Pat-A-Cake, Pat-A-Cake

Having now convinced myself that I can cook (following my recent baby food triumphs), I decided to really push my luck and attempt to prepare something for adults. Yes, I've cornered guzzleability for my easily pleased and other option-less daughter. But for my next challenge I'll coup a dish which exists beyond the realms of mushed up veg.

When meeting with the more refined adult palate, my latest culinary victory must encompass actual edibility. It must embrace actual form and most importantly, it must comprise actual flavour. 

A tall order. Especially for such a shining beacon of gastronomic ineptitude as my heavy handed self.

So, wishing to marry together my desire to churn out passable foodstuffs and my recent shallow, principleless, band wagon mounting, fleetingly fashionable patriotic desire to commemorate the Diamond Jubilee of our dear Queen's reign, I decided the right dish could tick both boxes. 

So, weighing up the options and having the intelligence to ensure I do not saddle myself with something I'll be asked to cook for people every two bloody minutes, I decided to bake. People don't eat cake all the time. They're a special occasion thing. I don't mind being a special occasion chef. So I chose to bake an indisputable British classic. The Victoria Sponge.

That's me. Stirring stuff, adding flour and drinking tea. With an ironing board in the background.
Don't get that on This Morning.

Exquisite Erosion

It's taken waaaay too long for me to find about this. And you didn't pipe up, did you?

After eight long months suffering the humdrum world of tripping from eating to sleeping to pooing to eating, I have come across an escape of breathtaking proportions. After almost thirty five weeks of enduring the achingly uninspiring, gaping void that is my life, I have finally tracked down what was missing. After two hundred and forty three days of unimaginable blandness and inconceivable tedium, I have discovered my purpose. After five thousand eight hundred and thirty two hours of merely existing, I have finally, FINALLY stumbled up my entire reason for being.

SAND.

S-A-N-D.

Just look at it. Even the word teems with humbling magnificence.

Each joyful granule of sedimentary goodness is a voyage of discovery, marvel and unadulterated pleasure. If you've never experienced this residual wonder of nature (which clearly you haven't, or you would have said) it is the best thing in the whole world - and I say that without exception. The hearty fare dished up by mother has now paled into swill-like insignificance. The raging bonfire of parental adoration has faded to a meaningless flicker of negligible warmth. Because of SAND.

KangaBoo

After a shaky start Betty has finally sussed the door bouncer thingy.
Not being in possession of a trigonometry degree, installing the giggling, thrashing Boo between the comedically wayward straps requires a sense of humour very few would struggle to muster at 06:45. It also demands a level of strength, patience and dedication you'll understandably find difficult to associate with my pitifully useless good self. But, thank God, I stuck with it.

Because to watch The Poop willingly dangle from little more than a coat hanger while happily enduring atomic wedgies and elatedly slamming into door frames is a sight of such joyful ridiculousness worth every second of the previous toil and frustration. Her beaming yet slightly concussed face fixed delightedly on mine, she swings, bounces and hops with the giddy wild abandon of a drunken St Patrick's Day Michael Flatley on fast forward.
In new tap shoes.
On hot coals.
At a Guinness convention.

Perfect Timing

An Average Day
0.43%  running

1%       eating, sleeping, cleaning and clothing myself

3%       sterilising bottles, dummies and stand by sterilisers

4%       picking hard skin off my feet

5%       bathing, feeding, changing and clothing The Poop

5.5%    picking all the bits of hard skin up off the floor

6%       trying to pay the window cleaner by scrounging round
            mantelpieces/kitchen drawers/coat pockets

7.07%  blogging

8%       mopping up spillages, secretions and general oozings

10%     playing loudly, messily and far too competitively Betty

11%     moaning about going back to work

16%     pondering the reliableness the baby monitor/the baby
            monitor reception/the baby monitor batteries

23%     assembling prams/disassembling prams/installing car
            seats/uninstalling car seats/packing large prams
            into tiny car boots/unpacking large prams from tiny
            car boots

This is how we roll, albeit rarely, cause the bloody pram is such a ballache to keep messing about with.

Romeo and Drooliet

I thought this bit was over.
Spent the majority of the night repeatedly darting my naked, cellulite spattered frame across our blind-less/curtain-less/completely see-in-able landing. Starkers, shivering and with a head like a bag of chips I hovered, one eye open, over the Poop as she fought her swollen throat, heavy eyelids and the best intentions of her increasingly irritated mother. She juggled the see-sawing importance of sucking her dummy and actually being able to breathe with a surprising level of commitment to the dodie, occasionally turning such an impressive shade of blue that Mr Tommee Tippee himself would have wept with pride. I comforted her germy little body through each rattling breath, my weary boobs determinedly poking their Spaniel like qualities through the cot bars at any given opportunity. Nosey sods.

I woke this morning curled up, foetal stylee, in the corner of the sleep deprivation chamber, unrefreshed, annoyed and with the imprint of the cot railing across my forehead. Excellent. Pulling back Boo's sheets, I was momentarily swept away by an unexpected gush of watery snot and while grabbing hold of her wardrobe to stop a succession of sneezes blowing me clean down the stairs, I drew an intuitive conclusion. She's got a cold.
I know the signs, see.

So what to do with the day? Despite her bubbling nostrils and gunky eyes, Boo was ready to flash a winning smile at the faintest whiff of her own way, so I decided that a walk and some fresh air in her gills should unclog some gunge. After encasing her in every chunky cardy and coat she owns then subsequently spending three quarters of an hour grappling her tightly packed, unbendable limbs into her pram, off we went, both sweating.

With The Poop's chesty breaths sounding remarkably like some sort of small engine we walked over to the park sounding cool and dead fancy with our 'motorised' pram. Either that or people will have thought I had shoved a bit of card in the wheel spokes to make it sound engine-ified. Which, unless you are eleven, is really not cool. Oh. Now the withering glance from that Jack Russell makes sense.

Read All About It

I can CATEGORICALLY CONFIRM that the St Helens Reporter should be immediately absolved of any association with the Leveson Enquiry. Insinuations that my phone was hacked, that my bins were rooted through or that friends have been approached to divulge salacious details of my squalid past are total and utter fabrication.

I HAVE got mahoossive teeth. Betty IS worryingly bald. That wallpaper DOES make our house look like a nursing home.
This is where the accuracies between my life and that of the together-looking charlatan in the picture start and absolutely bloody end. Somebody definitely didn't do their homework.

Firstly: an i-phone? On maternity pay? Er...hello?
Sure, my 'two yoghurt pots attached by a piece of string' don't rival the coverage offered by Vodafone, but their monthly minutes allowance is beyond generous.

Secondly: "warts and all posts"?
Yes, I am incapable of resisting the urge to squeeze and dig at every blocked blackhead and pulsing pore on my grease glazed grid. I've endured more than a handful of scuffles with my aggressively inflamed haemorrhoidal tormentors. My fungal nail infection is rife, my nasal hair is wildly unkempt and I've recently befriended the most long standing of my verrucas, Pauline.
But WARTS? Don't be so disgusting.

Tomorrow's Chip Paper

The journalist from the St Helens Reporter phoned today to gather more information. The call came at 9:10am and in true maternity leave lolling about stylee, my synapses had not yet fired up for the day. Presumably I was on speaker phone for the benefit of the reporters at the New York Times and the guys over at the Sydney Bugle, so I decided it might be a good idea to get my most posh voice out. They all waited patiently while I rooted it out of my pencil case, gargled salt water and warmed it with a few arpeggios; these journos are clearly well versed in satisfying the demands of a celebrity. Bugger.
Note to self: next time demand a bag of only red Jelly Tots in exchange for my precious time. 

Halfway through perfectly annunciating the answer to my first question, I suddenly realised that the actual words I was saying were totally rubbish. Yes, I was pumping out diction the Queen herself couldn't match, but with my brain still somewhere under our duvet, I chunnered on just saying ANY words, and sod's bloody law, they were the all the crapest words you can image. Like "nice". And "egg". And "haem-agglutination".
But in the spirit of my life long battle against any form of silence, I ploughed on valiantly. Foaming at the mouth with verbal diarrhoea (a tasty image for you), I continued to tread water, desperately searching for inspiration in every next word that left my lips. I reached out and ripped frantically at the lawnmower chord that hangs handily from my ear, in the hope of encouraging some news worthy utterances from my flapping trap. It took a few tugs, but suddenly the old noggin engaged. I was away. Charismatic, accessible and charming, yet still managing to retain an air of being better than anyone else, I rattled through my responses exactly as Max Clifford would have planned.

The reporter then arranged a time for the photographer to come and take pictures. Due at that dental witching hour of 2.30pm, it was now 9:20am.
And...mental torment...COMMENCE.

What should Betty wear? What's my best side? Why won't she smile to order? How tidy does the house need to be? What can I do about the massive spot on my chin? Why don't my hands match? Is it really necessary to take a photograph containing my head?

Stop Press

With our Brilliance in Blogging finalist status creating waves of interest, adoration and global celebration across the world wide web, our AA list celebrity standing has finally been confirmed with the recruitment of at least three new readers. Don't be confused; we are now AA list as in the next people after Z list - like seats in the theatre.
Armed with our blogging genius, we sit, proud, occasionally daring to peep out from behind such so what? legends as Andy Crane, Dean Gaffney and Barry 'Cillit Bang' Scott. As I witnessed Lisa Riley squeeeeze her way past Eunice Hutheart to assume her massive, albeit rightful place on our row...I found myself up, shouting, screaming, stamping my feet and demanding an upgrade. We're better than THIS. We write our OWN GAGS. At the very least we should be on the same row as Russ Abbott.

So. I hit the media. And I hit it HARD. Column inches, that's what'll edge us to the very front of the celebrity auditorium. Harper's Bazaar, Vogue, Fly Fishing Journal. They all got a call from me. Incredibly rudely/totally understandably, they didn't bite. So I had a rethink.
What about if I go local? It's cute and will look so much more endearing on This Is Your Life. Who needs an international glossy when I can access the thinking man's chronicle right here on my doorstep.
The St Helens Reporter. Maybe I should throw those guys a crumb?

Pets Corner

I took Mum for a wander round Pet's Corner at Sherdley Park.

Apparently that's an ostrich. He was a proper nark. Kept eyeing us through the fencing for ages, then suddenly started stabbing his head violently through the wire mesh in my direction. Clearly the wallaby at the back there has played before - steered well clear. Spent most of our visit cowering in the corner. Sharing a cell with a giant bird nutter that can run at sixty miles an hour will do that to you.

Wonder what this guy's in for? Probably smell. Locked up to contain his stink. Wire fencing was a mistake then. Something more sealed would have served purpose better. And he clearly had a dicky tummy. Must have tried that fruit puree Mum was touting last week. But when you gotta go, you gotta go. He was making a right mess of himself...in fact he was making a total ass of himself. Ha! Ass - I'll let you have that one.

Look at this fella. Very colourful. Good looking little chap, isn't he? And didn't he bloody know it. Strutting round all pea-cock sure (I'm on FIRE with the puns today). You're a nice shade of blue and I like what you've done with your feathers and that, but you ruin it with all that squawking and showing off. No prizes for guessing if he's had an ASBO. Watch the birdie? No, you watch the birdie - he's getting right on my *tries to think of bird pun*...nope...nerves.

BST

British Summer Time. Long days, light nights, people kidding themselves. The sun has got his hat on, very occasionally. Brilliant isn't it?

No. No it is NOT.

Because this year, in addition to greeting half an hour of solar pleasure by digging around the garage for our wind bent gazebo, as well as being forced to socialise at barbeques (wearing brand new flipflops which are later replaced by a pair of kindly donated mens sport socks), and watching my skin become not just pasty white, but actually transparent to boot, we have an further hurdle of joy to surmount. And it's not having to pretend I care about the Olympics or the fact we have to pay more for stamps (both of which are not exactly lightening my load).

This year the good old GMT + 1 has become what feels like GMT + 13. Because Betty, in the absence of blackout blinds, has decided that sun = morning. At 4.45am.
This, clearly, is bad. It is HORRENDOUS on a Saturday morning.
No human should be kicking about at 4.45am on a Saturday. 4.45am is for owls, bats and the sub human scum who have flights to catch*. It is not a time for our daughter to be a) awake b) banging hard plastic items against her cot bars c) selfishly wheeling our her most cute, 'I'm delighted to see you' expressions so you can't even be annoyed with her.

What a little WITCH. 

The Sponge Messiah

After yesterday's fantabulously gross discovery, my time wallowing in the tub is now consigned to the archives of filth history. In light of this I decided to add a bit of mojo to my shower time. 

So here he is. 

The Lord himself. In all his natural sponge glory. 
Maybe it's a message? Thou shalt not covet another man's Power Shower? Whatever He's on about, He defo doesn't look happy. Probably stressing about all the dead skin and mucus about to head His way.

The Lord moves in mysterious ways. On this occasion in a circular, exfoliating motion.

I Had A Bath

That's right guys. Oh wait...that sounds bad.
I do shower, frequently. Honest.
Once a week, whether I need to or not, I'll be there, having a right good how's your father.

But today I had A BATH. Swear down.
I know.

Dave's Mum has Betty once a week, in a warm up activity I don't ever like to call "I'm going back to work soon, so she needs to get used to you".
This week I saw MY CHANCE. My opportunity to HAVE A BATH - IN. THE. DAY.
Heeeello!

Now before we get into all this bath stuff, let's just iron one thing right out. If you're one of those people who  peddles the "I don't like baths, I'm a shower person" crap, and then you back up this ridiculousness by making mention of "sitting stewing in your own filth" then you are being MENTAL. The very beauty of a bath is just that - you sit stewing in your own filth. Marinading in your own grime. Pickling yourself in bodily secretions. Yum. What? They're your own, and there's soap. And soap cancels everything manky out. Especially if it smells dead nice. Amen.

So, I went for a run (this information is not key to the story; just wanted to remind you that I'm THE DANGLERS because I'm still going). That way I'd feel like I'd really earned it. I returned, sweaty, rained on and greased up with the slick pores of one due 'on' lady. And I began the prep.
Dizzyingly hot water - check.
Crap, audibly braincell depleting celeb magazine - check.
Highly scented, eczema inducing bubbles - check.
Pathetic, dust shrouded candle which hasn't been lit since Boo hit the scene - check
Sweeeeeeet.

Table Manners

We were muddling along in a fairly tidy manner.
As an avid consumer of myriad objects that stay still long enough, animate or otherwise, Boo will totally demolish anything that is presented on a slow moving spoon. And I do mean ANYTHING - salad, sprouts, sofa foam. If an odd blob of porridge or a wayward splodge of yoghurt tries to make a run for it, she's there; mouth under the descending spillage before it can hit the floor.
But in the last week, there's been a definite shift.

So it's got a little lumpier. And yes there's more of it. But really, is this absolutely necessary?

Having recently upped her food texture and chunk count, she has decided that chewing is for nerds. While her food still qualifies as passably consumable and adequately edible (what doesn't with this kid?), the mushy stuff has become a rather more interesting proposition for her hands than her mouth. As soon as it nears her chops, she digs in. Fingers first. Even if the spoon successfully runs the bowl to lips gauntlet without coming a cropper, the minute the fare is deposited on her tongue, she instantly forces her full fist into her face and begins digging about in it's contents.

Jeez Louise!

I'm a finalist. I'm a FINALIST.
I'M. A. F-I-N-A-L-I-S-T!!

How on EARTH did this happen?
Don't get me wrong - this blog is gooood. The writing is top notch, the laughs are hearty and the author is well fit. Yet weirdly, despite my frustratingly humble ways, it's friends I'm lacking in. This blog is a pretty lonely place. It's befriended by fewer people than Rik Waller at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
So how on EARTH did this happen?

It's not like I put that much pressure on my huuuuge family, or coerced that many neighbours, or hounded that many terrified, injunction seeking strangers.

Word To Yo Mother

Betty's talking has been going great guns of late.
In the early days of our training, Boo copied my mouth shapes. We operated a cut price French Mime School for Babies (that's not a new Channel 4 documentary by the way). She managed to master the "ooo", a passing "ba", and most importantly an occasional "ma", but she was rubbish at walking into the wind.

We really started cooking with gas when she began throwing the sounds in as well. I spent a good few months working on these until she had her gameshow audience sound effects down to a tee, but I'll be honest with you; all the whooping and ooing got a bit boring for a while there, but after teasing me with many a "mmmm" amid her ramblings, I was sure it was in the bag.

She then progressed to these sort of under breath whisperings, like the bad tempered muttering you get from a teenager when they've been told off. She would sit in her highchair/car seat/pram murmuring almost inaudibly for hours at a time. Again; cute, but these bumbling incoherences were not exactly a carnival of exhilaration nor were they the validation I was searching for. But I fought on, keeping one unwavering eye on the prize.

Medic?

Okay, I get it. You don't like fussing. You're not a fusser. You pride yourself on it.
And you know me - I don't like to cause a kerfuffle. I'm not the moaning type. See the good in everyone me. Easy going. Laid back. Tolerant and accepting. But, just out of interest, why are my parents such entire, inclusive, far-reaching muppets?

I have coughed, spluttered and generally phelgmed my way through the last seven days to little sympathetic avail. What's a baby gotta do round here to get a little medical attention?

"It's a bit of a germ," she says. "It'll pass," he decides.
Since when did those two have an expert knowledge of the intended escalation and conclusion of every human affliction? You know what it is? Laziness. Can't be bothered trotting me down to the Quack for a quick once over. Chest infections like this don't shift themselves you know. But it's not them that's ill, just tiny, helpless, vulnerable little me.

Jog

I've been for a run/shuffle along the pavement every day this week at 6am. Not gonna get all excited or proud of myself - it's just a knee jerk reaction.  Still the honeymoon period after THOSE photos. But today was a test - Saturday morning, better/lazier/more indulgent options available. But there I was. 

I'll give you the nod when it wears off.

Ever the sportswoman...New Balance Perspiration Control top,
MP3 'posers' armband, yesterday's make up.

Dave

With keeping the house from turning into an environmental health concern, writing this and ensuring my daughter remains clean, fed and reasonably stimulated (loading the dishwasher is fabulous for the fine and gross motor skills of the seven month old, right?), my husband barely gets a look in. If there was an award for spending hours just FAFFING ABOUT, I would totally own it. I get up, dedicate a considerable amount of focused and unwavering time on buggering about, turn round and notice Dave crawling off to bed.

He pretends to be okay about the busyness and the fact my head is often obscured by a little girl or a Christening banner or a laptop screen. That's one of the reasons I married him - his selflessness. Well, that and the fact that he is scared to death of me, so I always get my own way.

Body Shop Party

As a woman with, as I see it, a refreshingly lax and carefree approach to beauty regimes, I often feel out of my depth at these sorts of things. My toiletries and beauty products are, at least in part, half used testers that were on 'whoops!' from ASDA. Talking about hair care and make up application and skin types is just not my bag.

Hair care? Wash it. 

Make up? Slap it on.

Skin type? That sort that lies all over you and holds the rest of your gubbins together.

With my scant knowledge of all things beautifying and hygienic, I have learnt to sit smiling vacantly and nodding inanely in the vague hope that I can just get through the evening by only committing to buying one thing I'll never use. Sadly though, this is often not enough. What with me being A WOMAN and thus shouldering the burden of being expected to know about these things, conversations about exfoliation and micro-dermabrasion are an area about which I have honed a 'treading water' repertoire of key phrases. Eg.

"Do you have that in guava?"
"I love Vitamin E me."
"I swear by (insert name of a product you just overheard someone else say)"
"Please give me another scintillating piece of information about Aloe Vera."

Chippy

I love Chippy Teas.

I absolutely love Chippy Teas.

I absolutely completely love Chippy Teas.

There is no meal more indulgent, more easy or more friendly. Yes the big, fat, massive chips have been reheated in the fryer so many times that my gluttonous arteries turn to pate at the mere sight of them. Yes the puckered, greasy, nutritionally void meaty length masquerading as a sausage has probably been at some point scraped from the floor and walls of an abattoir. And yes, I did say meaty length.

But heart attack, sky high cholesterol and morbid obesity aside, I love Chippy Teas.

Beautiful.
(Provided you are able to ignore the end of the sausage - which is just plain creepy.)

Idiots

Not happy.
There are some people in this world, let's for the purposes of this post call them idiots, who really get on my nerves. These idiots do stupid things. Like 'unknowingly' boil kettles without filling them or 'accidentally' ply diesel tanks with unleaded petrol. These idiots also 'absent-mindedly' over fill bins.
Exactly. You can't 'absent-mindedly' over fill a bin. Yes, it takes laziness for it to initially become over full, but it also takes a committed level of brute strength, a considerable degree of ramming and a conscious amount of out and out stuffing stuff in it to get it absolutely JAM PACKED.

Then, after days of squeezing and forcing and crushing and bending, along comes the loser who decides to empty it. This poor unsuspecting soul wrestles in earnest to remove the taut bin bag from its shell, but to little avail, the only progress made being pathetic scraps of the bin liner tearing from the top edge of the wedged vessel of rot. Hands now sullied by various surface teabags and the scrapings of this morning's cereal bowls, the naive victim concedes that they must instead drag the whole bin outside in order to empty it sufficiently. Nothing new up to that point. So let's spice it up a bit.

Let's imagine, if we can, that it is in fact Bin Day, so any previous wrestling with the now shredded bin bag can be witnessed by the whole street.
Let's also imagine that this is to be done after the greatest yield of April precipitation SINCE RECORDS BEGAN and that as the final day of the month, today culminates with a series of show stopping, attention seekingly torrential monsoon style downpours.
Let's finally imagine that this heaving sack of refuse is composed of roughly 5% food packaging, 15% food waste and 80% sickeningly fermented nappy poo.

I didn't need to imagine.
As I stood in the cascading ran, scratching and tearing at the utterly useless bin liner, I frustratedly tipped the whole bin upside down. It was at this point, in full view of the neighbours already marvelling at the remarkable weather, I found something even more unusual for them to gaze upon. As my "this is RIDICULOUS" temper rose, I proceeded to fire hundreds of used nappies out of the bin and onto the pavement and into the gutter. After feeling the wet thud of bum mud hit my flip-flopped feet at least five times, I then scurried about, saturated clothes clinging to my raging body, scooping up handfuls of poo bags and slam dunking them into the rising water level in the bin.

Idiots. This is the term that society, understandably, has bestowed upon people who make just this sort of thing happen. People who are forgetful and lazy. People who are short sighted. After I succeeded in stuffing THAT MUCH into it over a good three days, I defo should have talked Dave into emptying it.

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