Fresh Out of The Oven

I saw a little baby yesterday that was so brand spanking new it took my breath away.  I seem barely able to recall what the Monkey was like when he was that tiny... it's the weirdest thing the way the memory works.  I know the nights were terrible and I could hardly function, but it seems so distant now.  Our boy has so much personality and is a constant side-show of clown smiles and laughter... but sometimes I wish I could jump back in time and hold my newborn again and feel the spectacular wonder of his little heart beating beneath my palm.

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The Book Eater

The Monkey has discovered books.  He loves them.  He devours them... quite literally!  I can take away all the other toys without so much as a peep, but dear God, if I dare touch his chewed, tacky and surprisingly vast collection of books, he yells like I've just whacked his head on the car door (... again!).

I like to think this fascination with the written word is the hallmark of a life-long love of reading and literature... I suspect it has more to do with his fondness for the taste of ink and cardboard rather than an underlying passion for Keates - you see, he's also quite fond of the TV guide which just goes to show that he's not exactly discerning in his tastes!

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Straight Talking

Once upon a time, I used a hairdryer.... every day!  I also used a straightening iron and owned pots of products designed to tame chaotic, frizzy hair.  I had long, blonde, straight locks that I could wear ten different ways. I developed killer triceps from wielding a hairbrush for half an hour a day. I looked polished.  I looked kept.  I most certainly didn't look like the wild African zoo animal that I occasionally see roaming the house with tufts of hair sticking out at odd angles.

I no longer blow-dry my hair.  I have embraced "the curl", which in turn means that I have embraced "my decline".  I have one look these days - which just so happens to be the exact same messy up-do I was sporting back in 1991, the only difference now being that I spend precisely 30 seconds doing it, rather than the regulation 30 minutes I used to spend back when I was thirteen... at least I have developed authenticity in my old age!

I went to the shops the other day with a wild coif that stood straight up from my head (thanks to the Monkey's monkey grip).  I didn't realise until I got home and was checking to see if I'd managed to scrub all the pumpkin vomit off my back... my humiliation knows no bounds!  No wonder I was the recipient of so many pitying looks from the 'oh so young' and 'oh so judgmental' Slavic gang of high cheek-boned check-out chicks at the local IGA!

One day I hope to have nice hair again.  I believe its possible.  Perhaps when the Monkey learns not to swing from Mama's ponytail like a.... well, like a little monkey really!  Once again I will have use for polishing milks and serums and a hairdryer so powerful it wakes the entire neighbourhood.  But until that day, I'll be the washed up, dishwater blonde with the Year 9 hairstyle!

Ha!  And you thought I was exaggerating!

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The Nappy Chat

When I found out I was pregnant I made a very vocal declaration that I was NEVER going to discuss poo with anyone… not even my husband.  I couldn’t stand the way new parents seemed to think their children’s bowel motions were a topic worthy of continual mention, often in the most inappropriate of circumstances.  To be told about the toxic contents of a nappy while attempting to eat a satay stick is a challenge to say the least!  

Something happens when you become a parent… you somehow forget the usual rules of polite social engagement.  The big net in your brain that normally catches inappropriate thoughts before they have a chance to escape via your mouth, suddenly develops large, gaping holes.  Yesterday I found myself telling a complete stranger that my baby suffers from such bad constipation that we have him on a perpetual diet of prune and banana.... with stunning results!  At what point did I think that was OK... or even vaguely interesting?  As I looked at the woman’s horrified expression, it occurred to me that a little censorship wouldn’t go astray.

I’m rather distressed by my new found need to share downstairs details.  My husband walks through the door in the evening and I’m a veritable stream of minutiae, describing my day one nappy at a time.  Does the poor man really need to know that the Monkey had a nappy full of chocolate sultanas or that today’s consistency was a little like soft serve ice-cream?  No, no and NO!  Zip it.  Save it. Lock it away along with the alarmingly vivid descriptions of projectile vomits that I’m just dying to share with anyone who will listen.

So I made a promise to myself that I have broken on countless occasions… I’m even writing about it, which just goes to show how obsessed I’ve become.  While I would like to think that this is the end, that I shall never again subject yet another friend to the horror story of my brush with Meconium (it was hilarious… I had it in my hair, on my face…  zippity, zip, zip!), I know that I will continue to inflict my crappy stories on those poor, unsuspecting souls who have the misfortune of making my acquaintance.  Perhaps some gaffer tape is in order?

The best I can offer is to try and limit my diatribes to those who have walked a mile in my shoes... because if I've learned anything, it's that another parent sure does love a good nappy chat. 

Photo by me 

Driving Miss Crazy

Call me insane, but I just spent the past hour and a half 'trying' to drive myself and the Monkey to the local shopping centre... we didn't make it... we didn't even come close!

First of all I had to actually get us out the front door - launching a rocket-ship into outer space would surely require less planning.  I'm notorious for forgetting the basic equipment (bib, spoon, BOTTLE) so I now check, check and triple check.  This process takes a surprising amount of time and is not as fool proof as one would hope - today I left the burp cloth sitting on the bookshelf - not so handy.  I bundled us up - the Monkey, the Baby Bjorn, my handbag, the nappy bag, the re-cycling - and flung everything into the car (not the re-cycling - that was drop-kicked into the bin on the way past).  By the time I had untwisted the buckles (left handed), wiped off the straps that are eternally covered in baby vomit and positioned my (now grumpy) son into the bottomless depths of his ridiculously expensive car seat, over 40 minutes had gone by since Operation Outing begun.

We were in and away, driving down the road when the little orange petrol light came on.  A word about filling up the car with a baby on board... don't!  It is tedious beyond all stretch of the imagination.  By the time you've removed your small fry from their insanely difficult to unbuckle car seat so you can pay, you've stopped worrying about whether they're inhaling lethal petrol fumes and only care if you can make it across the tarmac without having your boobs revealed by a chubby little fist yanking your top down.  I'm sure there are mothers who happily leave their babies in the car for the two and a half minutes it takes to pay (a far more sensible option) but my imagination conjures up all sorts of images - carjackings, babynappings, faulty locking systems - I just can't do it.  So... out the Monkey came and in the Monkey went, all while the outside temperature was hovering around 35 degrees.  To say he was getting a touch tetchy is putting it mildly.  

Back in the car and the Monkey's whimpering became an all out howl - the kind a werewolf might make if it were forced to ride around in a baking hot car by it's mother.  Somewhat distracted, I turned the wrong way out of the service station and that was it... my brain was suddenly possessed by gremlins.  We were heading in the opposite direction from the shops, incapable of altering course thanks to my mind freeze.  I kept seeing places where I could stop and turn around but my foot was glued to the accelerator.  Before I knew it, we were turning into our street and pulling up in front of our home... I was stunned.  How had I managed it?  All that effort and all I'd achieved was to fill the bloody car up with petrol!  

Operation Outing aborted... yet again.

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