Really..?

Where?

Lazy

Right. This has got to stop. Me and Dave are suffering some sort of self harming compulsion where, on a nightly basis we wedge sharp wooden sticks in our eyes, pace frantically up and down the living room and sporadically toss buckets of stone cold water over each other. We then down line after line of espresso in the hope of remaining awake, for no apparent reason, until 1am. We then hit the hay, slip into a exhaustion induced coma, and wake angry, unrefreshed and cantakerous to BB's somnolent wails. Then someone, namely Dave (he knows which side his bread's buttered), gets up with Boo at 6.30am. We then take turns to see-saw in and out of bed and come 12pm, find ourselves still lolling about in dressing gowns, unshowered and moaning about our untidy, stinking house and yet again, nowt's been done.
We're overeating and we're not exercising. We consume tea by the bucket, sweets by the kilo and pizza by the Italy. We stay in all day, hardly ever open our bedroom blinds and have adopted a bohemian approach to what is passable as 'tidy'. We have huge piles of washing scattered artistically/deathtrappily about the stairs and an assortment of science experiments 'cultivating' in our fridge.

Before, we had excuses. A newborn, breastfeeding, sleep deprivation... Now Betty regularly sleeps through from 7pm - 6.30am. In some ways this is incredibly irritating of her as, selfishly, it means she cannot be blamed.

When you look about your home, about your life, about yourself, and you begin to realise that actually, you're in no position to talk down to the guests on Jeremy Kyle, well...Christ on a bike. That is one brutal, chilling, cut-you-to-the-quick reality check which fills you with a harsh and instantly sickening, deep rooted self loathing that not even the most deluded of denialists could appease. Clearly, something has gone very, very wrong.

So, I went to the doctors. At times I am incredibly short tempered, impatient, aggressive even (I know, me!). Maybe a touch of postnatal depression I thought. At the very least, my lethargy could be some sort iron deficiency. Anaemia or whatever.
Turns out I do have a problem. It's medical term is Post Natal Lardyassness. Latin I think. Apparently it's a common new Mummy affliction. Doc prescribed a photo of my current self and a thrice daily violent slap in the face. He said if I don't see an improvement in seven days, come back and he will book me in for surgery to remove my entire bum, so I will be unable to sit on it, and this will most certainly see a permanent end to the problem.

Phew. I mean, good God, how proper embarrassing could that have been? Imagine if the doctor had been like:
"Erm, well actually, you're basically just a  completely bone idle, repugnantly lazy human being..."

Ha...potentially so totally cringeworthy...
Knew there was more to it.

Pummelled

Crunching, snapping, grinding, squeezing, crushing, pulverising pressure was my first ever Christmas pressie from Boo. Then she went and ordered me a back massage. She does love me. I think.

I normally frequent beauty establishments where you are consistently referred to as 'love', prices are handwritten on florescent cardboard stars sellotaped round the edge of mirrors, and throughout your stay there is a scraggy shop cat rubbing its way in and out of your cankles.
My massage was at Saks. It's neurotically tidy, there are an abundance of perfectly coiffed gay stylists and strangers keep asking me how I feel. I always find this Disney-eque interest in my well being terribly unnerving. Such places make me feel inept, oafish and have me constantly checking my back for a 'kick me' sign. How I escape such establishments with any dinner money is a bloody miracle. And everyone smells gorgeous. Which only serves to heighten my insecurity regarding the ammonia based nappy stink which I now most proudly exude.

I went into the dimly lit room and was ask to remove my clothing and climb between the pristine white sheets, as my masseuse left the room. I got down to my undies, then was struck by the uncertainty of how far to go. Naked? Just pants? I stuck with the full undies - better that than to be forever known as "that weirdo we had in once that went completely starkers". Easing myself...you know what, I say easing, there was no ease about it. I'll start again. Scrambling, clunking and wrestling my way onto the flimsy decorating table in front of me, I prayed to God I had no smears of baby poo, unbeknown to me, tucked about my person. Not on white sheets. Please God. After various creakings and an occasional loud snapping, I had positioned myself adequately on the bed just as my masseuse returned.
I got myself as comfortable as I imagined I could ever possibly be while lying face down on the back of a door. The woman asked me to slip my face into the head hole and try to relax my entire body. Sadly, the fact the padding around the face hole spent the entire thirty minute session pushing my eyes to the back of my sockets somewhat undermined this.

So, to the task in hand. A back massage for my postnatally battered, abused, neglected, epidural injected spine.
The imagined mental turmoil of exposing one's rolls of flab, expanses of cellulite and really crap tattoos to a stranger were, once the pressure began, immediately forgotten. What occurred over the next thirty minutes could only be described as a brutal, satanic, heinous and outright criminal attack on my spinal column. Standing outside the room, people would swear we were watching a Scorcese blood bath. RELAXATION?!?

I left aching, burning and smarting with rage. That girl's got a nerve.
As if ripping my lady parts to pieces was not enough for her, my daughter has now also taken away my balance, posture and my previously happily functioning central nervous system in one half hour swoop.

Merry Christmas Mummy.

Messy

Mum's poorly. Don't feel bad; it's her own fault. She's decided to become one of them amcobolicks. 

At first I thought she was just on some marathon baby talk bender. Sprouting babyish gobbeldy-gook for AGES. Turns out she was just on a bender. She thought she was talking sense, and to be fair she spoke more than usual; it was the slurring that gave her away. That and the traffic cone on her head.

I actually quite like her drunk. I feel closer to her. She's more patient, she's less judgemental, she laughs all the time and she can't criticise my dribbling. It improves her singing and she's been sick today way more than I have. And, if Dad's face was anything to go by when he used our loo after her, she's made more of mess of her nappy than I have. Score.

BUT.

The comedown. Dear God. Sneering, abrupt, caustic vitriol for all things happy and pleasant and smiley have spewed forth and made even the fibres of our bath mat bristle coarsely with fear. The wallpaper has begun to peel itself from the walls and the kettle boiled as soon as she touched it. She grunted, huffed and moaned her way through fourteen rounds of toast, and completely lost it when Dad suggested that she might want to lose the dressing gown if she was going to nip to Tesco. Having a nap on the settee this afternoon, then waking only to stand bare foot on my small, hard plastic Dora doll really didn't go down too well. Especially as dislodging it from the sole of her foot took twenty minutes, tweezers and a bucket (cause the leaning forward kept making her heave). Then she started talking about eating the hair off a dog. What a lady.

When it came to handling me, well; half hearted at best. She changed nappies without giving my undercarriage the once over, served up stone cold bottles and, well, I simply refuse to divulge the ill coordinated outfit she petulantly threw together for me. Tantamount to child abuse.

So bring back the amcobolick. Mum on booze is the tonic our house has needed for months. Please God, please, give her a helpful nudge down the road of full blown dependency. She's so much the better a person for it. 

BB xxx

Oh. Dear. Her.

I mean er...him. No me.
Oh dear me. That's it isn't it. Oh whatever.

Take that camera away from me. NOW.

(14 months of teetotalling + being on a diet) x complete and utter alcoholic hen night greed = 

feeling absolutely R-HUFF.

Drinky Poos

First proper night out as a Mummy. Without Dave. And it's a hen do. Oh dear.

I sense slurring, embarrassing photographs and at some point complete abandonment of blood saturated slip ons. 

Getting Ready Ritual
The only bra that doesn't cut into my shoulders is washed. The granny-sucky-inny massive pants are ready. Corn plasters are on, pits have been shaved and hair has been singed, sprayed and split-ended into oblivion. 

I know. Wit and/or woo.

Then. I add the unfamiliar, exotic Mummy aspects of my ensemble.

Stretch mark cream smell is potently a-wafting. Poo has been dug from behind nails. Size 10 XL dress is ironed, last minute cuddle puke had been frustratedly scraped from otherwise perfect barnet and bungee cords have been fastened tightly about my lardy load to pin down postnatal under garment wobble.

Most definitely wit AND a mahoosive, earth shattering woo.

Ta da. Not bad. Not a jot of cellulite. On show.

SITTING UP!

Sitting Up (Unaided)
By Betty Briars.

1) Take a deep breath, then slowly ease your  face away from the floor.

2) Ensure Mother is in catching distance at all times.
She does drift off.

3) Pick a steady focal point for the eye, then concentrate hard on hitting full elevation.

4) Anticipate the tilt...woooah...counter balance, counter balance...

5)...and Mum will provide the necessary correction.
(I am so working that bib)

6) Do NOT, I repeat NOT fall asleep.
This will be detrimental to your impending success.

7) Try not to drop the ball with the dribbling.
Yes, it is alot to think about, but remember there WILL be cameras.

8) Steady...steady....BOOM - the full upright. Unaided.
"I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my improving balance, my hard working bum cheeks, gravity..."

Scoffing

Betty's first 'proper' dinner of actual food that adults eat. Blended up carrot and potato, with a splash of baby milk. Yum. She left some so I spread it on the toast I had for my dinner. Proper tasty. And no chewing. Bonus.

UPDATE: My piles have cleared up. Just one small, stubborn but utterly sumountable bubble remains. In case you were wondering.
Oh. Sorry Boo. You were eating.

5 Month Check

Betty was ON FORM.

She chattered.
She tried to sit up.
She laughed.
She blew raspberries.
She played.
She rolled over.
She broke the scales.

What a show off. She is definitely my daughter.

Amongst my cynicism, my rib ticklingly witty ways and my modesty, I must make one point very clear.
I love my daughter. I love her incredibly. I love her wholly. I love her so much that sometimes I can't breathe a bit. (And I don't mean like when I change her bum and I HAVE to hold my breath a bit)

She makes me tired. She makes me untidy. She makes me look a scruff. She makes me brain bustingly stressed. She makes me even later than I am capable of being all on my very own (i.e. shockingly late).

She makes me write a blog, where I moan and whinge and pretend she's terribly hard work and that it's absolutely awful for me.

She makes me hard and firm and uncompromising, but soft and calm and gentle.
She makes the stuff I do in my life a lot more complicated, but the stuff I want to do so much simpler.
She makes me feel like I'll never be good enough to be her Mum, but that she'd never let anyone else try.
She makes me forget keys/appointments/my own name, but remember every move she makes.
She makes me long for the things I did before her, but reminds me how little any of it meant.
She makes me worry about what we can give her, but then smiles because she's already got it.
She makes me unbelievably, exceedingly, extraordinarily proud.

And she makes me pour my heart out, in writing, to strangers, across the internet.
*slaps self across face*
My God. That girl is GOOD.

Solids

BB's chunky rolls are a source of much mentioned cuteness and unparalleled joy in our house.  The bounding layers of podge that signal her endearing gluttony are the stuff babies should be made of. She's sturdy, she's solid, she can be chucked around a bit without the worry that a part of her will fall off. She makes a formidable door stop. That's my kind of human.
But. Ample, chubby, rosy cheeked six month old - good. Corpulent, obese, lardy two year old - very bad.
So. We could have a battle on our hands.

Against the advice of our well intentioned, do-gooder Health Visitor, we have scandalously begun to wean our daughter now she is five months old. Quite why the go ahead for weaning is in age (six months) and not weight is beyond me. My sumo wrestling, Desperate Dan loving, fifteen stone daughter is crying out for some proper dinner. Not just for the nutritional quality it will provide, but also for the additional learning the handling and exploring of finger food will offer her gorgeously inquisitive mind.
With our minds made up, we spoke at length with The Health Visitor about how to begin the process.
She assured us that if Boo was to be offered a small bowl of mashed up veg, followed by a bottle, she would reject the last of the bottle because she will be full, having eaten the veg. Erm...no.
She ate the lot.

Oh. Okay. She next positively assured us that if Boo was to be offered a bowl of baby rice, followed by a 'hungrier' formula bottle, before bed, she would reject the last of the bottle because she will be full, having eaten the baby rice and having consumed the bulkier whey based 'hungry' milk. Erm...no.
She ate the lot.

The challenge for most parents when beginning to wean their child is encouraging their baby to try new tastes and swallow. Our challenge with Boo is encouraging her to shun new tastes and NOT TO SWALLOW EVERYTHING IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.

"Er, hello?! My mouth is now EMPTY. Concentrate. Tsk."

We need to ensure our daughter savours her food. Appreciates each mouthful. Realises when she's full.
Rationing it is then. A managed allowance. Limited portions. Careful quotas. Measured helpings. Restricted servings...

HANG ON. I don't have to practise what I preach, do I? No. Oh! Phew. Good.

As I was saying...a moderate allocation, controlled shares, modest platefuls...

My Life

You know what? It's alright being me.
I have a good old moan on here, but if I'm honest, these two are doing a decent job of making my life tick over pretty well.


My dinner for example - it is prepared, warmed and tested before arriving spot on the hour, at four well set intervals throughout the day. Yeah, the milk is bland, but after a series of dirty protests (they do take a while to catch on) Mum and Dad have begun to serve up some heartier, more flavoursome grub. Mashed up carrot is not exactly a taste sensation, but we're definitely moving in the right direction. 
When I'm not eating, I'm usually asleep. In a warm, lovingly furnished, engagingly decorated nursery with a cot mattress to die for. Must be orthopaedic. Or at least memory foam. Whatever - it is quite literally the stuff dreams are made of. 


My life of grazing and dozing is regularly interspersed with cuddles, mainly from Mum and Dad, or a selected member from a approved posse of general well wishers. After the initial period of my life when everyone from the window cleaner to Abu Hamza got a piece of me, Mum and Dad have now reined in their nursing eligibility criteria. Thank God - that hook could easily have had my eye. Now my cuddlers are, by and large, sweet smelling, gentle rocking, kind worded family folks who are most easily delighted if I throw an odd smile or bit of chatter their way. I'm not over generous though - you don't want them coming to expect such gestures - I won't be pigeon holed as some performing monkey.  


Mum and Dad have come to pre-empt my grunting indications of impending filth; my nappy now changed promptly and with minimal fuss. Considerably eye-watering mess is dealt with maturely, efficiently and with the impressive speed and respectful discretion which every baby most keenly encourages. Sadly Mum's discretion does not extend to when she plonks down in front of her bloody laptop. We have yet to work on the notion that selling out her daughter for a cheap laugh in not really the done thing. 
I am bathed daily in water rigorously tested to maintain optimum temperature and provide a basis most conducive to active learning through water play. Sometimes I turn it on; throw them a crumb; show willing; dance for the puppet masters. 


Cause, overall, they're alright. They do their best (limited though their abilities may sometimes be). 


Was that okay? Yeah? Good.
£40 we agreed. Cash only.

Lineage

Since the dawning of time, when man populated this earth as early unsophisticated, "ugg" uttering cavemen, adults have been known to occasionally doubt the paternity of a child. On Jeremy Kyle, in a studio populated with guests who have still yet to evolve beyond incomprehensible mutterings and Ugg wearing, paternal claim is constantly in question.

But never, never, not on Jerry Springer, Montel Williams, not even Eastenders, have I ever seen a child's maternal lineage be in doubt.

Me and my daughter are an incredibly rare breed. People stare agog into our pram, astounded that I have the brass neck to stand there, look them in the eye and unflinchingly claim that Boo is my daughter. I can understand their disbelief. She quite blatantly, purposely and hurtfully LOOKS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING LIKE ME. I myself have frequently wondered. In my steadfast pursuit of motherhood, did I manage to convince my hormone addled mind that I was, for a whole nine months, in the family way by... 

Boo at five months

a) Dedicatedly shoving BB up my jumper for the entire gestational period?

b) Routinely consuming all manner of ill-suited, horrifically inappropriate delicacies to achieve maximum weight gain and perpetuate the illusion of the those well publicised cravings?

c) Regularly slamming doors shut on my ankles to suggest the acceptable level of swelling and antenatal water retention?

d) Manically slicing open my own undercarriage for the ultimate physical postnatal validation?

She is undoubtedly Dave's daughter. But mine? Sadly, my genes seem not too have bothered to RSVP the conception invite. Either that or they probably turned up late. Story of my bloody life.

In light of all this, you can imagine my unadulterated joy, complete excitement and sheer elation to discover this.

Me at six months.

Look at those thighs. I've only ever seen such sturdy, roll swathed, generously proportioned quads on one other being. She must be mine. Sorry love.

Band In The Bath

Tonight, my fledging rock chick daughter took her first tentative hits, blows and squeals into the world of musical brilliance and global adulation. Picking up not one but two instruments you've never played before is a bold move for any budding artist, not least when nervously forging your way onto the international stage for the very first time. To do it with a virtually none existent grasp of hand eye co-ordination, would, by most, be considered career suicide. Yet with the poise of a seasoned musician and the legacy of the greats (Slash, Hetfield, Van Halen) ringing in her tiny ears, BB turned on the legendary. After trashing a nearby hotel room, Boo arrived, drained a bottle then head butted her mother (accidentally - that fatal combo of weighty baby head plus scrawny weed neck striking again). Making old school the new cool is the mark of a true rock legend. Make no mistake; this kid was taking on not only the old school, but the old hat. Betty defiantly shunned the racks of electric guitars, drums, saxophones and bass, instead snatching hold of a set of water filled recorders and a floating xylophone. Wandering calmly into the glare of the solitary spotlight, she relished the pressure. She tasted the expectation. She inhaled the anticipation. Then, Boo delivered. She delivered big.

Kicking off with a passionate rendition of the self penned 'Gonna Have My Eye Out', she swaggered from anthem to anthem, her determining performance culminating with the revolutionary 'Whack My Mother's Fingers'.

With the flair, gift and skill of a seminal artist at their prime, BB marched rebelliously into the dusty, relic filled Rock Hall Of Fame and dribbled on, chewed at then tore up the hymn sheet.

Skin

Our family don't do good skin.
Dave is pale. P-HALE. Like, not even white; more blue-white. He's translucent. When he's not blinding people who look directly at his skin, he is glowing a deep purple/red, peeling and moaning angrily that he exposed his albino genes to a singular, far off UV ray. Gangsta.
I am spotty. I have greasy areas which love to cultivate a good deep rooted blackhead or full blown zit. My own worst enemy, I take the greatest pleasure tracking down then subsequently squishing, squeezing and digging at each blemish, to the point that I become so doggedly fixated with pursuing the tiniest squirt of pus that I make the most horrifically red sore mess of my face. Where there was initially maybe the smallest dot of unnoticeable, in-ground muck, I leave a scabbed, scarred, stinging wound. Yum yum.
Both of us also work the sensitive skin vibe; Dave hones a bloody good armpit rash if he uses the wrong deodorant, I nurture cracking big blotches of raw dry skin if I slap on the wrong moisturiser.

Clearly, Boo's up against it. She hasn't been dealt a good hand when it comes to the cut of her pelt. But not wanted to be cramped by her parents ailing skin styles, she has dreamed up a complaint of her very own. Every morning she wakes with cheeks you could strike a match on. She must have a secret stash of sandpaper squirrelled away under her mattress. Either that or a bag of dessicated coconut. No matter how much E45 or Sudacrem I slap on her at bedtime, still each morning I am greeted by her parched, arid, smiling visage.

I have now become obsessed with purchasing a wealth of emollients, jellies, lotions and oils so that should Mr Eczema, Sammy Psoriasis or Dr Dermatitis come a-knocking, (three chaps almost never welcomed with a brew and a Wagon Wheel), we will be armed and slippery.

Eating + This Post = A No No.
Dry heaving?
Alright, apologies - if you’re a new reader.
But if you’ve been here before, well, you’ve only yourself to blame.

Baby Book

This is not a review. Of a product anyway - just of our early parenting incompetencies. Amid the sea of androgyny we purchased pre BB's arrival, we were particularly drawn to a range of Hungry Caterpillar items. I have spent the last week putting together her Baby Book, carefully selecting images which will paint the right picture of the most beautiful early days of her life (i.e. the ones that cleverly mask the confidence shattering, relentlessly exhausting, thanklessly destroying hamster-wheel of incessant wiping on which we unwittingly embarked).

Downton Babby.
Evidence of Boo's ability to appear happy, contented and relaxed. However fleetingly. 

The scan pics in which she paraded about my womb with a convincingly masculine swagger and wittily positioned umbilical cord

Relaxed, rested, carefree (two weeks before due date).
Clearly, all weight gain settled on my Jimmy Hill tribute chin 

Established labour - drugged to the eyeballs and suddenly fascinated with a badge.
That's heroin for you. Alright, alright - diamorphine.  Potato/potarto. An incredibly rare rock 'n' roll moment for me.
Don't ruin it by being all PC

Registering BB's birth.
Look at Dave's debilitatingly sleep deprived glaze.
And my worryingly maniacal grin.
Left in charge of an infant. Criminal.

First official pic. Sold for 1.2 thousand pence (£12) to, well, us.
Wolly cardy thing not covering postnatal paunch as well as I imagined. 

See. It's been a happy, smiley, light hearted, enjoyable few months.

Honest (ish). 

Valentine's Day

‎4 month old baby + Feb 14th = a murmured, sleepy 6.30am "Appy, Valentine's Day love" before Dave scuttled out to work.
Walking to Betty's room, greeted by a suspicious smell, I discovered that my daughter, sensing the sentiment of the day, had felt the need to provide me with a gift. Having never actually pooed the bed before, I suppose I should have been touched. Carefully peeling away her soiled pyjamas, she smiled adoringly up at me, as her eyes proudly whispered: "You're welcome Mum".

A morning of tenderly renegotiating the car insurance was followed by a sultry afternoon of Barry White, sterilising bottles, descaling the kettling and wiping pubes from the toilet bowl.
Our romantic evening meal consisted of a 'whoops' reduced pizza and a £1.69 box of salad on our knee in front of Emmerdale.

Dessert
One, lone, out of date Quality Street, found at the back of the cutlery drawer.

I wouldn't say romance is dead. It just chooses to hide nervously from our poo smeared, puked on, dribble sodden abode. And it is BLOODY good at hiding.
Understandably.

Baldy Babe

Is sticking a wig on a baby bad?

Twenty One weeks tomorrow, and still pretty much hairless. That might not bother some parents. But for a lustrously locked broad such as myself, it is a big issue. 

Show me the tresses

There's no point pretending. Betty was supposed to be a boy. I just knew it. On this very blog while pregnant, I talked of all things blue and dinosaur and car. I am the sort of woman who is mother to a boy. Whether it is the fact that I like football, or because I actively cultivate my own chest hair, I dunno. But I'm definately a boy's mum.  

The shock when my daughter's genitalia met my eye across a blood splattered delivery suite made me question my post epidural vision for hours, nay, days afterwards. I would gaze, agog, at her bits and pieces, rub my eyes (as if in a Disney film), and open them expecting a more protruding appendage to have spouted. Nope. Still girl stuff.

After much nappy changing, bathing and general nakedness, I have since accepted her oestrogen sponsored ways. Part of my excitement in realising my daughter to be, well (as nearly all daughters are) a girl, was the thought of doing a little girl's hair. Infinitely better than doing a little lad's hair. Having never been the girlyist, pinkest, most glittery and twizzly of madams myself, my hair has always been a shining beacon of my femininity amid my rugby playing, brick laying, cow wrestling ways.

So where is it? I appear to have been somewhat short changed in the follicle department. At almost five months, I am by now most certainly owed one full head of hair. I don't know who is culpable, but either my daughter, the NHS or God need to start stumping up. I'm a reasonable woman. I'll settle for a few tufts I can get a bobble in while the rest comes through. 

I have my eye on a whole suite of clips, bobbles, flowers and scrunchies which peer mockingly into the pram from the window of Claire's Accessories. And before you say it, yes, yes, I have bought her some of those flowery Alice band things that little girl's currently seem to exit the womb wearing. And she looks all daft and poncy like she should be sat in a plant pot in an Anne Geddes calendar. And anyway the decoration only serves to accentuate the lack of hair it is allegedly decorating.

Dave's got loads of hair. It's grey, but it's hair. My hair has always been really thick - I mean like each strand is the thickness of washing line, and there's tons of it. Brilliant on your head. Rubbish on your legs. Two years ago I started plaiting my pits. Just whack 'em in buns ender my arms. Easier. 

Genetically, she should be a shoe-in for a buoyant barnet. So where is it? Hm?  If I am forced to wait much longer, I have to start wearing all these glittery, bejewelled clips in my own hair, and then no one will sit next to me on the bus because they will understandably assume I am either having a mid-life crisis, or I am just out and out mental.

Don't make me do it.

Strangers

Hey. Now just hang on a minute.
What's with all this whinge talk? I am no weed. 
 A big strapping lass such as myself does not need a babbling mother perpetuating the acuity that I am in anyway mard. Look, this crying I do; it is the sole, singular, solitary means I have of expressing my displeasure. If I had other options; a polite word in Mum's lughole, a sensible discussion with Dad or a blazing row with the pair of them, trust me, there'd be no tears. I'm pretty short on communicative options but for switching on the old waterworks. I'm four months old for God's sake, yet Mum and Dad still don't seem to get it. Crying = discontent. Irritation. Unhappiness. Annoyance. Things the pair of them are keen to supply in abundance. 


"Even family can't pick her up without tears" - er hello? I've GOT a family - a Mum and a Dad - they can hold me as much as they like - cuddle away guys. Grab on tight. You like that? Huh? Good. Stop farming me out then. All this "Grandad loves you" and "Nanna just wants a cuddle" garbage is wearing thin. I'm sure they do love me. Understandable. But they can show that in many ways, buying me stuff, feeding me, buying me stuff. I don't actually have to show them any physical affection. Not yet anyway. 


I have no burning desire to make all parties feel awkward, uncomfortable and embarrassed. But Mum and Dad clearly have their hearts set on it. Stop 'giving me to people'. Stop letting them 'have a hold'.. The more I cry, the more 'family' members they inflict on me. Yes I am sensitive; an intelligent, higher class of baby. And I'm incredibly cute; I have heard. Just the odd once or twice...alright, alright, I get it alot. Compliment all you like, but I will NOT be sweet talked into the arms of any a random stranger just to pacify my proud, overly excited parents. But DO compliment all you like. 


Anyway, my clingy behaviour is typical of seven month old. Yeah - I'm four and a half months. That's right - bright. Like, cutting edge gifted me. They should be made up. Carry on moaning about me like this and I'll give them something to cry about. So, to cry through the night or be sick on Mum's best top....?


Oh...you don't mind the crying at strangers now? No? 
Thought not.


Just watch it you two.  

Downton Babby

101 Uses for a Muslin Cloth: Use 79
Downton Babby

Dream

I found myself in a clinic, her royal chubbiness perched on my lap. Someone came out and shouted across the waiting room
"Big baby to Room 3 please," before pointing directly at us, and gesturing that we follow, "Yeah, you." Who says the NHS is impersonal, eh? Anyway, without concern or objection to the way in which I allowed my own subconscious mind to speak to us, I shuffled after my imagined abuser.
A woman (not slim herself I might add) sat behind a desk and told me Boo was a little overweight. She then plucked my baby from my arms and laid her on an examination bed.
"Nothing to worry about" she said, coolly affixing 12 small plastic medical tubes across her tiny torso. "All you'll need to do is inject the prescribed fluid into each of the tubes daily at exactly 12pm. Then come back and see us in three weeks, and she'll probably be fine." Probably?

Without travelling, I next understood myself to be walking down the corridor of a primary school, still carrying BB, albeit now incredibly wary of catching one of the finger-like tubes bunched up under her T-shirt. The bell rang and hoards of feral, brutish kids charged violently from classroom doors all around, as I desperately attempted to shield Boo from any impact by raising her aloft above their eight and nine year old heads. On returning her to my arms, I saw she had lost her pants in the scuffle. Great.
Looking at my watch, I noticed : 11:58pm. The injections.
Increasing pace, I scuttled out onto the playground, as a dinnerlady shouted over to me "Too cold for a baby with no pants on out 'ere love."
Oh yeah. No pants. Right. Can't give her these injections outside then.

My mind racing, I peered through the glass panels of classroom doors searching for an empty, quiet, warm space in which my squeamish hand could administer Boo's medication. All full, and if the signs plastered all over the doors were to be believed, these children were taking exams. Except for the room in which Michael Barrymore was crying while arranging some flowers. No, I don't get it either. Though flower arranging can, I hear, be incredibly frustrating.
Giving up on the junior building, I decided to try the infants. Approaching the external door, I noted that in what must have been a two minute search of the classrooms, three foot of snow had fallen, so I had to trudge in sling back heels (I don't make it easy for myself) with a pantsless baby, across to the infant building. Arriving at the infants, I spotted a wall clock. 12:01pm. My God.

I hurtled about the building, searching for a warm, quiet room in which I could concentrate. Stumbling upon a classroom with a ready made up bed available (about time for some bloody luck) and not a single distraction in sight, I shot in. Pulling a chair up to the bed, I looked into my arms...where was she? What had I done with her?

Oh my God, my God. What's happened? I must've put her down. Please God, don't let me have left her in the snow. Or worse, with Barrymore. Oh Jesus. Heaven forbid.
Snatching a phone from it's holder on the wall, I began to dial the number for the junior building. A cleaner suddenly ran over to me and wrestled the receiver from my fumbling fingers.
"Phonin' the junior's are yer...?" she spat at me with a pantomime, wicked witch drawl. "'Cause you've gone and lost yer baby? Just can't be trusted can yer? Eh? God know's why they let YOU 'ave a baby. Look at yer, running round panicking in sling-back shoes. Silly, silly girl...."
Desperately upset to discover that a) I had lost my daughter and b) I have clearly got some deep seated insecurities, I seized the phone from the green faced cleaner and got through to the juniors.
"She's here yes, but....we've had to call an ambulance.You left her. And she needed you. The doctor said something about injections? She's...she's...very, very poorly. "

AWAKE

I sat bolt upright in bed. Daylight. Voices down stairs. Thundering down in, at most, three seconds, I swung open the lounge door and breathlessly snatched BB from Dave
"The blinds are open!" he shrieked exasperatedly.
I stood in our bay window, broad daylight, cradling my smiling little girl, naked, apart from a pair of wash day grey knickers. Postman was delighted; Dave, not so much.

Sleep. Restful, innit?

Raspberries

Boo can make a trump noise. And not just with her bum. Proper tongue trump raspberries. Nearly. Sort of.

So proud!

Pavements

We live on a small, typically suburban, cul-de-saccy type estate. So evidently, do 64723 cars, vans, lorries and skips. On making the five minute journey from the A of our house to the B of my Nan's, this is what I am greeted with.

Tons of cars. Parked rubbishly.

All while pushing a pram. Now, I want to be realistic. I've done it; we've all done it. You pull up outside a friend's house, you mount the kerb, and in you trot. Not a second thought. Kinda like this.

No need.

How the hell do I get my pram through there? The answer is, you don't. I drop the pram down into the gutter, shuffle up the side of the vehicle, all the while fighting the insatiable urge to drag my key up the side of the paintwork as I pass. Just me?
Last week, on my usual stroll to my Nan's, I was struck by an incredible, unfamiliar, disconcertingly pleasant and wholy exotic sight. Up ahead, a generous section of pavement adorned by not one vehicle. Ever the cynic, I dubiously sidled up to the point at which the pavement would become M-I-N-E. No ban-nay-nay. Turns out the only places people aren't parking on the pavement, is where the pavement is actually being dug up.
(There was going to be a photo here but the lad doing the labouring looked like he was going to kick my head in.)
Anyway, again. I understand. If idiots like me keep leaving three ton balls of metal on the same few sand supported flag stones, then essential repairs are going to rear their head on a fairly regular basis. But when the repairs team roll into town, don't they have a responsibility to create an alternative footpath/diverted route thingy into the edge of the road? Well these cowboys haven't. So, I drop the pram down into the gutter, and shuffle up the side of the roadworks, all the while fighting the insatiable urge to kick all the traffic cones over and sink my footprint into the newly wet cement. Now, that definitely isn't just me.

Okay, okay. It's a small estate, not the M6. Walking along in the gutter is hardly a treacherous, risky, bum clenching concern. At 2pm. But, at 5.30pm, a range of other Super Mario Land type obstacles also swing into play to spice things up a bit.

1. Darkness
2. High volume of traffic
3. Tired, crying, 'I want my bed' baby
4. Most recently, thick snow and ice. 

Suddenly, that quiet, unassuming, late afternoon stroll to visit my Nan becomes an perilous Indiana Jones style return voyage to bravely skirt passed every Vauxhall, Renault, Nissan, Transit, Eddie Stobart and giant rolling ball of stone the pavement throws at us. Under the cover of darkness, I drop the pram down into the gutter, and shuffle, slip, slide and slither our way up the side of the icy path, all the while fighting the insatiable urge to, right there and then, drop down to my knees, kerbside, and pen a stern, frank and downright objectional letter of grumble to the council.

What am I on about? I must be getting old. Or all this maternity leave is going to my head. I'll do what I've always done in this situation. I'll vent my pavement rage by swearing at the time, then moaning about it to anyone who'll listen to me over the next few days, then deposit a large chip on my shoulder about parking which I will nurse for the rest of my life.
Power to the people.

Whinge

She is bloody gorgeous. Twenty weeks ago she was just hard work. A noisy, a sleep stealing, all round "God I'll never get used to this" pain in the bum. Now she is an absolutely, slap you in the face, poke you in the eye, patent, irrefutable, undeniable, incontestable ball of chubby, dazzlingly edible wonderfulness.
With US.

Without us? Without us she is a whingy, whiny, wailing, wimpy weed. A gorgeous weed, but a weed no less. And we DON'T DO WEEDS.
Betty cries at everyone. Her Nans, Grandads, Aunties, Uncle...she wants to be held by, precisely, none of them. The only other human qualified to hold her is her tiny, ten year old cousin Lucy, who big boned Betty has clearly decided could be wiped out with a swift nudge anyway, so isn't on her 'active threat to my dinner' list.

These tears are not the "bless her eyes", "what a shame", "oh gosh I've upset her" sobs of sorrow you might be imagining. Remember, I like her now. They are the bawling, screaming, red faced roars of a lady who isn't getting her own road. You might think we would find this crying for Mum or Dad flattering. We don't. It's weedy and needy and not what we want her to be like. Also, having to explain her vehement dislike of 'other' humans to every one of our saddened, dejected, crestfallen family and friends is not in the least bit embarrassing or awkward. Nor does it get old. Much.
So, in the light of our daughter being, so, well, childish, babyish even, in her unfounded hatred of every last adult within a seven mile radius, we decided something drastic must be done. Especially for the ones who BUY HER STUFF.

We decided that Boo must face the fear. She is now being thrust into the arms of every passing full grown creature we can lay our fraught, anxious fingers on.  Hence Nanna babysitting last Saturday, spending today in the company of her Nannie and Auntie Christy and visiting her Nan on Thursday. This will then be followed up by BB gradually being babysat more often, and spending more time with a range of extended family, etc. So, if you happen to see her strapped to the back of a local stray dog, do not be alarmed; it is all for her own good.
The gorgeous wimp.

Our Date

Mum babysat.
On Saturday we managed to prise ourselves away from our chubby little smiler for the first time in almost twenty weeks. Sadly, due to the severe frost, inch of snow and drizzly February mank, there was no way my expertly coiffed barnet would be embarking on the previously discussed romantic stroll. And despite the free exfoliation, there's nothing romantic about a scratched, bleeding, hailstone indented face anyway.
So, what to do. We didn't want too drive far. The fact my mother, wearing giant slippers, fell up the stairs, Betty in arms, as we left for the afternoon more than put paid to a) a jaunt of any distance, and b) any sense of calm or relaxation we might otherwise have experienced that afternoon. After the subsequent x-rays, MRI's and ECG's necessary to facilitate our exodus from our property, we anxiously departed.

No longer breastfeeding, I decided I should celebrate my return to the world of wine, spirits and liquors with an afternoon of excessive ethanol consumption. A mini pub crawl, with Dave as chauffeur. Go out, mid Saturday afternoon and get ratted. Sozzled. Blotto. Legless. Blind drunk. Live fast, die young. Amy Winehouse. Pete Doherty. Hardcore. Never know, might even crack open the crystal meths, all being well.
Hitting the first of our intended programme of low-down, ill to do, hard boozing joints, we decided to eat. The Wheatsheaf - is this where John Belushi died? Practically empty, we had our pick of the beautifully polished tables with fresh flowers in the centre. God, just imagine what this place'll look like in a few hours time when the scrappers come bounding in. It'll be a wreck. Heaving. Won't recognise the place.
To drink? Me. Oh, gimme a Jim Beam - straight. Neat. On the rocks. No twist.
With Ronnie Hilton's 'A Windmill In Old Amsterdam' pulsing quietly from the tiny dining room speakers, my fashionably nonchalant edge prevailed, as I sat with one foot up on the chair and a guitar plectrum hanging out of my mouth. I scanned the menu for the edgiest, hardest, most rock and roll fare. Talk of fresh veg, home cooked gravies and hand made cakes didn't strike the fear or reflect the brutal level of cool I was hoping my cuisine selection might suggest. Then. O. M. G. Guess what I spotted?

High - Tea! Clotted cream scones, accompanied by a pot of tea and two plates of mini triangular sandwiches, scattered with cress, cucumber and sheer class. And served on one of those three tier sandwich stand thingys! No way!!

See - proper cake stand! Singer sowing machine to my right.
Closest we got to a needle.

No listen though, right. We did rock out a bit, cause we both ordered a big bowl of chunky chips, to man up the butties, and we put red sauce on them. And I licked the clotted cream bowl clean - that raised a few eyebrows I can tell you. There was a proper ooh ahh when I put a chip on my salmon sandwich an all!!

After eating three Warby's loaves and more cress that you'll find in a primary school science experiment, we were too full to keep on keeping on with our pub crawl. I mean, God, if we'd have wanted to, bloody hell we could've drunk all four of the other customers UNDER THE TABLE. No bother. But no one likes a show off. What have we got to prove? So we had another pot of tea; I went for Twinning's Camomile, Honey and Vanilla to ease my indigestion. Terrible stuff if you can't shift it.
Liver failure is so over rated anyway.

Rolling with The Big Boys

Milestone!
I can roll over! From my back, to my front, and then onto my back again. For those of you who are still attempting to master this manoeuvre, while fighting the uphill struggle against your weedy, sore, strained little biceps, I can assure you it is definitely worth putting in the man hours. However, a word of warning: the front to the back roll is a bold one. A motion only to be attempted by the expert 'back -to-fronter'. A novice could quite literally poo their pants and wish never to attempt any form of rolling again if they were to unknowingly stumble over to this white knuckle side of rolling. 
Strictly thrill seekers only. For those who live on the edge - because, when you start to roll,  you can't see where you're going. 
I know. Mental. 

Alright, alright, I know, for the walkers and talkers amongst you reading this, the roll over is not the most earth shattering of physical undertakings. And I know you are an educated enough bunch not to patronise me with the cheering, whooping and belittling applause served up by those two that look after me. 
But for me, it is not the roll over that pleases, so much as what it represents. It means I'm nearing bigger, more useful, more meaningful milestones. Sitting up, standing, talking, writing.


Then, I'll be typing and driving. And you know what that means? 


Retribution. It means I can start a blog all of my very own, where I will relish sharing with you every last God awful, embarrassing tit bit of gross, cringeworthy, menopausal activity my lose lipped mother will endure. In as much intimate, high definition, scream it from the rooftops detail as you can handle. 


And don't get me started on when she's in a care home. Then we can go full circle and you'll get to learn about all of her faecal misdemeanour's. 


Rolling over. Starter for ten. Kerching! 

First PROPER Babysit

Abandoned.

Left in the arms of a stranger. Alright, alright, alright...it was my mother. Nanna round to babysit 'properly' - i.e. in the day, when BB is awake and needs entertaining....

I, of course, was absolutely fine with this.

Moving House

Ok. I'm ready now.
They say moving house is the event that most people list as being the most stressful they have ever weathered. Clearly, they have never moved an entire blog. MANUALLY.
I have survived an OFSTED inspection, a 15 minute spot as a stand-up comedian, and waited fairly patiently in the Friday night chippy queue behind a man who paid in 2ps. I would happily take a hit of all three trauma inducers on the same day, rather than stare down the barrel of another HTML deciphering scientific technicality.

Why did I move? There were a few minor technical issues with the old blog. Issues that could have been ignored. Like my blog in general - which was one of the issues. See, other people's blogs are visible to search engines. Other people's blogs attend parties and are chauffeured around swigging cocktails. My blog sits in its undies watching reruns of Mr Bean while eating a microwaveable Tesco Value lasagne. Alone.
So clever clogs here starts "messing about" and "fixing things". The pop up box which said:
'You are about the destroy the Internet. Select 'Yes' to continue.' did put me off a bit.

Safe to say, I was in over my head. Surprisingly quickly. One minute I was treading the waters of the superhighway with slow but meaningful purpose, then with a few clicks here and a scroll down there; hey presto! My head was bobbing near the bottom of an enormous jargon laden trough.
For large parts of my 'just select that' panic, I tight roped along a knife edge of completely losing every one of the 42375 words I have produced since 30th August last year.
At one point I became lightheaded and blamed the stress of my fraught endeavour. Moments later, realising the cause of my respiratory difficulties, I caught myself desperately holding my breath, in fear and anticipation, as I proceeded through the cursor governed maze. At times my wild eyes stared unblinking at the screen for blocks of ten, nay twenty minutes at a time.
(For the purposes of this narrative we will omit details of the various items of furniture broken, the physical harm done to oneself and the profanities screamed during the above 8 hour ordeal. It's more palatable to the author this way.)

Then suddenly, I came out the other side. And landed here. And all is good is the world once more. Provided I can work through the debilitating post traumatic stress disorder and ignore the crushingly vivid flashbacks.

And I didn't miss producing a single entry. You're bloody welcome.

ERROR

That's how I look. 
When I'm about to burst into 'move away or I will bite you' fits of rage.
If you look closely enough, you will note that my eyes have become vacant, abandoned vessels of hate, and my eyelashes have in fact ignited.
Why?
WHY YOU ASK?!
That, my friend, is a very brave question.


My.      Blog.        Went.       BUST.


I've only just begun to be able to think it. I am still unable to say it out loud without kicking a piece of our furniture (it's alright, it's all cheap stuff).


Why?
What do you mean why?
Why did it go bust?


No. I'm sorry. It's too soon for that. I need to allow the cold beads of hate induced sweat to at least be rinsed from my salty, furrowed brow before I can even begin to broach that conversation.
Merely thinking of any computer/ICT based operation is now leading me to drive my fingers sharply into the keybard and nw nw
Just great. Nw I've brken the 0 key.
Call back tmrrw. I'll have calmed dwn by then.

Mum Nails

How did this happen?

Since conception I have sported the peeliest, bendiest most flimsy fingernails ever fashioned by God. Sometimes, while glancing at them they gasp, scream, then crumble pathetically under the weight of my stare. They are actually borderline super-human in their wimpy weedyness. In a past life they must have been bullied for being big unbreakable, witch-like claws, and they are now clearly in need of a round of counselling or some meditative release to shake the stigma.
But over the last four months they have embarked on a programme of secret ninja training, which must have involved tearing the skin of the back of several bears, felling obstructive oak trees at ten paces and generally learning to do stuff that has made them...well..erm...hard as nails.

I suddenly find myself equipped with the ultimate Mum tool. Mum nails. They are long, firm and indestructable. These things can fish out the nostril lurching bogies of their offspring at a single sweep. They are adept at peeling fruit, prising open all manner of tupperware and can find the end of the sellotape in two seconds flat.

Sadly, it seems possessing such equipment does require a modicum of training. I have yet to learn how to fold ironing to retain the crispest of edges, and I am a distance away from creating perfectly equal pleats/gathers in a cut of fabric like the women on the market do.

I also really need training in how to not to puncture my piles with such lengthy claws.
Scraaaaaaape.