Put Your Hands Together For...

Boo has discovered clapping. When she first did it it, it was the cutest thing that has ever happened in the history of man (and that's not just my opinion, it's actual Guinness World Record fact). Arms fully extended in front of her, she tentatively coordinated her balled fists so that they met silently together in front of her swelling, proud chest. A big smile crept across her face as she looked up with the most blatant "I've just clapped" expression I have ever had the pleasure to witness. Then, spurred on by the uproarious cheering, whooping and deafening applause of her exultant audience (me), she repeated the action several times, pounding her tiny knuckles together harder and harder in the hope of achieving some sort of sound from the things. Her commitment to audibility was notably dedicated, so much so that I felt the need to intervene in order to avoid her fingers turning into bloodied stumps of self harm.

Opening The Poop's fingers I encouraged her to allow her palms to meet in order to generate the elusive noise she clearly craved. After a couple of successful attempts, Boo threw me off, with an "I know, I know, now get out of the way" jostle that I'm sure will become increasingly familiar over the coming months and years. 

Then...she clapped. WITH SOUND.

She then looked to me, her eyes wide with delight and waited for the impending fanfare. I cheered, roared, hip hipped, sang, chanted, whooped and danced about. She looked at me with a slightly disappointed air, as if my lack of an actual cartwheel suggested I wasn't really proud. Little sod.

To give me a chance to redeem myself, she clapped again. Fortunately, it was at this very moment that Dave returned from work, and was able to run in and add an additional element of merriment to the previously deficient gala of joy. As he entered the lounge to news of our daughter's latest accomplishment, we both immediately broke into the pre arranged carnival of back flips, Highland jigs, fire eating, synchronised dance moves and a costly programme of pyrotechnics set to music.

The Poop observed the spectacle wheeled out by her browbeaten parents to commemorate this historic occasion and, suitably impressed upon its conclusion, she showed off by rewarding our efforts with three or four well placed perceptible claps on the run. 

Oh God. Now she'd gone and done her very first ever round of applause. So we gave back word to Elton John and he turned up to belt out 'Clapping In The Wind' (why 'In The Wind' I dunno. I didn't ask; I didn't want to look ungrateful).

Currant Bun

You know last week, how I introduced you to the digable, sprinkable, squeezable splendour that is my best pal sand? Well this week I've found something else for you. It is something about which I feel equally passionate, fervent and obsessive. Because it is absolutely r-u-b-b-i-s-h.


That stupid burning orange ball.
It sits there in the blue stuff glaring down at us with its hot shinyness and bullies my body into oozing the slick, greasy liquid that spills from my brow and seems intent on dripping in my eyes. It even tries to impair my vision when I am in the important business of hitting stuff, a time when I certainly don't need beads of sweat clouding my judgement - the force with which I clang stuff together could easily see me lose one of the teeth I haven't even got yet. And not only does it get in my eyes, but it makes my armpits stick together. And it smells like Dad's shoes. I don't like it.

U-V-Ay!

Clearly Betty has designs on working the sunkissed, bronzed goddess look, FORCING A POO OUT every time I put sun tan lotion on her face. This is not a joke or exaggeration - this is ACTUAL FACT, as evidenced in this photo.

Right, fine. Another dirty protest it is then...*strains*
*heaves*...when will they learn..?

Put it Away

Good weather. Great innit?

Um. Mostly.

You know what's not great?

1. Bearing witness to those chomping away at a non-existent rung of economic contribution, who, having wobbled their way into two sizes too small garmentry, must then expose vast expanses of pasty, mottled, stretch marked, dimpled hide to my revolted eye.
2. Unwittingly gazing upon the freakishly long, gnarled toenails of an elderly chap in sandals while queuing to pay for batteries in B&Ms. 
3. Catching an eyeball full of streaky brown stained legs, complete with violently orange patches of fake tanned dry skin scattered about knees, achilles tendons, ankle bones and toe knuckles.
4. Noting a fifty odd year old mumsy looking, homely old bird toting about town in the exact same summer top I am currently wearing.
5. Standing in multi-storey car park lifts staring straight into the naked pus slick shoulders of a topless little fifteen year old greasy Herbert.
6. Seeing gargantuan 'lived in' mammaries swing heftily from strappy, ill fitting, unsupportive vest tops.
7. Observing a wide variety of oddly placed terribly predictable tattoos including - swallows, spiders webs, British bull dogs and Tweety Pies.
8. Having to tolerate the sight of sinewy middle aged men in faded sleeveless t-shirts who seem to think their muscle mass is still comparable to that which they commanded in the eighties, when they last wore the t-shirt or hit a gym.

Bubbles

How GOOD is being a kid?

There is no need for Niagara Falls. No cause to seek out the Great Barrier Reef. No requirement for the Grand Canyon. The Pyramids are so-so. The Leaning Tower of Pisa's okay. The Great Wall of China is perfectly satisfactory.
But they're not exciting.

You know the world must be a fabulous place when all you need to be fascinated, mesmerised, captivated for hours, is soapy water. And a stick with a hole in it.

Wel jel.

Leafy Cheshire

Had arranged to go and see a friend's new baby today. Got there and she wasn't in. Hmm. Second time in two weeks she's cancelled our arrangements. Maybe it's...me? Ha! No. Don't be daft. I'm such fun, easy going, non judgemental company - that can't possibly be the case. She's probably kicking herself. Bet my mobile's been ringing OFF THE HOOK with...oh, no, no missed calls. She's probably too busy crying. It's okay Jen, don't worry about it, honestly. So I invested in petrol I can't afford to sit in a sweltering hot car with a tiny baby to drive twenty five miles to see you on one of the very last days of my rapidly dwindling maternity leave while accompanied by a melted box of choccies for you. But really, don't worry about it. I'll just eat the chocs, spread malicious rumours about you and never speak to you again. It's fine.

So. The weather's beautiful, and we're in the middle of Wilmslow. What are we going to do with the day? Having irritatingly left my invite for cocktails at Coleen Rooney's pad pinned to our cork notice board, I rummaged through the outer corners of my brain for what there was to do for free out here in Leafy Cheshire. I drove around a bit, then I drove around a lot. Turns out 'free' + 'Leafy Cheshire' are not bezzie mates. Ooh I know. Cash, pretension, good schools...what's missing? A National Trust building.

Dunham Massey would sort of be on the way home, so stately gardens it was. With The Poop becoming hotter and more agitated in the Micra, I took to fully winding down both windows, wafting maps and blowing in my daughter's face. Sadly this combo does not air conditioning replace. It simply ensures that Boo started to smell like my cheese and onion crisp breath, and that I repeatedly mounted the kerb. In Leafy Cheshire. Where it is frowned upon. If I did it in St Helens, people would just be impressed I didn't hit a pedestrian - but folks round here have values. Makes me feel uncomfortable all this respect for life.

Approaching the Dunham area, I stumbled upon the thought that a car park will, certainly round here, require payment. Before this thought had completed the short trek across my mind, I found myself parallel parking in front of some quaint little cottages in the heart of a beautiful village. Heaving my sweaty carcass from our oversized Micra-wave, I reached in for my daughter. Peeling back her perforated plastic lid and testing her temperature, she appeared to be perfectly cooked, so I poured her in my travel mug and off we went.

Musical Mayhem

There was definitely Music. And clearly I caught the session on a day when the Mayhem was also running TOTALLY AMOK. As I pulled up on the car park, you could literally taste the disorder. I was in the right place. We shuffled through reception and, with baited breath, I whispered my enquiry: "Musical Mayhem?" The mentalist behind the counter nodded knowingly before sweeping us through the centre to the heart of the madness.

We arrived at the designated room where prior to entry, we were urged to sign in (a disclaimer probably in light of the chaos about to ensue). As our helper lady leafed through looking for correct page, the unmistakeable stench of havoc seeped from the turning pages, hit my nose and gave me a blast of the million Mayhems that had gone before. A bolt of excitement surged through my body as I quickly scribbled our lives away, took a deep breath, then entered the room. Late as ever, we entered as the group leader completed a crazy-ass talk about fire exits. And from there it went totally haywire.

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.