Hi, I’m Sophie! Where do I begin? In a nutshell, I’m a wife, mother, dog owner and chief bum wiper.

I have  a husband, two beautiful children (who are mostly good but are well versed in the art of sleep deprivation torture) and the world’s naughtiest beagle, Millie (AKA Get Down Millie).

Before excessive tiredness, stretch marks and vaguely smelling of off milk I was a PR girl living THE media dream. Career highlights included the incredibly newsworthy ‘World’s Biggest Cat Nap’ – attended by two tramps and a crazy lady who actually brought her own cat, dressed as Santa, in a pram. It achieved one column inch of coverage in the Hackney Gazette. Boom. I also dressed as a fish finger once too, but enough on that, I don’t want to come across as braggadocios… (One of the few things we have Trump to thank for).

Writing is my real passion and when I’m not knee deep in nappies or sitting through another episode of ‘Andy’s Prehistoric Adventures’, I’m scribbling down ideas and planning my next blog instalment.

I decided to start this blog for two reasons, the first to hopefully add a little bit of humour into the sometimes painful world of parenting (yes kids are a blessing etc, but sometimes it’s just bloody hard work and if you didn’t laugh about it, you’d weep uncontrollably in a corner for 80% of your day). The second reason is purely selfish; I want to be able to catalogue my kids’ little lives , mainly so I don’t forget anything worth blackmailing them with as adolescents.

About the fam…

Mr Lil

My amazing husband, who kindly goes out and earns a crust while I sit at home with my feet up enjoying the ‘Stay at home Mum’ lifestyle. Everyday feels like a holiday.

He works in football, which sounds glamorous in theory but it’s not. In reality, he’s away a lot and doesn’t get paid £250k a week to make up for it. The life of a SWAG (staff’s wives and girlfriends) is fundamentally very different to that of our WAG counterparts. Generally speaking we’re wrinklier, our boobs can simultaneously point south, west and east (but NEVER north) and our Mulberrys have been earned as a result of having our insides ripped out in childbirth.

We’ve been blissfully married for nearly…(*counts on fingers*) eight years and in our time together we’ve lived in pretty much every corner of the UK, travelled the world and produced two gorgeous sprogs…

Little Lil


Jack, four, only tells me I look pretty when I’m wearing makeup and recently asked me if I had another baby in my tummy. I don’t. He spent eight hours in the naughty corner.

His life’s sole mission is to protect his Duplo from Evelyn at all costs. He’s like a four year old, less muscly version of Arnie in Terminator Two. Same grasp of the English language.

Littlest Lil


Evelyn, one, doesn’t sleep. EVER. I’m considering trading her in for a more comatosed version. Likes dogs and rice cakes, or even better a dog eating a rice cake.

She’s got a cracking smile which she uses to lure you into a false sense of security before using her recently sprouted nashers to take a chunk out of your leg, fat roll or bum cheek. We affectionally refer to her as Cow Bag.



The dog. Was our first baby, until we had actually had babies and realised that she was in fact, a dog, and an annoying one at that.

Likes eating her own shit, the baby’s shit, and rolling in other animals’ shit. See a theme?

Hates Peppa Pig (don’t we all?).

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