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...
Wednesday, 29 September 2010
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.'
Thursday, 2 September 2010
2nd September - Indecent Exposure.
Oh the neighbours must love us.
Not only have their peaceful days been affected by sawing, drilling, banging, swearing and all the rest of it from our lovely band of builders, but they now have to endure indecent exposure of the most graphic nature.
It all stems from a frosted piece of glass that, to put it simply, just ain't frosted enough. If it were in the kitchen, wouldn't be a problem. If it were, in fact, in any other room, other than the bathroom, it would be ok. Even in the bathroom wouldn't be quite so bad, were it not full length and right next to the shower. And overlooking next door's garden.
We had our suspicions as soon as it was fitted. These suspicions were later put to the test, when I asked hubbie to stand in front of the window, while I pegged it down to the garden and peered up. My gasp of horror must have said it all, as I witnessed not only the 'vague outline' of my husband, but every last detail, down to the zipper on his top and the buckle on his belt. Visions of him soaping himself up enthusiastically in a substantially reduced number of garments flashed through my mind, closely followed by the image of our next door neighbours sitting innocently at their patio, sipping their early morning coffees, then looking up and dropping dead of shock on the spot, at what could only be described as a suburban porn show.
As a result, the following day (after having had the most tentative of showers, crouched right inside the bathtub like some sort of rolled up hedgehog, then leaping as swiftly as possible into my dressing gown, all the while eyes fixed to the window for any sign of movement from next door's garden) I had to hasten to B& Q to invest in a pvc blind.
Not quite the look we were going for. But the BFG happily passed the buck, saying it was 'the craziest patterned glass' he could get, ergo I had to sort it. And fast.
I literally cannot tolerate the thought of our extremely nice neighbours witnessing my pasty naked form in the morning. Nope.
However, indecent window that wouldn't be out of place in the red light district of Amsterdam aside; the building is coming on a treat. It's NEARLY there. Oh so nearly! This time next week, hopefully everything should be complete and the builders should have left the premises. Not that I've minded them too much, in a way it's been quite nice to have the company, especially when I walk in to see them all dancing to 'Build Me Up Buttercup' on the radio. There is something exceptionally endearing about four grown men, bopping around like happy little children and singing along to a song that is as crap, and let's face it, girly, as Build Me Up Buttercup.
The bifold doors have finally arrived and been fitted, and look an absolute treat. Though did I mention...they allow the next door neighbours to see directly into our kitchen? I have visions of them first being scared to death by husband cleaning himself in the shower, and then being scared a second time by his dressing gown flapping about with gay abandon as he makes his morning toast and marmalade in the kitchen. Not to mention when he spreads himself out in front of the window with his newspaper, unaware that his gown has fully become dislodged...
Oh god. They are going to be convinced we are perverts and that we built the house deliberately that way! Argh!!
Not only have their peaceful days been affected by sawing, drilling, banging, swearing and all the rest of it from our lovely band of builders, but they now have to endure indecent exposure of the most graphic nature.
It all stems from a frosted piece of glass that, to put it simply, just ain't frosted enough. If it were in the kitchen, wouldn't be a problem. If it were, in fact, in any other room, other than the bathroom, it would be ok. Even in the bathroom wouldn't be quite so bad, were it not full length and right next to the shower. And overlooking next door's garden.
We had our suspicions as soon as it was fitted. These suspicions were later put to the test, when I asked hubbie to stand in front of the window, while I pegged it down to the garden and peered up. My gasp of horror must have said it all, as I witnessed not only the 'vague outline' of my husband, but every last detail, down to the zipper on his top and the buckle on his belt. Visions of him soaping himself up enthusiastically in a substantially reduced number of garments flashed through my mind, closely followed by the image of our next door neighbours sitting innocently at their patio, sipping their early morning coffees, then looking up and dropping dead of shock on the spot, at what could only be described as a suburban porn show.
As a result, the following day (after having had the most tentative of showers, crouched right inside the bathtub like some sort of rolled up hedgehog, then leaping as swiftly as possible into my dressing gown, all the while eyes fixed to the window for any sign of movement from next door's garden) I had to hasten to B& Q to invest in a pvc blind.
Not quite the look we were going for. But the BFG happily passed the buck, saying it was 'the craziest patterned glass' he could get, ergo I had to sort it. And fast.
I literally cannot tolerate the thought of our extremely nice neighbours witnessing my pasty naked form in the morning. Nope.
However, indecent window that wouldn't be out of place in the red light district of Amsterdam aside; the building is coming on a treat. It's NEARLY there. Oh so nearly! This time next week, hopefully everything should be complete and the builders should have left the premises. Not that I've minded them too much, in a way it's been quite nice to have the company, especially when I walk in to see them all dancing to 'Build Me Up Buttercup' on the radio. There is something exceptionally endearing about four grown men, bopping around like happy little children and singing along to a song that is as crap, and let's face it, girly, as Build Me Up Buttercup.
The bifold doors have finally arrived and been fitted, and look an absolute treat. Though did I mention...they allow the next door neighbours to see directly into our kitchen? I have visions of them first being scared to death by husband cleaning himself in the shower, and then being scared a second time by his dressing gown flapping about with gay abandon as he makes his morning toast and marmalade in the kitchen. Not to mention when he spreads himself out in front of the window with his newspaper, unaware that his gown has fully become dislodged...
Oh god. They are going to be convinced we are perverts and that we built the house deliberately that way! Argh!!
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