Blogging diarrhea

Sorry to invoke the mental image of runny feces. It's not the kindest word to spring on you, I know. Nor is feces I suppose.

I feel this blog is dying a slow death for many reasons, but I'm going to just keep talking even if it's just the same handful of you that are listening. I have thought about some things to write, but as they are generally too brief to address in individual posts, I'm throwing them all on this one.

First of all - forgetfulness. Was this stage not to disappear once P emerged from the womb? If anything I'm more forgetful than when I was pregnant, and I was really absent-minded then. In the past few weeks I have locked us out of our building, as well as leaving my wallet at Starbucks. There have been other stupid things I have done due to my lack of connecting thoughts, but they have little influence on anyone else so I tend to...forget them.

Locking us out of our building meant that we had to ring up my brother-in-law, a house painter, and get him to drive into the city with his big ladder. Said big ladder was then extended to its maximum length and propped up on our bathroom window (on the second floor) which just happened to be open. Two days later was the wallet-leaving incident at Starbucks, which necessitated me running back there right before closing time to, much relieved that some honest soul turned it in rather than going wild with my Boots Advantage card and my work ID. God forbid someone should get 5 loyalty points from Boots, or check out books at the uni library in my name.

The irony here is that there was another incident of forgetfulness that happened just yesterday, yet I almost forgot to mention it. Ha. I walked out of a shop without paying for milk. Just like that. I put it in the folded back hood of P's stroller and just walked on out. I only realised when I was two buildings down, and felt something cold and wet when I moved to extend the hood. Oops. Like a good girl I went back in and paid for it, and thankfully no one noticed that I walked into the store with milk that I had yet to pay for. Believe it or not I have a fairly responsible job and I'm also responsible for the life of a small child. So yeah, I don't know if you know this, but I'm kind of a big deal around here.

I can't bring myself to call it "mommy brain", as that elicits a feeling of self-loathing in the pit of my stomach for even daring to use such a cliche. I might as well start gushing about baby dust, people who are preggers, and sticky embies. Suffice it to say, I'm forgetting some shit. There.

Apropos of nothing, I had another dream about Paul Rudd last night. I love Paul Rudd dearly as he is adorable and all, but he's so not my type. Paul Rudd takes you to the theatre. Paul Rudd happily spends hours listening to your mom talk about your childhood. Paul Rudd writes you poems. Paul Rudd does not shove you up against the wall and have his very dirty, aggressive wicked way with you. Paul Rudd does not look like he could bite a man's ear off and spit it back in his face. Basically, Paul Rudd is not him. Or him. In my dream Paul and I were running away together, but there was no sex. Well, unless I forgot it.

I spent 15 minutes trying to find the picture of Joaquin that I linked to but it was worth it in the end. If my dreams are about him tonight, you can bet we are having sex. Great sex. Toe-curlingly fantastic sex. I can't even think about that photograph because The Dude is sitting in the same room as I am and that's just plain wrong. But oh, to be the owner of that thigh...


Working stiff

Here I am, emerging from a pile of work-related paperwork with deadlines from last week, and emails from desperate Nigerians hoping that God will bless my family. When I'm able to leave that behind, it's all about finding a dinner my previously bordering-on-Prader-Willi-syndrome toddler will consume without the involvement of violence. Once we get Consumer of Large Quantities of Yoghurt to bed (an episode often fraught with emotions), it's time to do dishes. Once the dishes are done, it is bedtime for a very tired Pru and The Dude, resting their bodies for a moment so they can start it all again.

I misled you with my post about horrible mothering. P doesn't hate nursery. In fact, she rather loves it. I don't hate being back at work either. In fact, I rather love it. I thrive under work-related pressure and I'm quite happy to be back in that environment. Do I dig the collective overwhelming nature of my life at the moment? Not so much. I can handle work stress and household stress on their own, but throw them together and the days begin to blur.

P's main problem on the days she cries at drop off is that she is the first one there. At 8am. What the fuckfire do these parents do that enables them to not have to drop their kid off until 8.15-9am at the earliest? I need to be at work by 8.30am and an 8am drop-off is too late for me, not remotely too early. Additionally, she is one of the last to be collected when The Dude picks her up at 4.15pm. 4.15pm. I'll repeat that again. 4.15pm. I need to know where these men and women are all working 9am-4pm shifts and get my run down ass a job there.

P hates to nap at nursery as there are apparently too many madcap adventures going on around her to sleep. The daily P-centred journal kept by her caregivers say things like "today P dressed up as a watering can and sang songs about boats", or my personal favourite, "P very much enjoyed dancing, smiling, and playing with a cardboard box." No, seriously, it really said that. The sad part is that I can completely envision her sitting in a corner for an hour on her own studying the design intricacies and textural attributes of said cardboard box. This is a kid who thinks my mp3 headphones are a fascinating, interactive web of endless delight.

Eccentricity aside for a moment, such excitement makes her a very disagreeable girl come 6pm. Weekday interaction with her is largely a struggle of morning grumpiness and evening tiredness, so how fun for me. I desperately want this limited amount of time to be precious (shut up Statia), but it leads me to want to be back at work in the arms of last-minute university applications and melodramatic, hard done by academics. On the odd occasion that she has napped sufficiently, she is her usual delightful, amazing self. Tonight was one of those nights, and it made me feel so much lighter to be able to watch her doing her best Pru impression - toddling around with my purse on one arm and a wooden bangle of mine on the other arm, saying "bye bye ta ta bye bye" - rather than wrestling the screaming mulleteer into her high chair.

I have no interest in staying home again. The Dude has a week off for half turn in a month's time or so, and yesterday said, "You'll feel so jealous of me when I'm off and spending all that time with P." Dude, dude, I stayed home for almost 14 months and I'm finally an adult again, there's no way I'm jealous of you. I miss my Maury re-runs sometimes, but I do not miss feeling like I was chained to my child every hour of every waking day. I'm the mother those "why do you have babies if you just stick your kid in daycare?" bitches have nightmares about. My earlier Melancholia post would indicate there is some guilt there, and some days it's worse than others. However, I don't regret my decision to go back to work full-time. I'm a good, loving mother to my daughter and she still worships me even if I stick her in a prison full of other snotty nosed children, nursery rhymes, and trips to the seafront in a 9 baby stroller.

When I was walking to work on my first day back, the very last song on my creepy mind-reading mp3 player was Jeff Buckley's cover of The Smiths' "I Know it's Over", and I couldn't help but think as I walked through the doors of my building to work for the first time in over a year - thank sweet baby jesus it is over, because mama wouldn't have been able to take much more of life as a SAHM. I did it for 13 amazing, gut-wrenching, depressing, life changing months and now it's time for a new challenge. Bring on the simultaneous union of working and parenthood because I'm going to pretty much rock it like you know I can.

P.S. I got the hook up on the song mentioned above if anyone is a Buckley and/or Smiths fan. Not that any of you bastards will take me up on it, as my pleas to illegally supply you all with good music are largely ignored.


Baby got moderate back - confirmation

You know how I sometimes write about my alleged flat ass? I have always maintained that there is some ass there, despite protests to the contrary. Even my dear Cheese Wife mentioned on her blog post-visit that the ass is flat. I think her exact words were, "Girlfriend has NO ASS", emphasis hers. I know she was checking out my ass for flatness confirmation when we were going up the stairs together at times, but damn. She can be so cold sometimes.

Because I can no longer cope with the debate that is surely raging through the internet now and will for time immemorial, I must put this to rest. I am here to prove that the ass is not completely flat. Brace yourselves, because here comes the ass.

Look, it's a rounded ass! Surely I'm not the only one who can see it, right? If I in fact had "NO ASS" as Molly so politely put it, you would see just a flat plane - no roundness. I edited another version of this picture a bit to show what a truly flat ass would look like, but Blogger clearly objects to flat assed-ness and refused to upload it. Anti-flatassite bastards.

I think the verdict is clearly that there is some ass to be had. I hope this brings the eternal discussion to an end. That is not to say that if I ever meet any of you fine folks in person, you know, if we all actually exist in the real world, that you can't check out my ass to determine its shape yourself. I welcome it. Frankly, I would be insulted if an ass glance didn't occur. After all the ass talk I suspect you'll be disappointed however, so I apologise in advance.
Ass dismissed. Haha, er...yeah.



Number of times crying child is left at nursery while her mother walks away : 2

Quality time squeezed into the 2 hours post-nursery, pre-bed: minimal

Thoughts of maternal inadequacy : constant stream every day, all day

Internal conflict re: desire to work full-time vs role of mother : raging and guilt-inducing from both sides

General fuckupedness and discontent with all matters life-related : present and causing an omnipresent lump in throat, upset stomach, and obscene amounts of bodily tension

Melodrama : reluctantly reported above



No longer a one trick blog pony

I've gone and done it - I've started a second blog. I know, I have barely enough to complain about here, but this new one is different. It's about baby and toddler food.

As some of you may recall and others may have forgotten in a haze of who-gives-a-shit, I have been making most of P's food for the past 7+ months. In an attempt to share my knowledge with the world, I decided to start a food blog. Coincidentally, Kristi of Interrupted Wanderlust decided to do the same, so we have united to do a blog which will revolutionize the way you think about baby/toddler food. You know, if you ever thought about such a thing.

Eventually we hope to have a vast database of first stage purees, slightly lumpier foods, and almost-table food. I may even throw in a little standard table food stuff for the crazier and more adventurous of you. There will be original recipes, those borrowed from the professionals, as well as readers' favourites. Or, I suppose, readers' childrens' favourites. Those without babies are welcome to join if not just to read me when I'm trying to behave myself. It will be a struggle, but I hope to stifle all bad language and promote goodwill.

It's in its infancy at the moment, but it's finally off the ground. Spread the word at playgroup, rhymetime, storytime or baby gym.




Not too long ago I asked you dear readers a very important question which you graciously answered, thus giving me a bit of ammunition the next time that issue arises. I have another question for you - is it wrong for anyone, let alone a mother, refer to another baby as ugly, or otherwise odd?

P started nursery full-time yesterday. There is another baby there only a week older than P who I kindly refer to as Gargantuan Man-Child, Gargantuan Freak Baby, or just simply Freak Baby. Take your pick. There are a multitude of reasons this 13 month old has inspired me to come up with a series of nicknames - she is older than P by a week, yet more than a head taller. GMC/GFB/FB is almost as tall as some of the 2 year olds in the nursery. She has hands finger segments longer than P's, and she crawls up the steps to the slide like she has been scaling them for years.

It's not just that she's bigger than P, but she just appears very unbaby-like. When I first saw GMC/GFB/FB, she was eating toast alone in a corner a few months ago. I'm not talking about jamming the toast in her mouth, or squishing it between her fingers like my (then) 10 month old would do. She ate a full piece of toast, unsliced, like I would. Bite by bite, with no need to grind it on the floor or wipe it over her hair. Her entire demeanor is so...adult and so very alien. She freaks me out.

In conversation I refer to her as one of the names above and The Dude lectures me, saying, "Mums don't talk like that!" The man has been with me for 11 years, surely he knows by now that I am not your average person, so I was never going to be that mother. Some babies are ugly, sorry. "Unfortunate looking" doesn't always suffice. Some babies are just not cute, and others are Gargantuan Man-Babies. The decent person may even use "breathtaking", which as we all well know is just code for "hideously ugly child". I'm not that gracious.

I'm sure some people, including the rather eccentric commenter from my last post (now deleted, but it was an absolute gem) would ask what I would say if P was referred to in the same way I talk about GMC/GFB/FB. My answer is, go right ahead. Do I want to hear it? No. I'm not about to go up to GMC/GFB/FB's mum and say, "I'm sorry madam, I think your kid is the freakiest small human I've seen in my life." I keep that shit to myself. Oh, and my husband. Oh, and all of you. But otherwise, it's a completely private thought.

Say what you want about my kid. Refer to her as Stupid Mullet Head, Freakish Tiny Walking Baby, Pock-faced Ginge, Lemur-eyed Grotbag, whatever. Just don't tell me you're slagging her off or else I'll send GMC/GFB/FB over to climb up a slide in a park near you in that creepy, adult-like lurch that she does. Be very afraid.