Baby Sensory Room

There are some brilliant things about having a baby. No, really, there are. Stick with me here. Despite the full wardrobes of stained clothing, the body parts I own that now resemble deflated balloons, and the awkward smells you have to pretend are nothing to do with you while walking around ASDA (doner meat never agrees with me), there are beacons of baby induced pleasure lurching in some shockingly odd places. Take today for example. 

Took Boo to a Baby Sensory Room. Now, firstly, if I'd gone here without a baby a) they wouldn't have let me in (clue is in the title) an b) they would probably, and quite rightly in my opinion, have reported me to the 'What A Weirdo Society' because a twenty eight year old woman has no business sitting on the floor with no shoes on playing with fibre optic lights at 10am on a Monday morning. But because I'm a Mummy - kerching! I have spent my Monday morning sitting on the floor with no shoes on playing with fibre optic lights. Maternity leave does, absolutely and unequivocally, rule.

And because I'm a Mummy, I have learnt today that everyday stuff that I haven't had the vaguest interest in over the past twenty odd years of my life suddenly, when I'm in the right mindset, becomes weirdly fascinating. Like, for example the aforementioned fibre optic lights. In fact, lights in general. How DEAD GOOD are lights?

You know me - I try my damnedest to perpetuate my now well cultivated vibe of impenetrable irritation and disinterest at the world and everyone in it. But, sitting watching my daughter wonder at metres of colour changing cable for half an hour this morning shook me to my very core. And I decided. Lights are DEAD GOOD. All of 'em. Even the little solar garden ones that stop charging up two days after purchase. Just imagine if we didn't have lights. In Winter we'd all be registered blind for seventeen hours of the day. That would wreck my Christmas. The only way lights could be even better would be if there was a Bank Holiday in their honour. And there absolutely bloody should be.

And mirrors. How TOTALLY AMAZING are mirrors? Cause you've not just got your everyday 'What's me hair look like' mirrors, you've got Fun House mirrors and periscope mirrors and wing mirrors and mirrored tiles and the Daily Mirror. Just sitting there being all reflective and shiny and honest.
Stop now and just think about how PROPER CLEVER mirrors are. What GENIUS thought those bad boys up? We have all heard about Edison The Bighead and his love of lumination, but what happened to John Mirror? That guy needs a right old pat on the back. That guy is DA MAN.

I'm out of sorts. Don't worry. It'll pass. But this fleeting excitement happened because I'm a Mum so I have got an excuse, Your Honour.
Watching our Boo poke, prod and chew her way around that Sensory Room was a revolutionary experience. Her desire to touch and question and try and feel and understand and explore and stare and marvel was a real lesson for me. It was heart warmingly beautiful.

Then when we left I stood in doggie.
Balls.

Swimming

Plain weird.

I've just had a maaaaassive bath, fully clothed, with a bunch of strangers. And I had balloons on my arms. They want locking up those two.

Mum rocks up in this bright blue monstrosity which did her no favours at all. Dad swans about in billowing knee length shorts like a fourteen year old skateboarder. They then spend an hour in the bath with me, smiling and splashing inanely, with not a jot of soap in sight. Clueless.

From the look on both their faces, the experience seemed to be for my benefit. It wasn't like it was horrific. Just absolutely futile. We're spending our Sunday morning standing in a large pit of water; what I am supposed to be? Impressed? Excited? Grateful? I threw out an occasional smile, as is considered best practise when handling those who are mentally disturbed and yet in total control of your entire future. 

On the plus side, I was the cutest baby there by a long chalk. 

The Cossie

After regaling you with tales of my "completely unbecoming of a mother" bikinis, I went shopping. 

Turns out the tankini is not for the tank-arsed. So I found this.

Made of the sum total of all pieces of swimwear material I have ever worn in my life put together, Dave has voiced various sexist/massage her insecure ego objections, much to my delight. Either he is incredibly well trained, or I am incredibly gullible; whatever - when imagining myself semi-nude, I'll buy into any pretence that suggests I look even marginally better than a discarded lump of corned beef. 

Okay, it doesn't look much. It's pretty plain. The patterned ones made me look like, not so much the back end of the bus, but more impressively - the side of a bus, equipped with more than a few clumsily mounted spare tyres and ironically, a giant Slim Fast advert. People would mistakenly have queued up to get on and off me. Not exactly what I was after.

So I settled on this. Swathe upon swathe of Mumsy bright blue Lycra.  But do not be fooled by its unassuming exterior; it has sneaky hidden powers. So, in ascending order of importance...

4) Super wide straps provide ample suspension and reinforcement when taking on board over-shoulder boulder holder pressure. Far more reliable than the strands of hair in which I have entrusted my modesty in countless previous bikinis, and most importantly, a reassuringly unfastenable option when holding my irritatingly inquisitive daughter.

3) It contains ACTUAL MAMMARY SUPPORT via an inbuilt bra to give a bit of va-va-voom to a once top heavy lovely. Post baba in my previous bikinis, my crestfallen boobs resemble tennis balls swinging aimlessly in the bottom of a pair of sports socks, but in this fella, they are almost back to their buoyant best. 

Should save myself a bob or two on armbands too.

2)There's a hidden Spanx thing going on to provide 'Tummy Control'. Looking at the flimsy lining responsible for such a bold claim, I felt that without an added lasso and cast iron boat mooring being installed poolside, this would be a non starter. As it happens, this flimsy white lining does what it says on the tin, battening down the majority of my wayward flab hatches so they are corseted in a fairly well behaved manner to the trunk of my being. Well blow me down. 

1) Finally, and most importantly - it was reduced. And I am wholly incapable of resisting a bargain (I once bought a pair of shoes reduced because was of them was size 5, the other a size 6. I'm a five and a half, and not a totally idiot. Hush Puppies for a fiver? Sign me up.)
£17.60 to look down and gaze upon my ultra flat tummy, while ignoring the used plaster floating beside it?
£17.60 to imagining myself emerging from the pool as if beach side in St Lucia, while ignoring the strip lighting and pungent stench of chlorine?
£17.60 to showcase my well supported bosom, in slow motion, up and down the verruca sodden tiled area of the Council baths with that Pammy style allure?
Hello?! No brainer.

P-U-R-C-H-A-S-E-D.

Chef

I am sorry but I AM THE DANGLERS.

I, little old me, of innumerable a culinary incapability, have become a PROPER CHEF, who follows actual real life recipes and that. And uses spices and stuff. And herbs. See. Proper.

Watching, wholly intimidated, as Dave nonchalantly wazzes in a pinch of this and a slosh of that and it magically turning out tasting sublime... I decided I had to up my game. I'm a wife. A mother for God's sake. I should be able to chuck some stuff together. It's just the rules.
So now, after all my years of churning out beans on toast, scrambled egg on toast, even rice pudding on toast (bloody Blumenthal) I have thrown my incompetencies to one side, stepped away from the bread bin and into the limelight. No more bushel modesty for this little Nigella. MY SCRAN HAS LANDED.

You can stick your Cordon Bleu and your Gourmet Nouveau, that stuff's for wimps. I've never been one for delicate presentation; all that seven chips stacked up in a little tower, or being able to tell where the meat ends and the mash starts. First bite is with the eye some say. I can CATEGORICALLY CONFIRM that is not true. Biting with your eye hurts. Especially if you go for a dead sharp chip.
I've never been one for exquisite flavour. Is that a hint of vanilla or a slight undertone of WD40? Who bloody cares? Just holler if it isn't edible.

I'm a fan of volume. Quantity. Vastness; that's my bag. If there's a lot, it must be good, so I'll eat it. All. Amen. Okay, so it might be bland and you can't really make out what the Hell it is, but don't go getting all upset and hoity toity cause it's been doled out with an ice cream scoop - if anything they've done you a favour. Saves chewing. It's going to look and taste worse where it's going anyway. In fact, if you're going to keep whinging I'll eat yours an' all. Now shut up and get it down yer.
Not your typical cuisinier, granted. But finally, finally, I have found my niche.

BABY FOOD. It's unfussy, it's flavourless - it's sole taste aim is blandness - hello!
It is to be pureed into a paste like, unchewable, God awful looking mess - kerching!
And most INGENIUSLY - the consumer doesn't have the tastebuds/breadth of experience or indeed the necessary vocal chords to register any form of dislike - WAAHOO! Get in!
I'm finally at home in the kitchen.

So - who's up for some gluey, slimy, cheesy, goo-like wallpaper paste mushy looking stuff?

MOT

Car MOT today. Always a weird day. That annual car-less experience of feeling stranded and helpless and reliant on lifts and good weather. Makes me feel uneasy. Like waiting to go into labour. Will it pass? Will those tyres class as bald? Will I need an epidural (to facilitate the extraction of such a large amount of cash from my purse)? I just hope to God they don't clock the ejector seat. That's defo not legal.
I keep my mobile pinned to my hand all day, waiting for word on whether it needs wiper blades/bulbs/tyres, and whether it is ready for pick up. Every year I shriek and squeal in equal measures of wholly irrational terror and totally unfounded excitement when the call finally comes. Demanding that entire supermarkets full of customers "sssh", I take the call while gesturing wildly at anyone within a two mile radius that I AM ON THE PHONE TO THE GARAGE. I really, truly, absolutely MUST get out more.

So, what to do with our transportless day? I decided last night we don't do enough walking. So whadda we do? We walk back from the garage, and decide to take in the park on the way through. Because the park is quiet for taking VIPs (Very Important Phonecalls) and obviously because we are an outdoorsy, fresh airsy, model citizenish pair.

Within 100 yards of the garage, Boo is asleep. Not happy. Not happy one bit. This walk is for her benefit; I've seen all this crap for the last twenty eight years. She's already all tucked up and comfy and doesn't even have to bother putting one foot in front of the other; the very least she can do is prise open a token eye. I aggressively ram the pram up kerbs, across grids and down potholes, but to no avail. She's out for the count. Zonked. Fasters. Thanks love.

Must be all the fresh air she never gets.

Selfish if you ask me. Was going to go round the Pet's Corner at the park and see the rabbits. Well forget it. Yeah, you heard me. Oh, you didn't hear me? Know why? Cause you're ASLEEP.
And you know what I am? I'm freezing. I hope you're happy. And...oh great. Now it's spitting.

Another beautiful late April in the UK

She woke up as we started down our drive. When undoing her from the harness, my pram pushingly frozen, deadeningly numb hand made contact with one of hers, and she HAD THE NERVE TO CRY. *mutters profanities under breath*

Car passed MOT without me bursting into tears or unjustifiably running naked around Morrisons. Fortunately I was at home. (Word to the wise; don't ever try dangling from a lampshade by your eyelids.)

Baby Massage: Part Three

Gluttons for punishment, we turned up today for the last session.

And IT WENT SWIMMINGLY. WITHOUT A HITCH. TEXTBOOK.

1) Arrived early. 

(Knew you wouldn't believe me, so I took this pic of my car clock and the outside of the centre - and IT IS the centre - you can see the OFSTED sign in the back there.)

Baby Massage to start at 3:30pm.

2) The class usually starts at 1:00pm, but due to today's time change, I had to feed BB when we got there. Not a problem. I'll do it in the car. And I did.

(Okay, so she managed to stuff her hand into the food pot while I was getting a piece of hair out of my eye, and I shook her bottle without having screwed the top on properly so it sloshed all over the back seat - but this sort of thing happens to everyone, right?)

3) Got inside. 

(So being early reminded me why I don't mind being late. Not only did I feel ill, a quick bout of uneasy early-itus, I then had to make conversation with people I have no desire in socialising with. I don't want to pretend I care what your baby's name is, how old they are or that I give a monkeys about their sleeping patterns. I've got one of me own, and I guarantee she's better at all of it that yours. Fact. And if one more idiot tells me my daughter is "a big girl" and going to get her to sit on them - but this sort of thing happens to everyone, right?)

4) Got ourselves sorted on a mat. 

(While undoing Boo's clothes, she trumped fairly loudly in my mouth, then as I recovered suddenly grabbed out at another child's hair, missed and settled on his face, digging her claw like talons into his soft, previously unblemished newborn beautifulness. He screamed the house down, we were subjected to the naughty corner - but this sort of thing happens to everyone, right?)

5) Completed the range of new massage techniques.

(With Boo deciding to ACTUALLY LAUGH like some mini Simon Cowell EVERYTIME the Mum's were encouraged to sing a nursery rhyme while massaging - but this sort of thing happens to everyone, right?)

6) Received Boo's first ever certificate.

(Though I didn't notice anyone else getting one - clearly they want to completely eliminate the possibility of us showing up next week - but this sort of thing happens to everyone, right?)

BB's first ever certificate

7) Left the centre with an air of superiority, dignity and togetherness.
(Until a tube of Caneston thrush cream tumbled out of the side pocket of the changing bag, met with my foot at exactly the moment that it could be furthest shot across the car park, and came to a stop between the feet of a pair of happily chatting Mum's - but this sort of thing happens to everyone, right?)

As I said, TEXTBOOK.
(Ish.)

Roo

Dear Roo

You are amazing.
You are the kindest, most giving, most physically and mentally tolerant inanimate object I have ever had the pleasure of meeting the acquaintance of. My admiration of you is boundless.

You lie beside Boo nightly, while our cruel daughter whinges, howls and screams directly into your lughole, and you withstand this acoustic torment without so much as a whimper of objection. You lie there knowing that at some point in the evening, myself or her Dad will put an end to your desperate attempts to escape the prison of your auditory suffering, and wrap your abused tail round the bars of Boo's cot and stuff its battered tip beneath her mattress so you have no alternative but to endure every distressing decibel. Your mere presence saves us hours of comforting, cuddling and calming.

Once said bellowing has died down, the way you are able to lie there, taking punch after punch in the face while Boo aggressively approaches the land of nod, showing what a true champion among teddies you truly are. You allow your ears, hands and face to be tugged at, gnawed and chewed every bedtime in your 'never say die' attitude towards helping our child drift off to sleep, marking you out, in our eyes, as a genuine Samaritan.

You then lie there a cold, injured, spit sodden mess while your vicious assailant finally hits slumber, but just when you believe respite is in sight, she always finds time to land that lowest of final blows, by beginning to snore like a rhino with sinusitis. Gold plated proof, if any was needed, of how phenomenally gallant you truly are.

And through all this you still remain composed, soft and cuddly, and smelling of that Disney Store wonder scent stuff. Yummy.

Please do not take any of this exploitation personally - if anything it is a compliment - Boo simply cannot sleep without your self-sacrificing company. She adores you, and we do too. Where you lead, other plush toys can only follow.
We can never thank you, or Sam who bought you for us, enough.
(We won't tell you her address in case you decide to hunt her down.)

Arise Sir Roo

PS - We have decided will now tie you to the cot bars as it's a pain in the bum having to walk all the way upstairs to keep putting you back in when she slings you against the wall. Soz about that.

Inappropriate

Look at that lot.

Not a one that's gonna cut it.
How the Hell do I take my daughter for her first swimming session dressed in a shoelace?

Once upon a time, I clearly thought these patches of fabric were a good idea. They must, upon purchase, have seemingly looked good. And perhaps at a push, if I cast my mind back about five years, I can remember my body looking okay in them in a 'I didn't mentally scar anyone for life' sort of a way.
Trying one on yesterday (for old times sake/because I was kidding myself), it was blatantly bloody obvious that the ravages of pregnancy have not left me rivalling for the cover of Sports Illustrated. I could make page three of the St Helens Reporter, but only because these bikinis are a greener choice (i.e. when I throw them out, they will take up less space in the bin, so technically I would be supporting the council's drive for a less regular bin collection).
Popping out all over the place, stretch marks akimbo, I looked like a low rent Jodie Marsh. Thought that wasn't possible? Hello! Here I am. If these bikinis could say anything they'd whisper "...bronzed goddess in St Lucia". Not "...corned beef thighed chubster in Council baths" Heaving my unsightly bulk into these tiny triangles does not scream responsible mother. Neither would slapping my unsuspecting daughter in the eye with a low slung nipple. And the thought of her absent-mindedly tugging away at the flimsy lengths of spaghetti which are all that stand between me and the shred of dignity that I locked away in the deepest, darkest closet of my mind...no. I refuse to give that up. Something must be done.

Time for something tidier. Classier. And sadly, more Mumsy. I am toying with the idea of a Speedo make one piece racer back thingy, what with it being Olympic year and that? Or are Speedo costumes only cooed about by Year 6 girls who are going to the baths on a Thursday afternoon on a dusty hire coach? That's the last time I wanted one. Advice please. I'm not well up on cossie envy.
Maybe some sort of one piece surf suit doodah is the answer? Squirrels everything away, irons out your lumps and bumps; it'd even hide my Crimi-Nail. Don't think I'd pass for a mid-life crisis though. Just a weirdo who wants to show off that they've got a surf suit. Lame.
Now I'm thinking tankini. Like a bikini, but the top's a vest (thus covering stretch marks), the bottoms are like small shorts (thus covering flabby ass hang down). A ha! Yes! Sweet! Tankini it is. In there like swimwear.
Oh wait. As far as I can see though, there's no built in bra with those things? Brill. I'll end up shuffling about tucking my boobs down the front of my pants, like some sort of hermaphrodite darts player with a 50'' waist. Mind you, shouldn't knock it. Let my five o'clock shadow run wild, and I reckon I could work that.

Will update you with final selection and photograph...WAIT, WAIT, DON'T GO!
THE PHOTO WILL BE JUST OF THE COSSIE, NOT ME IN IT.
There. See. Relax. And now....breathe.

As If

Trusted with a CHILD. The NHS actually let her take me home. Disgusting. This week alone, this woman has...

• Allowed some chap to attempt to drown me in a bowl of freezing cold water
• Passed me from pillar to post around a room full of questionable looking strangers
• Ensured her place as a future inhabitant of Eternal Damnation after inciting a riot with God by blaspheming about the protocol of the church
• Locked us both INSIDE the car

Then she wants me TO GO TO SLEEP ON HER!! I wasn't born yesterday. Alright seven months might not sound long to you, but trust me, with Frank Spencer for a mother, it's long enough to learn you remain vigilant in her company at all times. "Ooh Betty"? More like "Prepare-yourself-for-another-catalogue-of-series-errors-in-judgement-that-may-result-in-accidents-involving-explosives-highly-flammable-liquids-or-heavy-plant-machinery Betty".


I've been on here five minutes; she could be up to anything by now. I swear to God you can't take your eye off her for a second. In fact.....*stops to listen intently to unnerving quiet reverberating about the house*....
Gotta go....


BB x

SatCap Shizzle

Yo yo yo peeps. After hangin out away from our homies the last few weeks, we're crewing back up with the #SatCap massive again, for shizzle. #SatCap - that's street for Saturday Caption - geddit? Clever that, innit?
For more hot dang cool bizniz, head over to Mammasaurus where you can add your #SatCap to the pics added by the posse. Word. To your mother.

No. It doesn't suit me.

While Mum and Dad pose for 'I Heart God Weekly', Boo delights in
rediscovering that assumed extinct member of the litter community, the faded Orangina bottle.

Sexy Mama

In my ever shameless pursuit of more readers, I have discovered another ploy to cadge a few more sets of eyes who might be willing to keep you three company in the empty wilds of my blog.
ParentsConnect are currently running a Sexy Mama Bloggers feature and have asked parent bloggers to answer a few questions. Because the three people who actually read this are related to me, I ensure that sex is a topic strictly off limits, but that was before I could sell out for a quick buck/larger audience. So goodnight principles, hello gratuitous plugging...


What makes you feel sexy?
Keeping my beard at bay.
Having had a shower in the last three weeks. 
Plaiting my armpit hair.
Kidding myself that I have returned to my prenatal weight. 
Chocolate. 
Managing to get every last chunk of baby sick off my jeans so you can hardly see the stain. 

Counting the pubes on the bath sponge.

Who's your sexy mama role model?
Paris Hilton - she works the scrawny, empty headed, screamingly vacant yet worrying loaded look so effortlessly that she has inspired an generation of insecure, fragile young girls to emulate her ground-breakingly demeaning brand of womanly patheticness. 
And she's sooo got the prettiest fingernails EVER. You go girl! 


What's your best tip to help other moms feel super-confident and sexy?
Always get your piles treated. Suppositories do work if you catch them early enough.

THOSE Photos

At Boo's Christening I thought I looked sensational. Not kidding. I felt like the absolute danglers. Cream lace shift to the knee. No cleavage on show, but a little bit of leg. Nice and fitted, but not painted on. Clung in the right places, but appropriate. Classy. Tanned and a little bit French looking. In essence, fit.

Sadly, after reviewing the photos of the day, turns out this was not the case. Rather than the sexy, Italian looking (I felt continental, ok?), chic vision of elegance I saw gazing back in the mirror, there, in the photographs, lurked my incredibly unwelcome alter ego, Thunder Thighs. Ten Tonne Tessa.
And unfortunately, I have not imagined it. It's there. In print. Photographic evidence. Can't argue with that.
(I know what you're thinking now, so no, you will not find a single picture of the ample quads of which I speak on this blog. Do you really think I'd be stupid enough to let you have a good gawp and poke and giggle at said rolls? I wasn't born yesterday, you scavengers of human misery.)

Before now, I've played at the edges. "Oh poor me, I've been all pregnant and I really should do something about it." It was funny. I couldn't really be bothered. I had excuses. And now after seven months, I've run out.
All those times since labour that I have poured myself into ill fitting jeans and convinced myself that they must have shrunk in the wardrobe since last worn (like all jeans do...). All those times I chucked on a top and it has pinched around the arms. All those times I've poured my feet into slip-ons and slings backs and reasoned that I must still be carrying pregnancy fluid. Because she was lurking underneath every garment.

It shouldn't be a surprise, what with the way I have chowed down on every sugary, salty, static thing that I can fit in my taut, ballooning sausage fingers. If I had only been willing to see the cellulite spattered receipts I call bum cheeks, I would have found proof of my prolonged period of postnatal greed.

So today I went for a run. And I meant every step. I really want to fix my body. And it's a good job. Because half way through my torturous, agonising, exhausting run, at the point when I couldn't be any further from home, God decided to test me.
He sent not just April showers. He sent big, sharp, torrential hail. Thanks for that.

Hmm. This is going to be hard....

Snoozing

Why doesn't Betty sleep on me? (Wasn't that a Travis song?)

She loves a cuddle with her Dad. A few minutes in his arms and she's lolling about all chilled and calm and at ease. She'll happily sleep on her Nan, dozing almost as soon as they are in contact. She'll even grab five minutes with the bin man. He just slaps her to the top of a wheelie and away she drifts...

So why not me? 

Ok, so I probably don't ooze serenity. But I can have a soft side. No...I can. Stop tittering at the back. When I really put my mind to it I can be the quiet, tranquil, composed, still, peaceful, unruffled, soothing embodiment of total, utter and complete calm. The beating heart of maternal nurture. In fact, so good am I at becoming a sanctuary of ease and relaxation I can actually do it while multi tasking. I can cuddle and do a crossword for example. I can offer comfort while cutting my toenails. I can provide ease whilst strimming the lawn. So well versed am I in the business of creating a haven of restfulness I am able to hoover, mop, clean out the guttering, even board out the loft, with my weary baby swathed in my kind, welcoming arms. But she won't sleep. I just don't get it. Plain bloody awkward if you ask me.

Clearly, I offer too much fun and excitement for Boo to see me as the natural choice when it comes to selecting the person best equipped to fulfil her restful requirements. She cannot get past my amusing, comical, entertaining, pleasurable, hilarious, joyful, exuberant company. Understandable. I am such a cad. She is a lucky girl, if a little narrow minded when it comes to acknowledging the other skills I bring to the table of parenthood. 

Oh well. Sleep's overrated anyway. And she doesn't really do 'owt. It's not like she needs it. 

Baby Massage: Part 2

We dared to go back...

And if only we had seen more than five minutes of the session, we might have been able to set off a fire alarm or cause a bomb scare or something equally destructive in order to trump card the commotion we caused last time.

We arrived at the Children's Centre. That's the good news. We looked for a space on the reopened car park, and being on the last minute (but not late), there was one space left - one tiny narrow bay beside some 6ft wire mesh temporary fencing.
I sqeeeeezed the car into the space then spent roughly three minutes sidling my giant ass out of the minuscule gap I had made between car and door, bumbling each limb, joint and boob clumsily out of the vehicle, before picking my way up the edge of the car with as much style as is possible when smearing your torso along a damp metal shell. Tasting freedom, I grabbed the changing bag and my handbag from the boot before once again breathing in and shuffling my way back to the driver's door.
Pausing at my destination while holding the two bags aloft, I stood wedged between the car and fencing not knowing which move to make next. I opted for creeping back up the car and dumping the bags on the floor. Skirting once again back down the side of my vehicle to collect Betty, I clicked the 'LOCK' button on my keys, then set the keys down on my car roof, before osmosing myself back into the auto. 

Digging about to find the clasp which flicks my seat forward I discovered the half eaten boiled sweet which fell from mouth when recently succumbing to a rather more severe bout of road rage. This sweet was now covered in bits of fluff and gravel, and stuck rather attractively to the end of my finger. I peeled it off and tried to throw it out of the door, but being three dimensional, it bounced back in. Finally releasing the seat, I climbed into the back of the car and knelt in the foot well to unfasten Boo's many restraints. Balancing precariously (I really need five doors), I plucked Boo from her seat and turned to exit. As the door had closed, I reached out to pull the handle. Nothing.

I pulled again. Nothing.

Locked. Bugger. Where are the keys? 

BUGGER.

THE KEYS ARE ON THE ROOF.

After checking that there was no possible way from me to unlock the car from the inside, I commenced panicking, out loud, while trying not to swear in front of my seven month old daughter. 

How? How does this happen to us? Why does this happen to us? Well? Why?
As I sat imprisoned by MY OWN HAND in MY OWN CAR, feeling like a complete and utter loser, I decided things couldn't get worse. God decided they could. 

Hail. Massive golf ball sized hailstones. April showers? Yeah. All over our bags, which were sitting saturated, sodden and forlorn on the car park outside. Great stuff.

But, a stroke of luck. My phone was in my pocket. Willing my 3G Internet connectivity to give us a break, a white van suddenly pulled onto the car park. Yes! Help.

Reaching into the front of the car I began to honk the car horn aggressively while rapping hard on the window with my sticky fingers. A fella jumped out of the van and ran, wincing, through the hail to his boot. Parping, tooting, and beeping my heart out (no trump metaphor intended) I prayed for the chap to look over. He did! Thank God.

He waved. Then he carried on in his boot, before pulling out a few long lengths of wood and making his way inside the building.

You have got to be kidding me. That did not just happen.

Looking back down to try my phone again, I suddenly noticed filthy grey smears of muck all across the boob part of my top, like some sort of nipple brass rubbing. Must have been all the shuffling along my dirty car. Can't wait to get inside and show that off.  

I went back to summoning up the Internet to little avail. Next thing; the van man's back. I set off with the horn blowing and window tapping again. He's looking - I begin gesturing wildly through the tiny back window for him to approach. He does! He's walking over!! He nears the vehicle before picking up our drenched bags. 

"These?" he says holding the bags to the window.

"My keys are on the roof." I said through the glass.

"I thought you knew me," he responded, smiling with thousands of white dots balanced on his hair.

"My keys are on the roof." I said through the glass.

"Thought you were saying hello." he announced with a friendly grin.

"MY KEYS ARE ON THE BLOODY ROOF!" I screamed aggressively through the glass.

"Oh!" he whispered as the smile fell from his face.

"WE'RE LOCKED IN. MY KEYS!" I screamed again, while pointing upwards to encourage some movement out of the fella.

"Ah! I see." he responded, finally taking hold of them. He unlocked the car and passed the keys and two sopping bags into me before toddling off laughing to himself.

Already twenty minutes late, my stress levels had encouraged my eyes to burst straight out of my head so they merely dangled by their optic nerves slapping against my face. Then we went inside...
In only FIVE SHORT MINUTES -
I - broke the pen in reception, forgot my £1 to pay for the session and accidentally stood on the back of someone's flipflop and tore it.
Betty - hit another baby in the eye with a rattle, knocked the massage oil all over the floor, then licked some of it off her fingers (fortunately it's olive oil).

Think I'll go home and set fire to my hair to chill out.

Betty's Big Day

I'm sure you're all Christeninged out, but tough. It all went to plan, and not many things I tell you do. So you're having it.

No embarrassing incidents. All as expected and on time. Okay, okay, so Boo hardly ever utters a word yet decided to find her voice mid service, shouting, shrieking and babbling over most of what the Vicar said, and yes, she produced a gargantuan, font side poo - just to put me at ease. It worked. Once I caught a whiff of the extra guest that had turned out to pass on his best wishes, it felt more like our day.
The after do went well; Boo got lots of gorgeous pressies and the buffet shifted to positive feedback. Unfortunately a bit of dust blew in my eye during our speech. Made me look all sentimental and feeling - but you know me better than that. It was very dusty. Swear to God. (Can you say that at a Christening?)
Family worked hard to ensure the day was all we wanted it to be and the Godparents were as reliable, kind and supportive as the most flattered and obliged babysitters always are.
Betty was a superstar - she grabbed only twenty minutes of sleep all day, yet was contentedly passed from stranger to stranger throughout the afternoon. She was urged to perform (by me), and largely cooperated to show off what a clever, funny, adorably chubby little bundle she is.
We definitely lived up to our side of the bargain. We pulled out weight.

So why was the church part of the day run like some sort of baptism conveyor belt of monotony? Boo was one of SIX babies Christened at our church on Sunday. Six? Is it me? Six does not scream 'personal', 'special' or 'select'. It certainly doesn't scream choosy - turns out my big, fat gypsy Christening was clearly shooting it's pilot episode with us starring as unwitting extras. A good handful of creosote tanned, hair extension wafting bloaters thundered up the aisle to have their ninth child, (insert ridiculous made up name here), Christened.
After treating Boo to All Things Bright And Beautiful to warm my vocals while buttoning up her Christening gown, once in church not ONE SINGLE HYMN sung. There was not ONE SINGLE READING shared. There was not ONE SINGLE SHRED of personality or genuine depth of feeling about the ceremony at all. The vicar was to public speaking what diarrhoea is to a long haul flight. Even the occasional 'Moments Of Reflection And Personal Prayer' detailed in the order of service were omitted repeatedly to speed the process along. What a warm, 'God I wish I could do this more often' welcome to the Christian faith it wasn't.

I'm not a hugely religious person. I'm Christened and I'm Confirmed, but I'm far from an every Sunday girl. I believe in religious values, but not necessarily The Church (their first single was brilliant, but it all went downhill after that). Having Boo has made me think of religion more often, however yesterday's induction to the Christian faith has left me rooting round the recycling bins for that previously disregarded copy of the Jehovas' Witness Watchtower magazine.

All in all a good do - we finally welcomed Betty into the world with all our closest family and friends, and I got a belting long term, high brow, morally questionable moan out of it too. Bonus.

My Big Day

Huh? I'm getting Christened? Me? Oh.
Was banking on a sleep to be honest.

This is Will. My Godfather. He doesn't smile much,
so treasure this.

Me, Mum and Dad - font-side baby!

My Godmother Auntie Christy - I'm wearing the dress
she was Christening it - it was my Mum's too.
Hand knitted 28 years ago by Nannie.

Woah!! Hang on - watch the 'do!

Me and God...*crosses fingers*...like that

Mum and Dad don't have many mates.

That's Seb, my Godfather. He's doesn't know I'm pooing.
He will.

Me and Sarah. She's God's mother.
Looks well for her age.

See the roses in the middle of the table? There for me them.
Elisabeth ROSE.
Always thinking.

Alright Mum - over egging the roses now.
It was clever, but you took it too far.

Ok. I need my bum changing.
Stop press. Go on! On your way. Scram.

Christening Preparation (94)

Our Speech
Dave: Right. Has everyone got a drink? Okay, we would like to say a few words, well, I'D like to say a few words, SHE'D like to say a lot of words, so we've compromised on saying SOME words between us.
Firstly, we'd like to thank the people that have made today happen. For their artistic flair in creating beautiful cakes, for their patience in producing hand knitted Christening gowns, and for their ability and willingness to cough up cold hard cash. Thank you all so much for being there for all three of us.
Obviously, we'd like to thank you all for coming. As you can see, it's only a small do - so congratulations!
We've looked forward to properly welcoming our little girl into the world, and we couldn't think of a better bunch of people to celebrate with. Granted, we didn't think very hard...
Speaking of which....erm...the Godparents. Another shambling last minute gamble. I mean, we've got Will in charge of her spiritual development for God's sake. Then there's Seb. He's taller than me. He's an atheist! And he's a bloody City fan. And as for Godmothers. There's Christina. Well, I'm just amazed she's remembered to turn up today - she's not exactly known for her organisational skills. And then there's Sarah. Has everybody met Sarah? You will do. Has everybody got Sarah's business card? You will do. Fortunately, they are also the most honest, passionate, caring people we could imagine our daughter growing up around. Thank you all for agreeing to be an important part of our Poop's life.
Now I'll pass you over to Cathey who would like to say A FEW words...*looks to guests* good luck.

Me: *claps and rubs hands together* Right, for those of you that don't know, not that I can imagine there is ANYBODY who doesn't know, but I have been writing a blog, everyday, about Boo since just before she arrived with us last September. Incidentally, this blog has been shortlisted for a Brilliance In Blogging award, and you can vote for it at www.myfunnymummy.org.
I write this blog to give to Betty as a momento of her first year, and to stop Dave's ears from bleeding. Usually my posts are about dribbling and crawling and poo (all mostly Betty's). But occasionally, I find something pleasant to write about.

Tuesday 28th February

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 whinge and moan about 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.
My God. That girl is GOOD.


So, My Funny Mummy, eh? Laugh a bloody minute. Seriously though - www.myfunnymummy.org...


So please, could you all raise your glasses - to Betty Poop xx

Christening Preparation (4)

Decorations

A little do we said. Low key. Modest. 

But then - you see stuff. Table confetti - yes please. Pink paper lanterns - thank you kindly. Sky writing - of course - especially if it's Comic Sans to match the invites.

Our reticent budget has got all ballsy and raucous and now extends to furnishing this do with: vases and roses, mirrored tiles, tea lights, helium balloons,a guest book and personalised napkins (ok, so I scrawled it on in biro, but it's the thought that counts).

CAKE BOX STAND: Timberrr.....
(The Cadbury's Easter Egg wrapper beside my right elbow is NOT,
I repeat, NOT mine. Mostly.)

I've had seven months to prepare for this Christening, and shock horror, I will spend the next two days up until 3am to get finished all the 'bits' I've dreamed up which will go largely unnoticed and add at least £60 to our budget and years worth of stress to my furrowed brow. As I write this it is 22:49pm on a Friday night and once finishing typing, I will be returning to this...

HOMEMADE BANNER: Picture (and T-Shirt) sponsored by NES Ready Made Paint.
Shadow sponsored by the Ridiculously Massive Silouhette Association .

Tomorrow's to do list:

Complete banner.

Find 9 small, identical vases.

Burst into a mass of vibrating, white hot, human shaped aggression who barks orders and demands at her browbeaten, sobbing, psychologically disfigured minions so that all stuff GETS DONE RIGHT.

If you've got a spare half hour, don't call at ours. You were warned.

Christening Preparation (3)

The Music
Put together a couple of mix CD's to have pumping out of the sound system/small tinny wall mounted speakers at the after Christening buffet. I've spent about three weeks carefully selecting appropriate tracks to really reflect the tone, milieu and sentiment of the day.

1. Celebration - Kool And The Gang - A font-astic start
2. Baptised In Muddy Waters - Chris Thomas - With a little one it can't be helped
3. REM - Losing My Religion - For those disappointed by the dwindling popularity of the Church
4. The Kinks - Maximum Consumption - Buffet open
5. Billy Idol - White Wedding - The next time most guests'll be in church
6. Phil Collins - I Can't Dance - Non existent dancefloor
7. Sir Mix-A-Lot - Baby Got Back - In light of my lapsed dieting
8. John Lennon - Imagine - For the athiest massive
9. Jackson Five - ABC - Start 'em early
10. Minutemen - Jesus and Tequila - For the indiscriminate Sunday afternoon alcoholic
11. The Police - Da Do Do Do, Da Da Da Da - The baby gibberish classic
12. Pink Floyd - Money - £15 per head? You will enjoy that sausage roll
13. Girls Aloud - Biology - For the much maligned Scientologists
14. Betty Boo - Doin' The Do - Obviously

Not finished yet. I've still got to add anything by Genesis, Black Sabbath and the Sisters of Mercy.

Christening Preparation (2)

How much fanfare is required for a Christening?
I like to go to a good do. I like to put on a bloody good do. None of this celebration by numbers crap. Function room: tick. Buffet: tick. Rubbish DJ: tick. Yawn: tick. I spent my hen do dressed as Edmund Blackadder (series 2) complete with ruffs and stick on goatee beard. When we realised our nuptials were getting a bit Microsoft weddings, we decided to throw in a boat trip, cardboard cut outs of Vegas hotels and an overweight, sweating Elvis singing Green Day songs. I reckon chic, refined, sophisticated celebrations are for those too insecure to really let their hair down (though this may be because I am incapable of chic, refined sophistication).

Detracting from the ill advised sail down the M6

So this Christening has got to have something about it. Something to set it apart (in a good way hopefully, though I'm not fussy). This is Boo's first proper welcome to the world and we've got to do our girl proud.

The church is sorted, the venue is set and the Godparents have been carefully selected in order to maximise the range of people we have been able to suitably put out/disappoint/offend.
The guest list has been written, trimmed, reshuffled and finalised in line with our meagre budget and petulantly fickle friendships. (And for those people who I'll decide I like again next week, it was SOOOO the budgets that dictated everything, k?)

So how do I make this do individual, stand out, noteable - in a classy way (a huge stretch for me)?
It can't be 80's TV presenter fancy dress? Or Viking Long Boat themed? Naturist inspired? No? Oh.
This is going to be a head scratcher...

Christening Preparation

Betty's big day Sunday. She'll look gorgeous, obviously. When doesn't she? More importantly, I've got to look gorgeous. Seriously, this is my most iconic postnatal moment thus far. In fact, this will be THE postnatal moment people will remember of me forever. (What do you mean no one gives a toss?)

It's not like she's only a few weeks old and I've had no time to prepare. I've had SEVEN WHOLE MONTHS to sort it. Seven whole months to attack the rolls and the wobbles and the grotesque dimpling. Seven whole months to stop the cake and the crisps and the packets of beef dripping. And now, like all the holidays and weddings and special occasions for which I have promised my body so much and delivered so very little, it IS HERE. So come on - I need ideas people. How do I lose a stone in a week?

I promise to have a proper sensible breakfast, like muesli/porridge/Trill everyday till Sunday. I promise to drink my own body weight in tap water and will try not to think I am a far superior being than all the people I see drinking Coke or anything with flavour. I promise not to pretend that chips (potato) are one of my five a day. I promise not to eat any of the 706,000 Easter eggs that are wafting their sexy chocolate stink at me every time I nip in the fridge for milk (skimmed).

I've already invested in massive, ugly, fat squishing undies, but the flab they are attempting to encase is just spilling over the top, so I appear to have four boobs like some half horse creature from Greek mythology. Ooh! Are there any clinics that offer lipo while-u-wait? I am willing to travel, and I am definitely open to continuing to heal while font-side. With the help of the Father, the Son and the Surgical Spirit.

I have organised myself a programme of exercise which involves completing a circuit in our bedroom, in front of the full length mirror, naked. Then when I decide I can be bothered any more, I can find fresh motivation with a swift glance at my quivering blubber and empty swinging mammaries.

*banging/fridge opening/rustling can be heard*

Oh! You're still here. I thought you'd left...
*anxiously wiping chocolate residue from lips*

Burn Baby Burn

I'm in a cafe. I want to warm baby food. I politely request a cup/jug/bowl of boiling water.
The woman on the till stares back at me aghast, revolted, amazed. Did I just black out? Oh God. I've just run in the back and cracked off a massive, acidic, sticky, poorly tummied poo in her Louis Vuitton handbag, haven't I? People tend not to like that. I look to Dave, who shakes his head reassuringly.
Confidence restored, I press on. "Boiling water?"
Shaking her head ferociously, she holds out her hand. "You can leave it with me".
"It's not heroin. It's mashed courgette," I explain earnestly.
Nothing. Vacant expression. Empty eyes. Still just the hand out.
Baffled, I give up the tub of food and walk away muttering a wealth of puzzled profanities.

We collect our cutlery and shuffle away to an available table. As I pour tea from our leaky metal teapot, I feel my anger begin to rise. This is not the first time I have made such a preposterous request. This is not the first time I have been greeted with utter loathing and complete contempt (in this context - I get the loathing and contempt routinely in other areas of my daily business). I rise from the table, riled, hardened and ready to become the problematic, arduous, downright gruelling person I am most capable of being should the mood take me.

I rejoin the self service drinks part of the cafe queue, fill a large cup with boiling water and then stand impatiently muttering my way up the queue, shuffling along behind people with fancy lattes and scones and fruit teas. I stand for an AN AGE while people pay for cottage pies and full breakfasts, modify items and consider the how swapping white toast for brown might alleviate a particularly aggressive bout of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I tap my singular mug loudly, now really cheesed off that my problematic, arduous, downright gruelling self has been choked out by my weedy, 'don't want to push in', ingrained politeness. A psychologists archetypal ball of passive aggressive energy, I tut, shuffle, mumble and fidget my way to the front, hoping my exaggerated gestures will convey the desired level of irritation I am striving to emit to my fellow cafe patrons.

Losing the will to live, I finally arrive exasperated at the till, holding my symbolic cup of now lukewarm water.
"I'm taking this water to warm my daughter's food. I'd like the tub I left with you back. Please." (Bloody manners).
"You can't do that madam. We warm the food." responds Hitler, delighting in my return.
"No. I'm warming the food. I am not happy for you to decide on an appropriate temperature for my child's dinner. I will be taking this cup of water to do it." I hold out my hand. "Tub. Please." (Bugger)
"I cannot permit that." says the woman, revelling in her authority.
I feet those in the queue behind me beginning to quieten and nudge and listen.
"Why?" I say with the most churlishly teenage distain I can muster.
"It's boiling water." announces Adolf delightedly. "You might burn yourself."

I ion my heels and pointed incredulously at the tray of FOUR STAINLESS STEEL LEAKY TEAPOTS OF BOILING WATER on the neighbouring customer's tray. "Er...I hate to be rude but...HELLO?!"
"Yeah, but they've got a SPOUT..." she states, clearly believing that this feature would override my point regarding the nature of these otherwise heat conducting, seeping balls of scolding liquid.
"...AND?..." I sceptically spit.
Perturbed by my unscripted question, she briefly searched for a response. "Well, they can't be spilt the same. They've got a SPOUT."
"Can't be spilt the same?!" I hold out a blistered, scorched, bubbling finger after my earlier run in with our example of these such teapots. "Look at THAT."
"Well, you're not using it properly. It's got a SPOUT."
"How the Hell do you think I poured it? Out of the side? Via osmosis?"
"You mustn't have used the S-P-O-U-T."
"Right. That's it. Stop saying spout. Give me my tub."
Her eyes scan my face anxiously. Clearly, the training on this issue didn't offer her any further reasoning. As her shoulders slumped, I felt defeat sweep her spout obsessed body. She reaches back for my tub of baby food and plonks it on the counter. "Well they won't pay out if you claim. I'll tell you that for nowt."
"Thank you for your help. I'll be sure to centre all my legal action on the teapots then."

Leaving behind a sea of agreeably stirred up, teapot testing customers, I sashay proud, victorious, empowered across the cafe with the tub of mashed courgette. I duly place my winnings in my all conquering cup, now brim full of stone cold water. After three hours of hoping the water would magically heat the food, I resort to frantically rubbing the cold, wet pot on my jumper.
Another sweet, sweet victory. Sort of.

Bunny Dump

Hang on one minute. Let's just have a look at what the Hell has gone on here.

I poo right. Who doesn't. And my hilarious parents think it's dead funny to make a massive song and dance about my excretions every time I pass even the tiniest of nugs. Pathetic, but I've learnt to let it go over my head. Usually, I just be a bit sick on them and that distracts them into a "Oh no! She's puked on my new jeans/the settee/our passports" wiping frenzy instead.

However, the juvenile banter that surrounds my stools is specially reserved for my embarrassment only. What's good for the goose is, apparently, no good for the gander.
I have never seen or heard Mum or Dad standing outside the bathroom door cheering on the other when it comes time for either of them to do their business. Yet I am never afforded the same privacy and respect. Plain bad mannered. 

Then, they go and take it to the next level. Last night some massive Bunny broke into our house and dumped his chocolate all over the table, the chairs, the floor...and this guy's a hero. No whinging. No jokes. No police called. No snide comments or childish sound effects. In fact quite the opposite. They were delighted, grateful even, that he dropped his eggs all over the house. Hello? Any brown mess I gather together neatly, kindly, tidily in my nappy is made out to be some dramatically disgusting disaster, whereas this fella slings his mud all over our lounge and those two imbeciles are singing his praises. This chap is king of PR. Must have some really media savvy spin doctors batting for him. Mum and Dad even had the nerve to insinuate his mess was all my fault! Said he left the chocolate for me. Unbelievable. I'm going to try that one next time I fill my nappy. 


I really don't know what this genetically modified mega rabbit has got over them both, but looking at the sizeable droppings he let off last night, he's not a guy to be messed with. Must be at least six foot. And stealthy as well. Came in the night, dumped his goods then poof! gone. The devious defacator. Sly if you ask me. Shifty. Sneaky. Smart though. Where could I get his number to arrange a tutorial?


P.S. Mum said I have to say "Happy Easter" to you. 
Happy Easter. Hope the Bunny didn't dump any more of his 'treats' on you. Mum and Dad are having a nightmare shifting the ones he left for me. 

Happy First Easter

Happy first Easter Boo!
Me and Dad hope the Easter Bunny brings you lots of eggs and treats - and if you have ANY TROUBLE WHATSOEVER getting through all those tasty nibbles, we'll do our best to help you out. We're good like that. (You have no problem allowing us to dispose of your chocolately load on any other day of the year, so let's not make Easter any exception thank you.)

You make me and Dad incredibly happy and speechlessly proud.
All our biggest, bestest ever love that we only save for the most specialest person we've ever known (that's you by the way)
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Name

In our bid to become more sociable, affable and generally less dislikeable beings, Boo and I took ourselves out into the world yet again today to learn more about how to function as pleasant members of society. 

We entered the room to a chorus of tuts, sniggers and universal eye rolling. Clearly, a good handful of these people had experienced us before. 

Sitting in a circle with our babies, the group leader asked for each Mum to introduce herself, then her baby, and then explain why we chose the name baby name we did. Hmm.

As I tuned out the white noise of various women prattling on about their baby's name, I stifled a disinterested yawn and began to wonder how I would respond to this question. A joke about filling the world with a landslide of Britneys and Whitneys and Gene Pitneys and any other celebrity inspired name was scrapped when I remember that I hadn't actually listened to the name of any one child in the circle yet, and we were now wittering on about baby six. I felt I should say something about our choice being inspired by a book or a song or a family member. Or something cleverer or more high brow like a fictional character from a play. Better still, a war poet. Ooo ooo, a little known constellation. The founder of stem cell research. Got it - a religious martyr.

Then I decided I'd mess them all about a bit. Say she had been named after a limited edition Black and Decker Screwdriver. A make of man hole cover. My first Goldfish (she was a little belter).

Then. The eyes were upon me. I spoke with the poise, charisma and precision of one of life's natural public speakers. The words were impactive, the sentiment stirring, the message powerful. My command of the crowd rivalled that of any other great orator. The words stood shoulder to shoulder with any address of Luther King, Churchill, Socrates.

"I'm Cathey, and this is Betty. We called her Betty because...we liked it. So we picked it. Cause we liked the sound of it and we thought it was dead cute and that."

After delivering my profoundly simple but intensely empowering speech, I stepped down from the podium, knowing my words had really hit the mark. Amid the blurred rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins, I heard the next mother begin to share the tale of her child's name, at which point I stopped to survey the deeply moved, wholly impressed faces of the other mothers. Obviously trying hard to mask their overawed expressions and hide their stunned amazement at my charmingly candid response, one 'pretended' to pick her nose, one 'feigned' daydreaming in order to reflect on my unpretentious wisdom, another left the circle to 'change her son's nappy' - probably phoning a friend to explain my revelation. Again, our unique voice had shone out like a beacon of unbridled hope and staggering luminosity in a sea of anxious approval seeking boastfulness.

Orchard Chicken

Okay, what I'm going to tell you IS bad. I know it is. I'm ashamed. But I just wasn't thinking.
Remember that.

Boo had been asleep in her cot, so I had removed her bib. When she woke, I popped on her shoes and her freshly washed and dried coat, and out we went for a walk. Half way to my Nan's (five minutes away), BB burped loudly. "Oh! Pardon you!" I said as I got a waft of the delicious'Orchard Chicken' Boo she had scoffed some three hours earlier. Trundling a few steps further along the pavement, along came another burp; accompanied by a mouthful of orange undigested 'Orchard Chicken'.
As panic swept my body, I prayed the orange of the carrot would not come into contact with the newly clean collar of Boo's coat, so I leaned in with a hooked finger and swiped away the offending vomit. Got it. All. Score.

I pushed the pram a few paces further, inspecting the orange curled finger held out in front of me.
What happened next is inexcusable. I cannot fathom my behaviour; I can only apologise to you, and indeed myself, for such a rash course of action.

Bibless, clothless, and evidently mindless, I ate it.
Don't know. Not A CLUE. It smelled okay when she burped . I panicked. Lost myself for a moment. I thought it would taste like it did in the tub. IT DIDN'T. God. Reliving it is making me heave. *Takes a deep breath*. It tasted, unsurprisingly, like acidic, burning, frothy, vile bile. It tasted like something SOMEONE ELSE has half digested, that their body has REJECTED. It DID NOT taste like 'Orchard Chicken'.

Why? Just...why? I could have wiped it on a wall, rubbed it on the leaves of a tree, even smeared it down the leg of my jeans. But no...I ATE IT. What a weirdo.
We will never buy 'Orchard Chicken' again. Personally, I think it's all 'Orchard Chicken's' fault. It shouldn't smell so good and sound so friendly and unassuming. Lulls idiots like me into some Derren Brown inspired false sense of hypnotic security.

So now you know. I've eaten actually vomit. Of my own free will.
And for my next trick...regurgitating baby poo. Now, what did I do with that freshly soiled nappy...?

Baby Massage

Due to building works, we had to park seven miles away. Betty was asleep. And it was CHUCKING IT DOWN. "I'll carry her in the car seat," I thought in a kindly, Mum-ish, unusually selfless moment.

When I last toted Boo about in her car seat she weighed slightly more than an empty crisp bag. Evidently, that was a looooooong time ago. With my blond hair and (not so) rippling muscles I fought my striking resemblance to Hulk Hogan in 1993's (not so) smash comedy Mr Nanny, to heave a changing bag and the 46st apple of my eye to her massage class.

Breezing in to the waiting area in my usually harassed, disorganised, and today rain saturated state, I noted, that due to our usual lateness there were no adult chairs left for my lardy backside. Pulling up a toddler chair, I sat looking massive and utterly ridiculous, knees under chin like some sort of irritated gnome who's misplaced his fishing rod.. Not wanting to admit what an A grade loser I am, having made this 'wrong chair choice' error, I stuck with my mistake for the cursory period of time this type of social situation requires.  I gave off my usual unapproachable vibe, then after feeling a safe amount of time had elapsed, I went from Lilliput chair to floor.

The instructor arrived and herded us all into the massage room where we dumped our gear and assumed our places at a mat. Stripping Betty down to her nappy, I noticed a familiar brown hue lurking inside. Excellent. I scanned the circle searching for another Mum who had been met with a similarly smelly welcome. Nope. Just me. Making ourselves as popular as ever, I interrupting the introductions (I'm never capable of remembering them anyway) to enquire about baby change facilities. After sluicing down my daughter, I returned to the fray. While getting back down to the mat I realised I had chosen to wear the jeans that expose an explicit expanse of my builders bum. At least we avoided introducing ourselves - we'll just be known as "The Gross-ingtons ". What's new.
After a short period of oiling and stroking and patting and singing/warbling, we moved from baby's legs to tummy. Total removal, a little slackening or complete leaving on of nappies was discussed. I opted down the middle, going for the 'undoing but leaving the nappy placed around the 'area''. See, not a total idiot. I have played before.
Sadly, this having played before was insufficient knowledge of how this situation would pan out. Yes, the nappy was in the vicinity, but it was not strapped to her. I had not made any allowance for the secret pressure washer Boo must have nestled in her bladder, a pressure washer that can, it turns out, fire off a jet of urea some powerful it can blast open the front of a loose nappy and liberally soak the knees of my jeans, the sleeves of my top and most importantly, the Children's Centre towel. This isn't at all embarrassing by the way. Discreetly balling up the urine sodden towel, I edged it up our mat until I was able to wipe down all offended areas (though I don't think the neighbouring mother took to kindly to me giving her splashed glasses the old once over). I then quietly place a muslin cloth over the mat and tried to get on with the session.

Guess where we sat.

We couldn't just get on with the session though, could we? Of course we bloody couldn't! You have read this before, right?
Betty next decides to start 'hiding' in the muslin cloth when I am attempting to massage her. Every time I remove the cloth from her face, she shrieks out excitedly, then goes back to grabbing handfuls of it and hiding again. Initially, various other Mums threw me a polite 'aww, that's cute' glance. Boo, delighted with the growing reaction to her disruption, continued to decimate the relaxing, meditative environment the instructor had spend twenty minutes creating, and the glances became markedly less tolerant. When BB began to roll onto her sides and laugh screechingly down the ears of the neighbouring babies, and then started to grab out at them to encourage them to respond, I felt was time for us to tidy away our things. She felt it was time to snatch hold of someone else's dummy and lob it across the room.

Relaxation? Well, that's that well and truly wrecked for everyone that attended. Good night, God bless.

No Pain, No Gain

She wants to show affection. I get it. It's cute. I suppose.

When The Poop wants to give you a kiss, she means business. And the only way she knows she can guarantee hitting the target that is YOUR FACE is to snatch hold of a huuuuge hand full of neck, shoulder or cheek and drag you into her field of attack. Hooking her razor like pincers into your grid, she tears, strains and heaves at your skin to ensure she can plant her drooling, dribbling, occasionally sick filled open mouth on your victimised cheek. Lovely. Once she has established initial contact, she will happily chew away at your suffering cheek for a good minutes or so, all the while grappling with your ill placed chin and pinching excitedly at your jugular. Such a shame that her fondness for her Dad and I become muddied by her uncontrollable need to choke us out.

Love you Dad.

I didn't realise quite how much she adores me until yesterday, when, after a day of 'affection', I surveyed the network of sore, red, swollen, scratches smattered about my neck and chest. I feel so loved. And sore.
Savlon please.