Greased Lightning

Boo's first denim jacket.
What a co-incidence she picked the one with her name on the back.
Mental.

New Shoes

Betty's first ever shoe fitting today. 

In light of my bunioned, corned, ingrowing toenailed, fungal infected feet - things will be different for The Poop. And now she is attempting a few steps when holding onto furniture, the time had come. So we took ourselves off to Clarks.

The assistant did look slightly baffled when I presented tiny Boo and requested a fitting, so I whipped out one of my gnarled trotters. Revolted and now in urgent need of counselling, she nodded and dutifully obliged. While the assistant was gone, we sat waiting on the benches. I looked at Betty's cute little face as she studied the shop, intrigued. Then that familiar glazed expression suddenly swept her face.  

She went red.

She grunted.

Then the stench hit. Just as the unsuspecting assistant returned. Say nothing I thought.

She presented the foot measuring device thingy and knelt down by The Poop's feet, her face instantly crumpling at the pungent odour that had obviously traversed the short trajectory from nappy to lady shop assistant's nose. Say nothing I thought. Fighting her instinctive compulsion to recoil in horror, the poor woman pressed on with the measuring far more quickly than she might have under fresher, less polluted circumstances. Once all measured the assistant stood, assuming a position a good six feet from where we were sitting, before sharing, through pursed lips, details of Boo's length and width fitting. Say nothing I thought. She then scuttled off to locate the tiny selection of shoes available in The Poop's size.

The assistant returned with a couple of tiny shoe boxes and a stink induced grimace etched about her horrified face. She expertly affixed each Velcro sponsored shoe to Betty's tootsies, before again standing a safe distance from the wafts of poo pong to allow us a few moments to inspect the footwear. It was while studying option one that I noted the assistant's desire to catch the attention of another member of staff. When she thought I wasn't looking, our assistant pinched her nose then pointed at us. The other woman mouthed "b-a-b-y?" at her. Our woman shook her head and mouthed "M-u-m".
Say something I thought.

Art

So an art gallery. What's that about?

People put scribbles of paint up on a wall and idiots like my Mum spend good money on wandering round pointing at these 'works'. Er...excuse me...I hate to tell you this, but THAT'S A BIT OF SCRIBBLE. I produce neater stuff in my nappy.


Even the ones that are supposed to look like something don't really look like the thing they're supposed to be. If you want a nice picture of something, just take a photograph. I get photographs. They look exactly like the thing you are looking at. Very clever. And the ones on our stairs are a brilliant way of keeping Mum entertained as she repeats the names of every person in our family in them. Then she looks at me. I think that's because she's proud of herself. Either that or she wants me to copy her. If it is because she's proud, she needs to grow up - she's known all those people for almost thirty years. She should know their names by now.


Anyway, galleries. Not only are they are waste of time and money, they're also full of pretentious people who talk nonsense about the artistic merits of a urinal turned on its side or a half peeled banana. I reckon I could charge them good money to have a gander round the tray table of my high chair after dinner. For an extra 50p I've even let them give it a wipe an' all.

Milk Bottles

Look at those.

Pasty white, King Eddie potato knees topped by a sizeable smattering of cellulite rippling across my ample thighs. A side order of greying dry skin patches which cover most of each knee, having spent the last ten months kneeling on the floor changing nappies, complete the inviting ensemble.

Delicious.

So why am I baring these unsightly monstrosities to every unsuspecting eye that has the misfortune to stumble upon them? Because it's hot. 

And that's coming from me; the repitilian woman who spends most summers in thermal undies. 

So it must be H-O-T. 

No, not sunny. Just clothes sticking to your back, fan on at night, "that deodorant's rubbish" clammyness. Which, if you're a big fan of body odour and over full washing baskets, is excellent. And if you have a sneaking obsession with repugnant limbs, you are absolutely quids in.

The Gallery

The Poop's first trip around an art gallery today.

I know. What am I doing taking a ten month old to a gallery? Surely she'll be bored to tears, and thus an absolute nightmare who will cry, scream, howl and whinge her way around every exhibition and consequently spoil the whole experience for every full price paying stoney-faced patron milling about the joint?

Two words for you.

Rolf Harris.

The Australian singing, dancing, composing, swimming, painting, television personality never fails to hit the spot with audiences young and old. With one exception. 

Yep.

Boo.

It wasn't that she wasn't interested in his work; she just found it a bit of a challenge to her insatiable penchant for classical French Renaissance art of the 1497 - 1529 period. She felt the juxtaposition of his particular palette combinations used against a broad but ill researched range of subject matter quite jarring at times, and his play with light and shade was just not as piquant as she believed the more well composed images could have warranted. 

Added to that, The Poop has always hated 'Jake The Peg', so piping this through the gallery speakers on a loop for the entirety of our stay did not go down to rave reviews.

Do Do

Went for a lovely walk around Haigh Hall with my pregnant friend Sarah today.

The start of the school summer holidays, the sun shining, great company and a spot of lunch. Gorgeous.

Until I rolled the pram through a massive clump of doggie. Winner.

Is that it, you're thinking, right? Well no, it isn't. Under that black plastic casing above the wheel there is a huuuuuge chunk of the stuff, wedged tight, the wheel occasionally shaving off slivers of it and disposing of these pieces behind the pram, with me ultimately having to stop every 100 yards to scrape the soles of my slip-ons along the top of passing kerbs. The word you're looking for is: "loser".


We wandered though the park, politely tolerating the frequent wafts of stink which were intent on seeping their way into our pleasant conversation. Still, kept the squirrels at bay. Except that one with a peg on his nose. Ingenious little bugger.
After arriving back at the car with the majority of the stool still intact, I banged the wheel on the pavement a few times, but to no avail, so had to resort to tying a plastic bag around the offending corner before chucking the pram back in the boot.

Choo Choo

Betty's first ever train ride.
Considering she's ten months old, that sounds really bad, like we keep her in a sensory deprivation chamber under the stairs or somat. In fact come to think of it, she's never been on a bus either. Or a tram. Today was her first ever opportunity to sample the delights of British public transport. 

We boarded the Weirdo Express to Liverpool amid the atypical assortment of nutcases one would associate with rail travel at 10.30am on a weekday; the teenage lad wearing eyeliner who keeps singing, out loud and out of tune, to his Ipod while graffiti-ing the back of the seat in front of him with various words for male genitalia; the creosoted, mini skirted, leopard printed 46 year old who is clearly Huyton's answer to Nancy Del'Olio; the middle aged fella carrying a 1992 Kwik Save bag who keeps digging in his ear with a pencil and then sniffing the end. You, know, just your stereotypical Wednesday morning freak show.

But then, the oddball-athon took a turn for the more interesting, upon the presentation of the Ticket Inspector. Looked harmless enough. Pretty standard. And then he spoke.

Well, I say spoke. He lisped, stuttered, mumbled and stammered his way through what I presume, spit flecks  liberally coating my cheeks aside, were intended to be social pleasantries. After presenting our tickets, said official pressed through the carriage treating every other patron to a token smattering of the residual breakfast lurking about his teeth.
So far, so disgusting.
It was this at this point that I decided The Poop could do with a greater level of security to shield her from nutters abounding from our carriage, so placed her between her Nanna and Auntie Christy.

After cruising through the pulsing metropolis of derelict property that is Roby, back came Gareth Gates to check our tickets again. After spitting more Morse Code in our direction, he scuttled away through a little door at the front of the train. 


As we began to slow into the next station, I felt a tap on my shoulder and I turned to find the ticket inspector leaning forward, half crouched, with a pained expression on his face.
"Any chance you could do my job for me at this next station?" he stuttered incredibly slowly.
"Erm....pardon?" I said, regretting my retort as soon as it left my lips.
Three weeks later, after he had choked his way through a selection of squeaks, hums, beeps and murmurs, somewhere within his beat boxing, I heard the phrase, "I've just split my pants".

D.I.Y

I have decorated all day. With a ten month old in tow.

I am now a mere husk of a human being.

I am tired, dirty, sweaty and have lost the will to live. Consequently, in tidying up after an incredibly long day of pasting and cutting round corners and matching up the longest pattern repeat in the history of man, I seem to have scooped my sense of humour up with the off cuts of wallpaper that were scattered about the floor and sandwiched the lot in our over stuffed bin. 

I have no jokes to tell you, no witty banter to relay and most certainly not a single comical jape to share.

I do however have varnish in my hair, incredibly sticky hands and brown smears of old paste latticing my t-shirt, if these are any good to you?

No?

Oh. 

You'd better call back tomorrow then, when I'll see if I can rustle up something more entertaining. Like a hilarious tale about watching the ceiling paint dry. Or a rib tickler regarding the emptying of our dishwasher. Or a slapstick routine based on the reorganising of the cutlery drawer.

Smokin'.

Awful

A short/very late post today, because it turns out I'm the worst Mum in the actual whole entire world.

Fact. 

The evidence?

Only FOUR DAYS after allowing my daughter to DRINK PERFUME, I today drifted off for long enough to allow her time to slam her beautiful face, cheek first, into the corner of my bedside table. She cried so hard that I had to repeatedly stop cuddling her and remind her to breathe. That felt great. Especially when I was able to tell myself over and over that this wouldn't have happened if I had watched her properly.

On the plus side, the bruise was much smaller than I imagined it would be. But then it got bigger. And went purple. Then the bloody thing went and phoned social services.

So, in light of my gross incompetencies as a parent, I have taken until now (22:03) to be satisfied that The Poop can leave my sight for long enough to allow me to...

*a snore from the baby monitor*

What was that?

*races from the laptop and hurtles up the stairs to resume her night time vigil*

Eau De No Ta

Perfume is an undeniable treat for the nose. Its fresh, floral, fruity tones provide a carnival of pleasantries for even the most cynical of hooters. My Mum is in possession of some particularly luscious examples; her personal penchant for hints of vanilla underpinned by woody base notes of cedar and pine evident in almost every bottle she owns (except for that example of Cacharel's Anais Anais - its heavy handed dose of ylang ylang and Russian Leather clearly setting it apart as an impulse buy).


And although there is, without doubt, a scent to suit and stir every nasal cavity, the same can sadly not be said for the impact of these bouquets on the tastebuds. As I discovered this week, no matter how inviting the musk, no matter how enchanting the aroma, perfumes are absolutely NOT for the drinking. 
I know. Crazy.


How can a bottle which houses such a fabulous fragrance mount such a brutally hostile attack on my harmless, innocent chops? Why would a substance which masquerades as a source of only love, light and virtue inflict such a sickeningly abhorrent flavour about my gullible, unsullied mouth? Which irresponsibly sadistic menace planned an odour to tempt, tease and tantalise one of my senses, while simultaneously harnessing a secret ability to permanently maim another?

Decorating

You know what is completely and totally excellent?

Decorating whilst in possession of an inquisitive ten month old.

"You tell them and tell them..."

"...but still they do it their way.
Tut, tut, tut. Look at him with that roller.
Not a clue."

10 Months

The Poop is ten months old today. Ten months old.

TEN MONTHS OLD. 

You know what that means, don't you?

It means she is two months away from being...

O-N-E Y-E-A-R O-L-D.

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?!

We are soon to be the proud owners of a one year old child. That's right. Child. Not baby. Child.

HA! UTTER MADNESS.

It's a good thing, I suppose. 

I have no desperate hankering to return to sleepless nights. I am more than happy to have kissed goodbye to my leaky nipples (figuratively speaking), I can honestly say I have no desire to sterilise another bottle, nor do I long to change just one more of those explosive newborn nappies. And I don't ever find myself wishing I still carried my traumatised lady parts round in a carrier bag.

But I will miss having a 'baby'. I will miss The Poop being the newest baby people know. I will miss her being the newest baby I know. I will miss the congratulations, the cooing and the gift vouchers. I will miss looking on parenting websites and selecting the 'baby' tab. I will miss moaning about labour (it gets old after a year apparently). I will miss having an excuse for being overweight, being able to put her down and still find her when I turn around, and being able to fit every item of clothing she owns, plus her bedding, in one wash.

I will miss her miniature fingernails, tiny cuddles and her wanting me to be there all the time.

*sighs*

NHS Direct

Yep.
It happened. 
She found something she shouldn't have.

The Poop sits on our bedroom carpet. She's playing with my handbag, as she often does. Quietly, she removes each item from it and places it on the floor. As she is content, I take some clean towels to the bathroom, fold them, put them away, then go into the spare bedroom, get the vacuum out and wheel it onto the landing.
At which point I look back into our bedroom.
To see Betty, still sat in same spot.
But with a scrumpled expression on her face.
Holding a bottle of my perfume.
With no lid on.

I run to her, snatch her up and smell her mouth. Perfume. Oh God.

I race downstairs, pour Boo a bottle of water and force her to drink it, while running through all the things which may need to happen next and simultaneously listing my uselessnesses as a Mother.
I put that perfume in there yesterday. What an idiot.
Oh God. How much has she had? It can't have been much because she wasn't alone long, and she can only have put the nozzle in her mouth. But in biting the nozzle, she could have sprayed a couple of bursts down her throat. Oh God.

While The Poop finishes the water, I start Googling 'ingested perfume'.

HANG ON.
WHAT THE BLOODY HELL AM I DOING? WHY AM A GOOGLING IN AN EMERGENCY?

Right. Stop flapping. Sort yourself out woman. I take a deep breath, gather my thoughts and do the sensible thing. I phone my Mum.
Then she does the actual sensible thing and tells me to phone NHS Direct.

Ol' Square Eyes

Sadly, as yet, The Poop is not a fan of the telly. She wants to DO STUFF.
ALL THE TIME.
She is perpetually interested in life and real things and experiences and learning.
She wants to show me random items. She wants to give me things to hold, then returns to collect them from me just seconds later. She bangs stuff on the floor, and waits for some sort of congratulatory celebratory dance or at the very least a fair amount of whooping and cheering. She wonders about sounds and textures and movements and objects and processes, then looks to me for an explanation about each and every one. Consequently, I spend 90% of my day kneeling on the floor saying, "a c-u-p", "a d-o-g" or "that's a glass vase Betty please don't pull it n-o-o-o-o-o..."

As cutesy as all this thirst for knowledge many seem, it gets very old very quickly. Especially when you've floors to mop and that little beating heart of curiosity is crawling all over them.

While scrolling through the whole plethora of Cartoon Network, CITV and CBeebies our telly subscription affords, I have attempted to convince Boo of the pleasure to be obtained by just sitting staring at the gogglebox. But she doesn't bite. She would prefer to be entertained, 24/7, thank you very much. While her aversion to any audio/visual stimulation is infuriating, her iron will in resisting Justin Fletcher can only be respected and in turn classed as superhuman. That man is the children's entertainment phenomenon about to put even the combined might of Neil Buchanan, Floella Benjamin and Pat Sharp in the shade. Yet stick him in front of The Poop. Nothing.
So I return to getting nowt done and following Boo's lines of enquiry with a dustpan and brush.


But then. A gift from Aunty Vick.
A parcel of light and love and joy and splendour and marvel. 
A DVD of colour and song and warmth made its way into our player and proved that it was capable of distracting, diverting and detaining.

Engrossed.

Concert

My first live music concert as a Mum. 

Fortunately, my much younger sister had organised it, so, despite my questionable taste in music, it wasn't Will Young or Ronan Keating or Michael Ball or some other well Mumsy choice for once. 

It was Alanis Morisette. Rock. Edgy. Cool. Like me.

We arrived at the venue, Alanis blaring tinnily from my achingly hip 1.0 litre faded Micra, and looked for a parking spec. Turned out there were plenty, but that could be down to the seas of smashed glass, crowbars and wire coathangers that littered the gutters and pavements. Having never been a big fan of car jackings, I over ruled my skin flint tendencies, and we pulled onto a 'secure event parking' site.

It was secure alright. We were hemmed in at the very, very back, and every bugger else on the car park would have to leave before we would be entertaining anymore mileage on the M62. 

Absolutely bloody excellent. 

Still. It was Morisette. Rock. Edgy. Cool. Like me.

In keeping with the rock vibe, I'd gone black skinny jeans, quirky Kermit The Frog khaki t-shirt and beige military jacket. Workin' it. 

Sadly, after squeezing my ass along the edge of twenty seven cars in order to exit the car park, the ensemble looked slightly less hot once smeared with the dirt of various wheel arches, wing mirrors and wheel trims. Okay, so most of my clothing was dark. It wasn't the end of the world. Just really disappointing that I never noticed the smudge of grime swiped across my chin until we returned home four hours later.

Still. It was Morisette. Rock. Edgy. Cool. Like me.

We arrived at the Theatre and despite a few lingering glances (in hindsight, these were clearly at the muck on my face, and not because there was any potential I looked underage as I had previously thought - shame), we managed to make our way inside. Being hardcore we queued up in an orderly although somewhat moany fashion to obtain our reckless confectionery choice of a bag of Wine Gums and two bottles of still water. 

We then discovered we didn't possess sufficient funds to purchase the two bottles of water and thus had to return one and share.

Still. It was Morisette. Rock. Edgy. Cool. Like me.

Baby Walker

When did baby walkers become so inoffensive?
Twenty years ago when my sister was in one, they were four cheap casters attached to a thin plastic frame with a bit of a canvas seat thingy hanging down.
Even on a shag pile carpet, the laziest, most disinterested of toddlers could manage to whip up a considerable lick, careering heavily into tables, walls and sofas while snipping off the toes of those stupid enough to bare their digits to its mutational powers.

There is nothing quite like the thrill of that rising panic which ensues once you have clocked a hurtling baby walker heading straight for your kneecaps. 
Except maybe when a Doberman is running toward you on a desolate beach. 

So imagine the delight of Dave and I when we realised that sticking The Poop in just such a contraption, on our LAMINATE FLOOR, would allow us to unleash this surreptitious weapon on anyone who may be out staying their welcome in our inhospitable home. What a God send it would be. However.

Baby walkers have gone all 'safe'. All 'politically correct'. All 'legislational'.
Or, as we have referred to it, all 'boring'.
Clearly, amid the sawn off fingers, fractured kneecaps and lacerated Achilles tendons, someone has had a bit of a grumble. There's always one misery guts that's got to go and ruin it for the rest of us, isn't there? Spoilsport.

Now all baby walkers are fitted with these safety device wotsits.

While the white rubber stoppers stop the chair from rolling down any sort
of slope, the fact there are only casters on only one end put paid to
gathering any dangerous level of speed.
Yawn.

Ouch

Tip for you.

Do not, wherever possible, allow any body part (particularly your head), to make contact with any corner, sharp object or tough surface if said body part is moving with any speed or force. 

Let me elaborate.

If you are crawling speedily across your bedroom carpet toward the exit, keep your eyes fixed firmly on your destination, rather than becoming distracted by the hypnotic movement of your swinging arms. This should ensure you avoid driving the top of your head into the ajar door edge.

If you are hurtling across a laminate floor in your walker, be sure to ease your speed a little as you hit walls/chairs/cupboards, rather than slamming into them full throttle. Fingers crossed this will avoid snapping your spine in half as you fold in two about the tray table.

If you are busying yourself amiably with some plastic/wooden blocks or small toys, always stay focused on remaining upright, particularly if you choose to insert them into your mouth. Heeding this advice should permit you not to find yourself with the chosen object wedged half way down your oesophagus.  

Bedtime Reading

I heart this book.

Don't worry; this isn't a review or plug of some sort. My alter ego is not Dorothy Edwards. If it was, I wouldn't be here writing to you lot for free.

I spotted this book in our loft recently, when digging about amongst Spirograph, Mr Pop and Fashion Wheel, and all the other stuff I've kept that will one day be suitable for The Poop. 

It was bought for me twenty years ago, when I acquired my very own Naughty Little Sister. After having been an only child for the first eight years of my life, I think it was supposed to make me feel less maligned, neglected, ignored and replaced. This book (and Mr Pop) were my only friends. 

*cries hysterically for two hours, then returns to writing the blog post*

After reading it to my eight year old self in order to heal some of the shunned sibling sadness, I read it to my own Naughty Little Sister in order to curry favour with the new focal point of the family. And clearly the teacher/swot/irritating little sod in me was already looming, as, when I dug the book out for Betty recently, I discovered these scribblings-

DL = Didn't listen
NF = Not finnished*
(presumably these chapters were expected
to have been penned in a rather more Nordic language)

How I quite decided whether a three month old was listening or not is an interesting proposition. Maybe she drooled quite notably during that chapter? She pooed half way through? Or perhaps her critique on the realisation of inherent authorial intent was not sufficiently insightful? Either way, I had coded the chapters to indicate the favoured child's progress through said hardback. 

Simple Things

Having now fully settled back in at work, I have books to mark, planning to create and the eternal obligation to spend at least 30% of my life carping on about how hard it is being a teacher ("we don't clock off at 3.30pm you know", etc, etc). So most weekday evenings, when I'm not playing a game called "Where The Bloody Hell Are These Flies Still Coming From?", I pretend I'm doing something worthwhile with bits of paper. Consequently, our beautiful little Poop isn't getting much of a look in.

The last few weeks in our house have not been much fun for a nine month old. Truth be told, of late our house has been little fun for anyone (unless you are an aspiring psychologist wishing to observe the real world triggers of human insanity). Whilst all new parents have their tired, emotional moments, we've welcomed the already stressful challenge of my return to work by discovering a dead cat closeted in our roof, which in turn has ensured our house has become infested with maggots, then subsequently swarms of flies, meaning our whole kitchen ceiling has had to be replaced, painted, and all the walls newly wallpapered - the entirety of which has been funded by money we haven't got and time we can't spare. Deep joy.
If only Boo could utter her first real* word and me be at work and miss it, that would be excellent. 
(Even better if that first word could be either flies or cat, then my brain can happily make its final leap towards total implosion.) 
* I say 'real', because she has said Daddy on numerous occasions, but I continue to kid myself that she doesn't know what it means, therefore it doesn't count. 


So it is most definitely time for me to turn up my Mum Factor.
After a good think about what really floats her boat, we decided to return to the Baby Sensory Room.
I've said it before and I'll say it again; that place is DA BOMB. There are bubbles, lights, mirrors, fabrics,  glittery things, balls, cushions, massage mats and music...if only they streamed Corrie onto a big screen and pumped out Victoria Sponge cake, I'd barricade myself and Boo in.
(And I'd put a little man flap in the door so Dave could get in and out in order to pay me compliments and take away our dirty washing.)

Stop It

Right. That's it. I can't take it anymore.

WHY THE HELL DO PEOPLE KEEP TELLING ME THAT THEIR KIDS CAN DO STUFF THEY BLATANTLY CAN'T DO?

Why, when their child rolls around a bit on the floor, do parents bang on about how their child is "already crawling"? Crawling involves discernible forward motion, usually generated by transferring weight between the knees and the palms of both hands. 
Scrabbling about, face down on the floor is ABSOLUTELY NOT THE SAME THING.


The fact that your grandchild made a shrieking noise sat in a supermarket trolley does not give you the right to parp on about how the little sprog has "started talking". They made a sound. Shouted out. Absent mindedly. In fact it was more of a burp than anything. 
It MOST CERTAINLY WAS NOT anything like a word.


When a child shuffles along the floor, leaning heavily on items of furniture, why do their parents insist that they are "now walking"? Sorry to burst your bubble, but that kid IS NOT walking. Walking involves independently placing each foot alternately on the ground, and passing the body's entire weight, UNSUPPORTED, between the two soles of the feet, and thus propelling oneself in the designated direction. There is absolutely no shuffling or leaning allowed. 
So, to recap YOUR CHILD CAN'T WALK.


And all these stupid claims are made with one eye on me, checking to see if I feel appropriately unnerved about the abilities of The Poop. Well, sorry, but I'm not going to go getting worked up because your nine month old can wallpaper/juggle/ski. My daughter is developing just fine, thanks for asking.
*scuttles off to frantically introduce Boo to the Snowplough Turn*

Fidget

Comfy?

When I put The Poop down for her lunchtime nap, it seems very much that pain is the name of the game.

Each afternoon, I place her gently on the comfortable mattress with a warm crocheted blanket to nestle calmly under. Ten minutes later, after noting from the monitor much heaving, straining, banging and an assortment of sound effects you would associate with a Looney Tunes cartoon, I return upstairs to witness The Poop's ample thighs threaded painfully through the circulation stunting bars, her head (and that worryingly soft pulsing bit on the top) wedged deep into one of the wooden corners, and she will be face down, bum sticking up in the air, fast asleep. 

She usually wakes with three or four hard plastic Lego people embedded in her cheeks. And we don't even have any Lego. 

Stay with her and make her REMAIN COMFY? Good luck - there's no way she'll sleep in the enforced pleasure of those cosy, soft, snuggly covers. Restful slumber is clearly for wimps. Slamming your head against a wooden panel has recently pipped even counting sheep into pole position of Number One Ways To Nod Off.

Stand By Mum

The Poop is pulling herself to standing - ALL THE TIME.

Using ANY SURFACE.

If it is inflatable, soft, rounded, or capable of cushioning a fall in anyway, she's not interested. Whereas if you can find her the corner of a table cloth, a toy on wheels, a towel hanging over a red hot radiator or an anvil balanced precariously over the edge of a ravine, she will race (quite literally) to get to it before you do in order to grasp it to pull herself up. In the bath she even uses small floating bath toys as an aid to achieving the ever desirable upright position, and as an opportunity to engineer my fourth heart attack of the day.

So we're playing on the floor in the lounge. I only want to put my mug in the sink. She does seem quite happy playing here. She'll be fine. You're fussing I tell myself. You'll only be two seconds. Go and put the pigging cup in the sink you wimp. I dart into the kitchen, deposit my mug, and race back to where we were playing; just in time so see her smiling as she stands, having moved six feet across the room, to where she is now gripping precariously onto the cast iron fire grate. I hurtle across the room, with every stride praying that she is not about to fall forward and knock out the first and only tooth she's ever had. She watches my anguished face with great interest and excitement and giggles as I grab her in my quivering arms. 

Then she gets annoyed because I've spoiled her fun.

And so it goes on through the day.

I pull the drawer from under her cot, help myself to a handful of nappies, and upon closing the drawer, clock her using her wheelie truck to wobblingly elevate herself. 

I reach up to open a window, look down at where she was sat, then sense that overwhelming yet all too familiar wave of dread and panic as I realise she's moved. I scan the room just in time to witness her begin to pull, with her whole body weight, at the corner of the telly. 

I dash from her bedroom into the bathroom for a wee and, mid-stream, must leap, directly from the loo seat, pants round ankles, out of the bathroom doorway as she quickly makes her way onto the landing with the clear intention of tackling the stairs.

Laying Low

We did it.

We lowered The Poop's cot to its third position. To its lowest rung. To the final level.
It's not a big deal, right?  She's safer this way. She's more secure. 


After catching her standing at the bars snatching viciously at the new blinds, while laughing (I'll give you something to laugh about lady), lowering the cot is definitely a most sensible idea. 
But now it's on the final level.

Still, after Boo's recent obsession with cutting her teeth by chomping away at the top of the wooden bar, and her general disinterest in potential splinters sharding off into her gums, dropping the cot is most certainly a good idea.

But now it's on the final level. 
Although now, as she cruises around her cot, gripping on tight to the bars as she goes, if she does stumble, she won't catch her chin on the top of the bar as she goes down. So sinking the cot to its last setting was absolutely the right thing to do.

But now it's on the final level.
The only other thing we can do with that cot now is turn it into a junior bed. That's right. A bed.

Pah! So what, you're thinking. So the cot's on its final level. So it's nearly an actual bed.
Big deal. Not bothered. Who cares?


ME. I CARE, ALRIGHT PAL?

Gnashers

MAN ALIVE.


THE SEARING, MOLTEN, TORTUROUS THROBBING HAS BEEN COMPLETE AGONY. 
But I suffered in silence.


THE PIERCING, ACHING, TENDER SMARTING HAS PLAGUED ME ALL WEEK.
But I battled on.


THE STINGING, EXCRUCIATING, BURNING RAWNESS EVEN KEPT ME AWAKE FIVE MINUTES AFTER BEDTIME.
At which I immediately gave in.
(Nothing messes with bedtime. That's just the law.)


My bullied gum is now the proud owner of one shiny, white, sharp tooth. And after all the red cheeks and dribbling and gnawing I should be made up with my new acquisition, right?
Well, truth be told, I'm not bowled over. The thing just sort of sits there. Yes, it is very good at being incredibly white and rough to the tongue stroke - but beyond that, it's pretty useless. It doesn't stick up sufficiently to aid in the mastication of the ridiculously chunky fare Mum serves up, nor does it help me cut through the various assortment of teddies and hard plastic toys I chuck in my chops.


It isn't visible without someone peeling my bottom lip down (which, by the way Mum, I find thoroughly rude and a complete invasion of my personal space), and so consequently I am unable to flash it in those potentially devastatingly cute photographs of my gorgeous mush touting one lone rogue peg. 


However, despite the fang's utter ineptitude, it is still an achievement. It's another 'first' ticked off.

Fly Poo

Ever seen a fly poo?

Well now you have.
I actually watched a fly land on our window sill, tuck his six knees under his chin, open up a newspaper, strain, then fly away - leaving this little stain of shame behind.
Why am I watching a fly poo on our window sill I hear you cry in your bewildered ones and twos. I'll give you a clue - I am not watching a fly poo, but flies poo.

Most delightfully on this beautiful, sunny, early July Saturday morning, we woke to discover we mustn't have tracked down all the maggots left behind by the cat carcass that recently sat decaying in our roof. We rose to find a sizeable collection of flies slamming their well fed bodies against our downstairs windows. And presumably, in order to voice their disgust at the windows lack of openness, and in light of the fact that flies are not exactly the most eloquent or diplomatic of negotiators, they resorted to this dirty protest.
Which was wholly unnecessary - after completing my usual ritual of coming downstairs in the morning, being utterly disgusted by the midden of filth in which we continue to reside, dancing about poking myself in the eyes and heaving repeatedly, I duly opened all accessible means of ventilation.

Peggy

How dare she.
This is absolutely unacceptable.

The Poop has only gone and grown herself an actual, white, enamel coated first tooth. And she had the bad mannered audacity to allow this tooth to pierce her gum and make its very first ever appearance in the world on a day WHEN I WAS AT WORK. What a little madam.

I have spent almost every second of the last nine months in the company of our daughter, and this is how she repays me. She has this evening teased me by smiling in my direction far more often than she ordinarily would, in order to flash the tiny white speck that peeps out goadingly from her otherwise gummy grin.
No one likes a show off. Especially one who bullies her Mum.

So I missed it.
And even though it's only a tooth; even though I saw it later that day; even though it shouldn't matter: I wasn't THE FIRST to witness the peggy sprout. Somebody else knew something about my daughter before I did. And that just won't do. It's totally, utterly no need.

What'll it be tomorrow?
I return from work to find her walking? Driving? Reciting passages from the Bible whilst roller skating around the garden drinking Babycham? 

Why Me?

WARNING! WARNING! *siren sound*
THIS IS A MEME/TAG GAME THINGY I REPEAT THIS IS A MEME/TAG GAME THINGY
Just so you know.

1. Post your whys – as few or as many as you like.
2. Link up your post over at Mummy Central, and please leave a comment too.
3. Tag 5 bloggers to keep this going.
4. If you’re not a blogger, leave your whys as a comment below. I'd love to read them.
5. Show your support by reading a few others and commenting on them.

I have been tagged by the lovely Debra over at My Darlings And Me in a Why? meme.
I'm not big on this tagging stuff, mainly because completing these things remind me that a) I'm a loner with no mates and that b) I have no mates because I'm a nerd who sits on her computer all day.
I do not choose to ever be reminded of these things. So I don't do taggy doodahs.
But this one struck a chord.


It's called Why? but because I like to set the cat amongst the pigeons (well, as much as an acceptance seeking, mate-less nerd can anyway), I've decided to call mine Why Me?
Now that is a meme I could really get my teeth into. In fact, not only could I get my teeth into it, I could tear lumps off it, jaggle it round in my jaw, chew it up, swallow it down, spit it out, stamp on it a bit, wear it like a hat, then pretend I meant to get a blob of it in my eye. 
So here goes.

1) Two weeks ago, while I was at a blog awards in London, a cat decided to climb in our roof and die. It filled the kitchen ceiling with maggots, and I had to leave the awards early so we could drive home for four long hours, in the full knowledge that we would be returning home to spend our Saturday night beginning the clean up. While trying not to scream too loudly, as chunks of remaining cat fell to the laminate floor, in the hope of not waking our nine month old daughter. Why me?

Heavens Above

Did I mention that a cat died in our roof? Oh. I did. 

Just checking.

After giving up one weekend to dig the carcass and all its squirming friends from our rafters, we* have spent this last one ripping down the whole network of tongue and groove slats that its maggoty backside had nestled on above our heads. Which, as you will appreciate, with a nine month old baby, no money and a total absence of patience or humour, is no delightful undertaking.

While Dave and his Dad worked on putting up all these sheets of plasterboard, I sat on the flat roof and consoled our fascias and soffiting, which had unwittingly harboured the mortal criminal. They're confidence is shot to bits. The guttering was more upbeat, and tried to gee the others up, but they just feel so dirty and stupid and used. I told them not to blame themselves. That it was a million to one chance that something like this could have happened. But they just couldn't think straight. It's all still so raw. The fascias sobbed their little hearts out - and yet again the guttering stepped in to deal with that one. He really is a gem.

With a such a reassuring, supportive network of timbers, brackets and screws around them, and with the exciting addition of some brand new roof felt, hopefully they'll start to come round.

Getting Told Off

By Betty Briars.

If you like getting into trouble with your Mum, this is my guide on how to infuriate her most effectively.

1) Have a full blown paddy when she's trying to get you dressed.
If she is already late to go out this should really push her to
breaking point.

2) Disliking food she has spent hours peeling and chopping and
blending will cause havoc. Especially if you go the extra mile and
spit it out.

3) Scream blue murder if she sticks you in a United baby grow.
Mine really hates that.

Airing Dirty Laundry

I've got a nine month old daughter. I'm back at work. I've got no kitchen ceiling, plasterboard dust has settled on everything downstairs and I've got a blog to write. Is it any wonder my washing basket looks like this?

Don't worry, I buried the undies for you

Do some washing you're thinking. Like that hasn't crossed my mind. Sadly, because I have been brought up in line with the 'tumble dryers are for the rich and famous' school of thought, my washing gets pegged out on the line. And have you seen the weather? 

So, I am again left scattering beach towels and tiny baby socks and bedsheets and boxers shorts about my radiators, then HAVING TO TURN THE RADIATORS ON, even though it is the middle of June. I then walk around the house, sweating profusely in the clothes I am currently wearing, in order to dry the ones that I have just washed. While reckoning up that this month's central heating bill will ensure I must file for bankruptcy. 

Under such circumstances, washing clothing is a slow process at the best of times. But when half your house is a building site, there's nothing down for you. 

And this weekend I discovered, absolutely fantastically, the every bra I own is amongst that mountain of stink. And I do mean every bra. I've spent the last three days scraping around in the bottom of my underwear drawer for those last resorts that haven't seen the light of day for seven years.

The Wotsit

After Dad spent most of this week destroying our house, yesterday he suddenly decided to start fixing it, so me and Mum got out of the way in case we were asked to do anything to help. 
She took me to our neighbours barbecue, where it smelled a lot less like very old cat.


I've never been to a barbecue before, but if this one was anything to go by, they're not for me.
Barbecues are these things where loads of people you don't know go and stand in someone's garden and eat food I can't have off paper plates I'm not allowed to touch. Throw in the fact Mum made me wear a summer dress, even though it was pouring with rain, and you can see why they're be no need to hold me back next year. Not exactly my idea of a big Saturday night. 


Then, swathes of these plentiful strangers TAKE YOU FROM YOUR MUM and expect you to SIT ON THEIR KNEE AND SMILE while they scoff their way through another heavenly smelling burger, which, oh yeah - I CAN'T HAVE. Unbelievable. 

• Firstly - I don't know you and I don't see a bottle of milk secreted about your person - so don't expect me to smile.
• Secondly - Get that burger out of my face. The fact I have no teeth is not the green light for you to subject me to an evening of taste bud tempting torment. 
• Thirdly - I will most certainly not abandon my mother to sit on the knee of a stranger, who, while all to happily chomping down on a hotdog could, understandably, take quite a shine to my staggering cuteness and try to stick me on a barmcake as well.
• Finally - Don't ever, ever, EVER take me off my Mum without my express permission*. After the last two weeks, where the woman has disappeared for DAYS AT A TIME, I refuse to let her out of my sight. She might run off and "go to work" again. *Unless you have food/a bottle/a dummy - in which case - snatch me away at your leisure.

In amongst the pouring rain, the boring conversation and all these strangers clambering for my attention, there was one little ray of hope. One tiny beacon of joy. One flickering twinkle of fun which shone out from among these weird looking, wine quaffing strangers. Gill From Number One.