It is the new theme of D's life at the moment. Bruises. Ah, the heavy price to pay of being able to toddle.
The particularly nasty one is the enormous shiner that he now has gracing his right eyelid, thanks to a head-on collision with the corner of the coffee table the other day. He looks like some sort of wounded little prize fighter and I dread to think what other people are thinking when they see him - I feel like I might as well be wearing a huge flashing sign that says 'yep, I'm one of those BASTARDS who abuses her child' or something similar. I was tempted to fashion him an eye patch in a piratey sort of style, or even just sticking a plaster over it, so people would presume he'd had some sort of surgical procedure instead, but then I realised that was a bit silly. So I endured the disapproving looks. Not for the first time either (lashings of guilt, oh god, am I a shite parent? Argh!!!)
The bruised buttocks were courtesy of him insisting he could walk unassisted in the park yesterday, despite at that present moment toddling down a fairly steep hill - and then falling on to his knees then his bum. It actually was ever so slightly comedic, it really reminded me of the old Flintstone's cartoons, you know, when Fred Flintstone is about to run, and his legs just whirl maniacally round on the spot before he sprints off? It was exactly the same with D. He just needed to shriek out 'yabadabadoo' to complete the image. Oh yeah, and to actually stay on his feet, rather than doing a prat fall into a huge squidgy pile of mud.
And while D suddenly has found all this amazing energy, I seem to have lost all mine totally. Even dragging myself down up the stairs is too much of an effort. Seriously. I didn't actually bother wearing socks yesterday morning, because I couldn't be arsed to go up to the bedroom. So instead, I got really uncomfortable damp feet in my boots when we went out for our morning trudge, and got really painful blisters. See also, not bothering to clean the sink, even though it was actually swimming in grubby little bits of days old mashed potato and horrid little snaggy bits of canned tomato. And also, not bothering to sew up the sleeve on my cardigan, which now gapes open from my wrist right up to my elbow. Yes, I am still wearing it as well. I'm wearing it right now, for the third day in a row. Do you know why? Because I can't be bothered to wear anything else. Oh dear oh dear. It probably smells as well.
Right, I'd better drag myself off the sofa and play with poor old D, who is being most understanding throughout this severe period of maternal inactivity. He might just implode with frustration if I keep it up much longer though...
Friday, 5 November 2010
Friday, 15 October 2010
14th October - Things they just don't warn you about...
Now I knew that baby nappies (or more specifically, the contents of them) were not pleasant things.
I was never under any illusion about that -right from the first tarry poo that we discovered in his little newborn pants (they warn you about that one - and my word, they are right to...it's a shocker. Truly Hammer horror style.) They even give you a little sheet, with lots of photos of what your newborn baby's poop will look like throughout the first few weeks. It's a conversation I never thought I'd have with my husband; peering keenly into Danny's nappy whilst commenting that 'my word, we'd entered the peanut butter stage earlier than anticipated.'
However, they don't tell you about teething poos. I had no idea that teething could affect the contents of his nappy quite so drastically. Put it like this. We use non-disposibles. Normally, I can flick the contents deftly down the toilet and have done with it. Not so with these VILE teething poos. Oh no. I have to get reams and reams of bog roll and scrape the sod off - getting it all under my nails at the same time, whilst trying to balance the nappy precariously on the top of the cistern. And desperately wishing I had a free hand to pinch my nostrils shut, so they weren't exposed to the hideous aromas wafting upwards into them.
Plus he seems to do about twenty a day at the moment. Hence my nails have been cut extremely short.
Which leads me on to compile a list of things they don't tell you about being a mum - right from the word go. Read it and weep.
1) Some babies don't actually need much sleep. Danny, of course, being one of them. The books all gaily promise you 18 hours a day to begin with. Hmm. Try 10, if that. Hence a very tired pair of parents.
2) Some babies don't actually like food. Again, yes, Danny was one of them. Cue pureed brocolli hitting the wall, and mother in floods of tears, banging her fists in despondency over the kitchen sink. Annabel Karmel cheerfully narrates how 'baby will love sweet potatoes, butternut squash and sweetcorn'. One word for you, Karmel. Liar.
3) Some babies don't like wearing clothes. We have the same ritual every day, of Danny squarking and shrieking and writhing around as though we were trying to kill him, simply because we were attempting to get a t shirt over his head. See also - wearing nappies. The amount of time Danny has been wriggling like a maniac, then body slammed with all his might into a poo, splattering it all over the change mat and himself. Ugh.
4) Children's tv programmes are hideous. They don't warn you about this one. Good god they are awful. Seriously, if you want to feel like a character from 'One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest' in one half hour - watch In The Night Garden. Surely designed to make one feel as though their brain is slowly being sucked out through their ears. Narrated by Derek Jacobi no less. Jacobi, you corporate whore.
Danny can't get enough of it though. He bounces so hard in front of In The Night Garden and flaps his arms so frantically that he almost takes off. I wouldn't actually be surprised one day to see him suddenly launch off like a bird and go flying round the room before roosting on top of the bookshelf to watch it from there.
5) Not to mention all the things they don't tell you about pregnancy. Don't even get me started. Health visitors and doctors owe it to us all to tell us these vitally important things, so that gullible morons such as myself are prepared for the onslaught.
Awww...I'm only kidding. He's a little star really...
I was never under any illusion about that -right from the first tarry poo that we discovered in his little newborn pants (they warn you about that one - and my word, they are right to...it's a shocker. Truly Hammer horror style.) They even give you a little sheet, with lots of photos of what your newborn baby's poop will look like throughout the first few weeks. It's a conversation I never thought I'd have with my husband; peering keenly into Danny's nappy whilst commenting that 'my word, we'd entered the peanut butter stage earlier than anticipated.'
However, they don't tell you about teething poos. I had no idea that teething could affect the contents of his nappy quite so drastically. Put it like this. We use non-disposibles. Normally, I can flick the contents deftly down the toilet and have done with it. Not so with these VILE teething poos. Oh no. I have to get reams and reams of bog roll and scrape the sod off - getting it all under my nails at the same time, whilst trying to balance the nappy precariously on the top of the cistern. And desperately wishing I had a free hand to pinch my nostrils shut, so they weren't exposed to the hideous aromas wafting upwards into them.
Plus he seems to do about twenty a day at the moment. Hence my nails have been cut extremely short.
Which leads me on to compile a list of things they don't tell you about being a mum - right from the word go. Read it and weep.
1) Some babies don't actually need much sleep. Danny, of course, being one of them. The books all gaily promise you 18 hours a day to begin with. Hmm. Try 10, if that. Hence a very tired pair of parents.
2) Some babies don't actually like food. Again, yes, Danny was one of them. Cue pureed brocolli hitting the wall, and mother in floods of tears, banging her fists in despondency over the kitchen sink. Annabel Karmel cheerfully narrates how 'baby will love sweet potatoes, butternut squash and sweetcorn'. One word for you, Karmel. Liar.
3) Some babies don't like wearing clothes. We have the same ritual every day, of Danny squarking and shrieking and writhing around as though we were trying to kill him, simply because we were attempting to get a t shirt over his head. See also - wearing nappies. The amount of time Danny has been wriggling like a maniac, then body slammed with all his might into a poo, splattering it all over the change mat and himself. Ugh.
4) Children's tv programmes are hideous. They don't warn you about this one. Good god they are awful. Seriously, if you want to feel like a character from 'One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest' in one half hour - watch In The Night Garden. Surely designed to make one feel as though their brain is slowly being sucked out through their ears. Narrated by Derek Jacobi no less. Jacobi, you corporate whore.
Danny can't get enough of it though. He bounces so hard in front of In The Night Garden and flaps his arms so frantically that he almost takes off. I wouldn't actually be surprised one day to see him suddenly launch off like a bird and go flying round the room before roosting on top of the bookshelf to watch it from there.
5) Not to mention all the things they don't tell you about pregnancy. Don't even get me started. Health visitors and doctors owe it to us all to tell us these vitally important things, so that gullible morons such as myself are prepared for the onslaught.
Awww...I'm only kidding. He's a little star really...
Thursday, 7 October 2010
7th Oct - Mad mad toddling boy.
DB is finally offically a toddler. He has finally twigged that his legs and little eager feet are more than capable of not only suspending him above the floor, but of racing him along it. In the space of a fortnight, he's gone from Mr Tentative, wobbling delicately from foot to foot before tumbling over backwards and connecting his buttocks with the floor with an audible smack, to Mr Cocky-Boots, raring along the floor, his little feet spinning around as fast as Fred Flintstone's in the opening sequence of the cartoon (you know, when he's propelling his car along) - arms splayed out in excitement, cackling with sheer hilarity before colliding with the next inanimate object.
It is extremely funny to watch. Though perhaps not so funny when Mr Cocky Boots gets too over confident, trips over his trouser leg (why are all baby's trousers too long in the leg, before suddenly being far too short? One of life's mysteries.) and wellies his chubby chin into a chair. Or, as was the case yesterday, smacks his forehead into the floor. Or, when colliding with something, chomps down hard on his lip, causing it to bleed. Then, when D's wails reach a fairly deafening crescendo, it ceases to be funny at all. Poor little love. The lessons to be learned in the process of growing up.
But he is enormously good fun at the moment. Watching him trying to speak is just classic. We've got the very excitable 'yeah', complete with vigorous head nodding and waving, when you offer him something he fancies. Eg - 'D, would you like some yoghurt?' Reply - 'YEAH!' and head nodding so frantically that he nearly falls out of his high chair.
We've also got 'Daddy' which is very cute. I asked him today what we needed to take with us to go out on his trike. (the correct answer was HIS JACKET.) The answer given was a very enthusiastic 'daddy'. Aw bless. No sign of 'mummy' though, despite all my best efforts.
And, the two that really get me are 'yum yum' when eating food - bizarrely, even if he doesn't like it, and 'oh dear' when he drops something - he says it in such an old womanish way.
So, in short, life with D is great fun at present. Hard bloody work, yes. Exhausting, yes. (particularly when attempting to work and also attempting to renovate the house). But hugely good fun none the less.
It is extremely funny to watch. Though perhaps not so funny when Mr Cocky Boots gets too over confident, trips over his trouser leg (why are all baby's trousers too long in the leg, before suddenly being far too short? One of life's mysteries.) and wellies his chubby chin into a chair. Or, as was the case yesterday, smacks his forehead into the floor. Or, when colliding with something, chomps down hard on his lip, causing it to bleed. Then, when D's wails reach a fairly deafening crescendo, it ceases to be funny at all. Poor little love. The lessons to be learned in the process of growing up.
But he is enormously good fun at the moment. Watching him trying to speak is just classic. We've got the very excitable 'yeah', complete with vigorous head nodding and waving, when you offer him something he fancies. Eg - 'D, would you like some yoghurt?' Reply - 'YEAH!' and head nodding so frantically that he nearly falls out of his high chair.
We've also got 'Daddy' which is very cute. I asked him today what we needed to take with us to go out on his trike. (the correct answer was HIS JACKET.) The answer given was a very enthusiastic 'daddy'. Aw bless. No sign of 'mummy' though, despite all my best efforts.
And, the two that really get me are 'yum yum' when eating food - bizarrely, even if he doesn't like it, and 'oh dear' when he drops something - he says it in such an old womanish way.
So, in short, life with D is great fun at present. Hard bloody work, yes. Exhausting, yes. (particularly when attempting to work and also attempting to renovate the house). But hugely good fun none the less.
Friday, 1 October 2010
1st October - The 10th Level
There is a little known fact about Hell, as envisaged by Dante in his famous 'Divine Comedy'. What is not widely acknowledged is that, when Dante created his masterpiece, he actually included a further section about the tenth level of Hell, which later got cut by his publishers for being too awful to put into literary form.
The publisher allowed the groteque images of people being chewed for eternity in Satan's big old gob, he permitted people roasting on spits and all the rest of it, he allowed Dante to depict levels for all sorts of sinners, with all sorts of ironic punishments- but he banned Dante from writing about the TENTH LEVEL.
The tenth level is still known to this day as the DIY level of Hell. It is a level reserved for those people foolish enough to invest in properties that require a lot of work. These people are then destined to be trapped forever in an endless cycle of painting, trimming, stripping, tweaking and so on and so on.
I had no knowledge of this obscure level of hell until I moved to this house.
Oh god I am sick of it. The last god knows how many evenings have been spent frantically painting the spare room, in preparation for the arrival of the carpet this afternoon. Mr Carpet Man, who looks a little like an aged and somewhat booze addled Barney Rubble, popped over on Monday of this week, and cheerily informed us that it was best to get the painting done before he showed up armed with a spanking new carpet.
We heartily agreed, and laughingly insisted that it wouldn't be a problem - after all, the walls had already been done, and it was only the skirting boards and the ceiling that needed completing.
Famous. Last. words.
Cue Monday evening. An evening spent with a tin of gloss paint and a dusty room. nobody bloody told us that when it says 'pure brilliant white' on a pot of special gloss paint, actually, what it means is that it is just a slightly misty see-through varnish. I happily slapped it on to the skirting, before twigging that actually, rather than the swan white finish I was hoping for, I was getting just a slightly shinier and milkier shade of plywood.
'Not to worry!' I cheerfully exclaimed. After all, I could just wait for it to dry, then paint over the top with a white base coat, before re-glossing. no problems at all.
Except of course, (as this is the 10th level of hell we are talking about here, complete with all manner of ironic punishments befitting the idiot novice renovater) the sodding matte paint wouldn't sit on the gloss surface and kept rolling off.
At this point, the sensible renovater would have sanded off the gloss and started over.
But in my defence, it was now getting on for 9 o clock and I was more concerned about getting to my waiting glass of wine downstairs. So I simply doggedly kept slapping on more and more paint until eventually it got the hint. Is the skirting board looking a bit...well...shit? Yes. In a word, yes. But I got past caring.
The next evening, we had the second ironic punishment awaiting us. The curse of the never-ending 'trying to get the edges neat'. The ceiling paint went on. 'Not to worry!' I exclaimed again, as I went over the edges a bit. 'I can just touch it up later.'
One touch up later, and I'd managed to reverse the problem, this time spreading wall paint over the ceiling.
'Not to worry!' I still doggedly chanted. 'I'll just have to touch it up again!'
After about five rounds of this, the cheerful demeanour was most definitely slipping, and instead of invisaging a glass of wine downstairs, visions of the whole bottle were swimming before my eyes. In the end, husband and I both unanimously agreed that yes, it looked a bit rubbish, but that we couldn't be arsed to continue with this tomfoolery. Then we retreated downstairs.
Then we had the hilarity of the door frame that just wouldn't stop dripping gloss everywhere. I say hilarity. It wasn't funny though. Not at all. Especially not funny when I knocked the tin over and sent gloss all over the floor. (lucky we opted for carpet, eh!)
It WAS however, quite funny, when other half went to pop the lid on the tin and ended up hitting it at a funny angle, caving the lid in, and submerging his hands into the remaining gloss paint. If you've ever worked with gloss (and I sincerely hope that you've not done anything bad enough in your lives to have to warrent such torture) you will know that it isn't like normal paint. It doesn't wash off. Instead, it sticks clingily to your skin for days afterwards and means that you keep getting glued to things like tea towels and clothing.
I did laugh, I must admit. But then, as further ironic punishment, I managed to slop loads all over my hands as well.
The carpet is due to arrive in two hours. Is the painting finished? Is it hell.
The publisher allowed the groteque images of people being chewed for eternity in Satan's big old gob, he permitted people roasting on spits and all the rest of it, he allowed Dante to depict levels for all sorts of sinners, with all sorts of ironic punishments- but he banned Dante from writing about the TENTH LEVEL.
The tenth level is still known to this day as the DIY level of Hell. It is a level reserved for those people foolish enough to invest in properties that require a lot of work. These people are then destined to be trapped forever in an endless cycle of painting, trimming, stripping, tweaking and so on and so on.
I had no knowledge of this obscure level of hell until I moved to this house.
Oh god I am sick of it. The last god knows how many evenings have been spent frantically painting the spare room, in preparation for the arrival of the carpet this afternoon. Mr Carpet Man, who looks a little like an aged and somewhat booze addled Barney Rubble, popped over on Monday of this week, and cheerily informed us that it was best to get the painting done before he showed up armed with a spanking new carpet.
We heartily agreed, and laughingly insisted that it wouldn't be a problem - after all, the walls had already been done, and it was only the skirting boards and the ceiling that needed completing.
Famous. Last. words.
Cue Monday evening. An evening spent with a tin of gloss paint and a dusty room. nobody bloody told us that when it says 'pure brilliant white' on a pot of special gloss paint, actually, what it means is that it is just a slightly misty see-through varnish. I happily slapped it on to the skirting, before twigging that actually, rather than the swan white finish I was hoping for, I was getting just a slightly shinier and milkier shade of plywood.
'Not to worry!' I cheerfully exclaimed. After all, I could just wait for it to dry, then paint over the top with a white base coat, before re-glossing. no problems at all.
Except of course, (as this is the 10th level of hell we are talking about here, complete with all manner of ironic punishments befitting the idiot novice renovater) the sodding matte paint wouldn't sit on the gloss surface and kept rolling off.
At this point, the sensible renovater would have sanded off the gloss and started over.
But in my defence, it was now getting on for 9 o clock and I was more concerned about getting to my waiting glass of wine downstairs. So I simply doggedly kept slapping on more and more paint until eventually it got the hint. Is the skirting board looking a bit...well...shit? Yes. In a word, yes. But I got past caring.
The next evening, we had the second ironic punishment awaiting us. The curse of the never-ending 'trying to get the edges neat'. The ceiling paint went on. 'Not to worry!' I exclaimed again, as I went over the edges a bit. 'I can just touch it up later.'
One touch up later, and I'd managed to reverse the problem, this time spreading wall paint over the ceiling.
'Not to worry!' I still doggedly chanted. 'I'll just have to touch it up again!'
After about five rounds of this, the cheerful demeanour was most definitely slipping, and instead of invisaging a glass of wine downstairs, visions of the whole bottle were swimming before my eyes. In the end, husband and I both unanimously agreed that yes, it looked a bit rubbish, but that we couldn't be arsed to continue with this tomfoolery. Then we retreated downstairs.
Then we had the hilarity of the door frame that just wouldn't stop dripping gloss everywhere. I say hilarity. It wasn't funny though. Not at all. Especially not funny when I knocked the tin over and sent gloss all over the floor. (lucky we opted for carpet, eh!)
It WAS however, quite funny, when other half went to pop the lid on the tin and ended up hitting it at a funny angle, caving the lid in, and submerging his hands into the remaining gloss paint. If you've ever worked with gloss (and I sincerely hope that you've not done anything bad enough in your lives to have to warrent such torture) you will know that it isn't like normal paint. It doesn't wash off. Instead, it sticks clingily to your skin for days afterwards and means that you keep getting glued to things like tea towels and clothing.
I did laugh, I must admit. But then, as further ironic punishment, I managed to slop loads all over my hands as well.
The carpet is due to arrive in two hours. Is the painting finished? Is it hell.
Wednesday, 29 September 2010
29th Sept - Days spent flying solo...
Now, for those of you already in the know about our affairs, you will be aware that it is most common for the other half to have to jet off to some remote corner of the united kingdom, often at a drop of a hat. Leaving me to keep the home fires burning, as it were.
Ah, I remember those first few days, when the thought of husband being away for even a few minutes sent me into palpitations - throughout his two week paternity leave, when D had just been born, I pretty much panicked the whole time about how the hell I would cope. I panicked about the most bizarre things. What if he did a poo when we were out? What if he did a poo when he wasn't wearing a nappy? (In fact, I think it simply boiled down to 'what if he did a poo' full stop.) A walk down the road used to be a military operation without the husband in those early days, as I worriedly wrapped D in ridiculously large amounts of fleecy clothes to fend off any faint breeze that might waft through the air on our five minute march.
Then of course, I adjusted, as all mothers do. It soon became fairly old hat and I started feeling not a little bit smug at how well I was coping.
Then the other half went away for the night for the first time. Which sent me into new tremors of maddened panic all over again. What if D was ill? What if he wouldn't stop crying? What if he did a poo in the night? (there's a reoccuring theme going on here, isn't there.)
But then that became old hat as well. If D woke up, he was simply cuddled back to the land of nod, or if I was too shattered to bother rocking him all night, he simply came into our bed and kept me company. (I have to admit, I used to like watching him sleep - his one moment of peace before revving up and running mad like a crazed duracell bunny again...)
But then, since moving house, we've had the new challenge. The 'dealing with D alone for long periods of time' challenge, which I can tell you right now, combines beautifully well with the 'D can now pelt along the floor at 100 mph and is intent upon exploring everything he shouldn't' challenge.
These last few days have posed such a challenge. Here is an insight into my day so far:
12:30am - D wakes up. I don't mind too much and stoically think 'well, it happens sometimes.'
2:05am - D wakes up again. I avoid the temptation to simply stuff my ears into my pillow and pretend not to have heard, and go in again to deliver another quick cuddle.
4:50am - D wakes again. The words 'bloody child' can just about be heard whistling through my lips. Again, I trapse in, swearing that if he doesn't at least have a lie in today, there will be trouble.
6:10am - D wakes up, looking fairly perky. I insistently place him back down in his cot, over and over again, until he gets the point, that mummy is not ready to get up yet. Not in a million years. not unless he wants a crazy witch for a mother all day.
6:50am - D decides it really is time to get up now. I thank him for the 25 mins uninterupted nap time, and get him up. D grizzles whilst I remove his pyjamas and body slams himself on to his wet nappy, sending little sprays of wee across his mat. I sigh and wish other half's helpful pair of hands could help me out - especially as I know the washing machine needs emptying, the dishwasher needs emptying and D's breakfast needs making.
7:10am - We head down for breakfast. D kicks off because breakfast is not ready in 0.001 of a second. He literally chases me round the kitchen, clinging to my legs and screeching, while I try to make sure I'm pouring milk on his weetabix and not apple juice like I did the other day. Though I don't think D would mind, he quite likes apple juice.
7:30am - D kicks off again because he's still hungry after his weetabix and his muffin isn't ready yet. In fact, it's not even in the toaster yet. Well off the 0.0001 of a second window that he allows us for preparation time. He throws his spoon across the table in disgust, sending showers of crusty weetabix mixture across it and over the floor. I pretend not to have noticed and get on with the muffin.
7:50am - D's mood is lifted by the consumption of the muffin and he speedily raises his arm, indicating to me that he is now ready for his playtime. I lower him to the floor, where he promptly races over to the steps leading up to the hallway, climbs up them, then pelts down the hallway, shrieking with naughty little giggles and checking behind him to make sure mummy is watching this incredible feat. Indeed I am, especially when he decides to try to get up the stairs. Then decides to put his fingers in his daddy's shredder, which has been left under the stairs. Then tries to crack open a face painting kit that someone bought him for his birthday. Then tries to pull up the carpet in the dining room, which hasn't been laid properly yet. Then cries because he can't.
8:10am - D gets bored of the hallway and screams to be carried down to the kitchen again (he can't do stairs downwards yet!) Once there, he proceeds to scatter his lego over the floor as thoroughly as he can, ensuring that it is tucked right under the table, that pieces are hidden in the cloakroom, and under the chairs; then tugs on my legs and points until I realise that he's telling me that he wants to play with the recipe books. I dutifully get them down, watching with tired eyes as he then proceeds to scatter them as well. Though it is funny to see him pouring over the Delia Smith book (he really likes that one, it's a good choice for any discerning wannabee chef.)
8:15am - D hatches something unspeakable in his nappy and quickly makes sure that it will be even more unspeakable by bouncing up and down on his bum round the floor. I take him upstairs, uncover the damage and try not to gag, whilst D cheerfully tries to get his fingers in it.
8:25am - D is now bored of the kitchen, and even though I am attempting to sort out the shopping list, he is making it quite clear that he is ready to move to the lounge. Again, lots of leg tugging, lots of grunting, lots of pointing, and eventually lots of shrieking, until i give in.
And so it continues. They make for long days - these days of flying solo with D. Of course, I wouldn't have it any other way, and the amount he makes me laugh makes up for all those little moments where I want to sigh, but I must admit, there is something exceedingly nice about the other half walking through the door, D bounding off into his arms and me finally being able to sit down with a squash in front of the tv for 10 mins. Oh, the simple things...
Ah, I remember those first few days, when the thought of husband being away for even a few minutes sent me into palpitations - throughout his two week paternity leave, when D had just been born, I pretty much panicked the whole time about how the hell I would cope. I panicked about the most bizarre things. What if he did a poo when we were out? What if he did a poo when he wasn't wearing a nappy? (In fact, I think it simply boiled down to 'what if he did a poo' full stop.) A walk down the road used to be a military operation without the husband in those early days, as I worriedly wrapped D in ridiculously large amounts of fleecy clothes to fend off any faint breeze that might waft through the air on our five minute march.
Then of course, I adjusted, as all mothers do. It soon became fairly old hat and I started feeling not a little bit smug at how well I was coping.
Then the other half went away for the night for the first time. Which sent me into new tremors of maddened panic all over again. What if D was ill? What if he wouldn't stop crying? What if he did a poo in the night? (there's a reoccuring theme going on here, isn't there.)
But then that became old hat as well. If D woke up, he was simply cuddled back to the land of nod, or if I was too shattered to bother rocking him all night, he simply came into our bed and kept me company. (I have to admit, I used to like watching him sleep - his one moment of peace before revving up and running mad like a crazed duracell bunny again...)
But then, since moving house, we've had the new challenge. The 'dealing with D alone for long periods of time' challenge, which I can tell you right now, combines beautifully well with the 'D can now pelt along the floor at 100 mph and is intent upon exploring everything he shouldn't' challenge.
These last few days have posed such a challenge. Here is an insight into my day so far:
12:30am - D wakes up. I don't mind too much and stoically think 'well, it happens sometimes.'
2:05am - D wakes up again. I avoid the temptation to simply stuff my ears into my pillow and pretend not to have heard, and go in again to deliver another quick cuddle.
4:50am - D wakes again. The words 'bloody child' can just about be heard whistling through my lips. Again, I trapse in, swearing that if he doesn't at least have a lie in today, there will be trouble.
6:10am - D wakes up, looking fairly perky. I insistently place him back down in his cot, over and over again, until he gets the point, that mummy is not ready to get up yet. Not in a million years. not unless he wants a crazy witch for a mother all day.
6:50am - D decides it really is time to get up now. I thank him for the 25 mins uninterupted nap time, and get him up. D grizzles whilst I remove his pyjamas and body slams himself on to his wet nappy, sending little sprays of wee across his mat. I sigh and wish other half's helpful pair of hands could help me out - especially as I know the washing machine needs emptying, the dishwasher needs emptying and D's breakfast needs making.
7:10am - We head down for breakfast. D kicks off because breakfast is not ready in 0.001 of a second. He literally chases me round the kitchen, clinging to my legs and screeching, while I try to make sure I'm pouring milk on his weetabix and not apple juice like I did the other day. Though I don't think D would mind, he quite likes apple juice.
7:30am - D kicks off again because he's still hungry after his weetabix and his muffin isn't ready yet. In fact, it's not even in the toaster yet. Well off the 0.0001 of a second window that he allows us for preparation time. He throws his spoon across the table in disgust, sending showers of crusty weetabix mixture across it and over the floor. I pretend not to have noticed and get on with the muffin.
7:50am - D's mood is lifted by the consumption of the muffin and he speedily raises his arm, indicating to me that he is now ready for his playtime. I lower him to the floor, where he promptly races over to the steps leading up to the hallway, climbs up them, then pelts down the hallway, shrieking with naughty little giggles and checking behind him to make sure mummy is watching this incredible feat. Indeed I am, especially when he decides to try to get up the stairs. Then decides to put his fingers in his daddy's shredder, which has been left under the stairs. Then tries to crack open a face painting kit that someone bought him for his birthday. Then tries to pull up the carpet in the dining room, which hasn't been laid properly yet. Then cries because he can't.
8:10am - D gets bored of the hallway and screams to be carried down to the kitchen again (he can't do stairs downwards yet!) Once there, he proceeds to scatter his lego over the floor as thoroughly as he can, ensuring that it is tucked right under the table, that pieces are hidden in the cloakroom, and under the chairs; then tugs on my legs and points until I realise that he's telling me that he wants to play with the recipe books. I dutifully get them down, watching with tired eyes as he then proceeds to scatter them as well. Though it is funny to see him pouring over the Delia Smith book (he really likes that one, it's a good choice for any discerning wannabee chef.)
8:15am - D hatches something unspeakable in his nappy and quickly makes sure that it will be even more unspeakable by bouncing up and down on his bum round the floor. I take him upstairs, uncover the damage and try not to gag, whilst D cheerfully tries to get his fingers in it.
8:25am - D is now bored of the kitchen, and even though I am attempting to sort out the shopping list, he is making it quite clear that he is ready to move to the lounge. Again, lots of leg tugging, lots of grunting, lots of pointing, and eventually lots of shrieking, until i give in.
And so it continues. They make for long days - these days of flying solo with D. Of course, I wouldn't have it any other way, and the amount he makes me laugh makes up for all those little moments where I want to sigh, but I must admit, there is something exceedingly nice about the other half walking through the door, D bounding off into his arms and me finally being able to sit down with a squash in front of the tv for 10 mins. Oh, the simple things...
Monday, 20 September 2010
20th Sept - Busy busy bees...
When did it become September? Seriously. I'm seriously asking. I'd only just adjusted to it being 2010, and here we are, in September already. And I somehow missed August. I've no idea where that month went. Up in a little puff of dampened, rainy, somewhat disappointing smoke I presume.
More unbelievably, when did D become 1? I know it's the ultimate cliche, but I still can't quite connect the little dark-eyed, screechy red thing in my arms on 17th September 2009, with the blue eyed boy sitting in front of his cake exactly a year later. (though he does still get red and screechy on a fairly regular occasion.)
It was a nice day, actually. To watch D as he delightedly stormed his way through parcels and parcels of presents was great fun. And of course, he was taken through the traditional rite of passage of my husband's family - the obligatory visit to a bird watching Hide. D was actually fairly impressed, and showed his enthusiasm by hitting the window very hard, scaring the birds away and sort of missing the point of it all. We also took him to a swannery, to look at...yes, yes, that's right, there's a theme here, we went to look at more birds. He really likes birds though. He gets most excited when he sees them overhead and goes quite frantic, waving his arms and pointing and ensuring that Mummy has noticed them. (it's quite difficult to feign enthusiasm when you're looking at the 18th pigeon seen that morning, but somehow I muster up the correct smiley face.)
Though today, a few days after, D has come down with an almighty crash. (perhaps its all the sugar from his birthday cake finally vacating his system.) We've had full on screaming fits today, with the one window of cheerfulness being his visit to the local playgroup, where he hared around the toys like a creature possessed, and insisted on playing with the bigger kids, even though this meant perpetual risk of being mowed down by a series of plastic tractors and trikes.
As a result, I feel like a hurricane has hurtled through the house, which incidentally, looks a bit that way as well. The house is a mass of toys and paint pots and general alarming chaos. But, on the house note, we are getting there. The kitchen is pretty much completed, aside from one wall which needs a paint, and of course, the dust needs clearing up (I will do it at some point. I will do it. If I say it enough, it will come true.)
The project at the moment for hubbie and me is chipping away at the thick layer of revolting sticky grey glue that is coating the Victorian tiles in the hallway. Each tile takes on average about 7 or 8 minutes. Doesn't sound like a lot, until you realise that there are about 300 tiles. Bah. I actually made my wrist stop working the other day, through over-vigorous (and rather bad tempered) chiselling. Seriously, it wouldn't move for the best part of a day. (I think husband at this point wished that the same could be said for my mouth muscles, to silence my tirade of bitching and moaning...)
I have come to the regrettable conclusion that I am not a natural DIYer. I don't relish these tasks at all. I feel no joy in their undertaking. Rather, I get rather venomous towards them, and tend to end up swearing a lot, kicking paint trays across the floor, hitting things rather over-energetically with hammers and storming out of various rooms, declaring that I will never 'chisel those bloody tiles / paint another f***ing wall / sand down another stair as long as I live'.
Bet I do though. Sigh.
More unbelievably, when did D become 1? I know it's the ultimate cliche, but I still can't quite connect the little dark-eyed, screechy red thing in my arms on 17th September 2009, with the blue eyed boy sitting in front of his cake exactly a year later. (though he does still get red and screechy on a fairly regular occasion.)
It was a nice day, actually. To watch D as he delightedly stormed his way through parcels and parcels of presents was great fun. And of course, he was taken through the traditional rite of passage of my husband's family - the obligatory visit to a bird watching Hide. D was actually fairly impressed, and showed his enthusiasm by hitting the window very hard, scaring the birds away and sort of missing the point of it all. We also took him to a swannery, to look at...yes, yes, that's right, there's a theme here, we went to look at more birds. He really likes birds though. He gets most excited when he sees them overhead and goes quite frantic, waving his arms and pointing and ensuring that Mummy has noticed them. (it's quite difficult to feign enthusiasm when you're looking at the 18th pigeon seen that morning, but somehow I muster up the correct smiley face.)
Though today, a few days after, D has come down with an almighty crash. (perhaps its all the sugar from his birthday cake finally vacating his system.) We've had full on screaming fits today, with the one window of cheerfulness being his visit to the local playgroup, where he hared around the toys like a creature possessed, and insisted on playing with the bigger kids, even though this meant perpetual risk of being mowed down by a series of plastic tractors and trikes.
As a result, I feel like a hurricane has hurtled through the house, which incidentally, looks a bit that way as well. The house is a mass of toys and paint pots and general alarming chaos. But, on the house note, we are getting there. The kitchen is pretty much completed, aside from one wall which needs a paint, and of course, the dust needs clearing up (I will do it at some point. I will do it. If I say it enough, it will come true.)
The project at the moment for hubbie and me is chipping away at the thick layer of revolting sticky grey glue that is coating the Victorian tiles in the hallway. Each tile takes on average about 7 or 8 minutes. Doesn't sound like a lot, until you realise that there are about 300 tiles. Bah. I actually made my wrist stop working the other day, through over-vigorous (and rather bad tempered) chiselling. Seriously, it wouldn't move for the best part of a day. (I think husband at this point wished that the same could be said for my mouth muscles, to silence my tirade of bitching and moaning...)
I have come to the regrettable conclusion that I am not a natural DIYer. I don't relish these tasks at all. I feel no joy in their undertaking. Rather, I get rather venomous towards them, and tend to end up swearing a lot, kicking paint trays across the floor, hitting things rather over-energetically with hammers and storming out of various rooms, declaring that I will never 'chisel those bloody tiles / paint another f***ing wall / sand down another stair as long as I live'.
Bet I do though. Sigh.
Monday, 6 September 2010
6th September - Kling on off the starboard bow!
I'm not joking. D is being clingier than a piece of clingy cling film clinging to a Kling on. I just don't know what's going on...
He's always been the cuddly sort, you know, the sort of baby who likes to return to mummy for a reassuring pat, before racing off to play again. But Friday, this all changed. Peaceful, cuddly D transformed, Superman style into 'Clinger-Baby'. I literally couldn't move without finding D desperately wrapped round my ankle, clasping on for dear life, gazing at me with desperate, imploring eyes. And that was just when I was getting up to stretch my legs.
Every minute (and that is no word of exageration) I had to deliver a comforting cuddle to poor, anxious little D, otherwise an alarming barrage of frightened squarking would ensue. We would then have to rock back and forth for a bit, until the yowling became gentle little whimpers. Then, woe betide if I attempted to gently place him back on the floor...the screaming and desperate little limbs would start flailing around again, frantically trying to clutch my person once more.
Food, likewise, went right out of the window. Actually, it nearly literally went out of the window at one point, he threw it that far. It just missed, and rolled into the sink instead. It's left a nice little smurgey red mark on the wall behind the tap actually, which is still there, I've not actually managed to disentangle myself from D long enough to clean it up yet.
D has always been a fairly fussy chap with his food, but now, he has gone, as Madness would put it, One Step Beyond. Now, nothing will pass his tightly clamped pursed up lips, unless it is sweet. Fruit makes the grade, as does yoghurt. That is about it. Even the usual favourite, the big, fortifying bowl of pasta, is being spurned vigorously.
This mad behaviour continued right through the weekend, though a trip to the Oceanarium in Bournemouth (with D in the carrier as he didn't want to be parted physically from his parents for even one second) seemed to help a bit. D was momentarily distracted from his anxious seperation terrors by the sight of a few black tipped reef sharks and spotty eels.
And still continues today! Though I did manage to encourage a breadstick into D's mouth, which was a step in the savory direction. I never thought I'd see the day where I was elated to be able to get D to eat a breadstick. It wasn't even a full sized one. It was a mini 'party' sized one. Hmm.
See, these are the things that no one prepares you for when you are a parent. Yeah, you can buy books, endless weighty tomes that tell you stuff like what to do if the offspring chokes, or how to do up a nappy, but they just don't dole out advice for 'what to do when your child won't actually let go of you, and won't eat anything that doesn't taste fruity.'
He's always been the cuddly sort, you know, the sort of baby who likes to return to mummy for a reassuring pat, before racing off to play again. But Friday, this all changed. Peaceful, cuddly D transformed, Superman style into 'Clinger-Baby'. I literally couldn't move without finding D desperately wrapped round my ankle, clasping on for dear life, gazing at me with desperate, imploring eyes. And that was just when I was getting up to stretch my legs.
Every minute (and that is no word of exageration) I had to deliver a comforting cuddle to poor, anxious little D, otherwise an alarming barrage of frightened squarking would ensue. We would then have to rock back and forth for a bit, until the yowling became gentle little whimpers. Then, woe betide if I attempted to gently place him back on the floor...the screaming and desperate little limbs would start flailing around again, frantically trying to clutch my person once more.
Food, likewise, went right out of the window. Actually, it nearly literally went out of the window at one point, he threw it that far. It just missed, and rolled into the sink instead. It's left a nice little smurgey red mark on the wall behind the tap actually, which is still there, I've not actually managed to disentangle myself from D long enough to clean it up yet.
D has always been a fairly fussy chap with his food, but now, he has gone, as Madness would put it, One Step Beyond. Now, nothing will pass his tightly clamped pursed up lips, unless it is sweet. Fruit makes the grade, as does yoghurt. That is about it. Even the usual favourite, the big, fortifying bowl of pasta, is being spurned vigorously.
This mad behaviour continued right through the weekend, though a trip to the Oceanarium in Bournemouth (with D in the carrier as he didn't want to be parted physically from his parents for even one second) seemed to help a bit. D was momentarily distracted from his anxious seperation terrors by the sight of a few black tipped reef sharks and spotty eels.
And still continues today! Though I did manage to encourage a breadstick into D's mouth, which was a step in the savory direction. I never thought I'd see the day where I was elated to be able to get D to eat a breadstick. It wasn't even a full sized one. It was a mini 'party' sized one. Hmm.
See, these are the things that no one prepares you for when you are a parent. Yeah, you can buy books, endless weighty tomes that tell you stuff like what to do if the offspring chokes, or how to do up a nappy, but they just don't dole out advice for 'what to do when your child won't actually let go of you, and won't eat anything that doesn't taste fruity.'
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