understood.

Imagine then, that you had to stop talking about your son. Because how would they feel, these people, if you were forever talking about a son who died? What could they say? So imagine you fell in with convention, and now instead of flinging yourself to the floor when your child is mentioned, you smile politely and agree it's so sad, but isn't it wonderful how time heals all? And your nails leave perfect crescents in the soft skin of your palms, because over the years you've realised time heals nothing. Time has taught you to hide your grief, to repeat by rote the story of your own personal tragedy, but time has healed nothing.

Imagine his birthday. A day when perhaps it would be acceptable to mourn more openly. When perhaps you could slip off the coat you wear to protect others as much as yourself, and grieve. When you could look at his photo, touch his hair, remember the smell of his head as you held him. A day when you could shut out the world and just grieve.

Imagine that instead of doing that, you bake a cake. You make a birthday cake with five candles. You wrap a present, write a card, host a party and smile fiercely all day. You give your surviving twin the best day he can imagine and you vow that not for a second will he resent the shadow you see so clearly by his side. You make the day about him, and you apologise silently to the other boy. The boy you love just as much as the one blowing out his candles.

Happy birthday, you imagine yourself saying. Happy birthday, boys.

Imagine.

*contains sponsored content*

My son will be five in a couple of weeks. Like thousands of parents up and down the country I'm racking my brains to think of suitable presents for him. Yes - presents, plural. Because it's not just our gift we have to buy, is it? Oh no, we've had calls from the grandparents, from aunts, from Godparents and friends asking for suggestions. So, no sooner have I thought of the perfect present, than I've 'given the idea away' to someone and I'm back to square one.

I was contacted recently by the Le Toy Van who wanted me to look at their range of (funnily enough) wooden toys. It made me chuckle because when I was pregnant - the first time around - I swore to myself I would only ever have tasteful wooden toys in my house. None of that plastic crap for me, I vowed. Five years later and my house looks like the aftermath of a plastic toy factory explosion, multi-coloured synthetics oozing from every crevice. But nevertheless I still default to wooden toys when given the chance, and I particularly loved the selection of Le Toy Van Toys, which look like the sort of toys I had as a child.

On my wish list for the boy's fifth birthday is this wooden castle, which is suitably dramatic to hold his attention whilst being aesthetically pleasing enough for me to have in my sitting room (I know, it's his birthday. But it's my house). At the other end of the price scale, but still on a similar theme, is this castle playmat which is designed to fit the castle, but could easily be used with other models or play equipment. I love it all the more because it's washable - it's the little things which matter nowadays...

Five is a tricky age, I think. The hardest birthday so far, in fact. Too old for baby gifts and toddler toys and desperate to be grown-up, but not yet old enough (in my view) for computer games, DSs and other teenage treats.

What do you buy for a five-year-old? I'd love to hear your suggestions.