And here is the undeniable photographic proof.

Custard’s 2nd birthday cake:

Hot cross buns:

Easter Egg nests:

Proud? Oh yeah. Smug? A little. Getting fatter? Yup.

Here is a photo of Custard, Barnaby and Noah overdosing on bad Cadbury’s eggs. None of that crap for Mark and I though; oh no! We have had the lovely organic Green & Black’s eggs. Nothing but the best for mom and pop.

Meanwhile, Ned Noodle got chocolate-flavoured milk. He wasn’t complaining. Note, however, the slightly fearful look in his eyes. Anticipating a surreptitious poke in the eye/pull of the hair/bite of the earlobe, I imagine.

So, photo essay over. I am writing this at only half-capacity, owing to the filthy conjunctivitis which is rendering me quite blind. It would seem that Custard has transferred his dirty nose-mucus to his eyes, which has turned into sticky eye, which has then been passed on to me and Ned. I am particularly loving the fact that my raging bloodshot weeping pink-eye means I have to wear my glasses which, although new and bearing a Prada logo, still shrink my eyes down to about 25% of their actual size and which smear with eyelash oil with every blink. Boys don’t make passes when girls wear glasses, which is ok, as I am married, with four children, and with creeping wrinkles and dropping jowls, but STILL. So my home has become the Flat of Unsightly Infection. And there is nothing stylish about that.

But what is worse than all of this crusty-eye-related-malarky is that somebody this week called me a Human Kebab. Yes. Another mother at Barnaby’s school came up to me with my baby in a sling, double pushchair and Barnaby out front on a scooter, and laughed a bit and said “Every time I see you I think of a Human Kebab.” Oh. Ahem. Not sure what to say, I nodded like a moron and trilled a little trilly laugh. Human Kebab. Again, there is nothing stylish about that. I am totally going to think of something brilliantly mean-yet-entirely-well-put when I see her next. If my eyes ever stop seeping filth, that is.