You see me I be work, work, work (Rihanna)

I am bereft. And spent. So this was my first five-day week at work since coming back from mat leave in December. LORDY. I am the human equivalent of a deflated balloon; prone on the party floor, covered in fag ash, a little bit of vomit and specks of glitter. Now all I want to do is flop onto the sofa and have my mind numbed by bad TV. Possibly whilst drooling on my own chin and necking wine like it’s juice. How do people do this every week?

It also feels so weird to not spend Friday with my little toddler buddy. Fridays were like all the best bits of mat leave condensed into one day per week. A shot of maternity leave or maternity leave lite. On the weekends every play area is teeming with 50 different versions of Conan the Rampaging Toddler. You take your life into your own hands if you venture into the ball pit. Who knows what is lurking in the depths? Definitely e-Coli. And lets not get started on watching 50 toddler-divas try and share one plastic rocking horse (because of course they all want the same one). Formal hostage negotiation skills are needed. On the weekend it’s Lord of the Flies. But on Fridays everywhere was empty. We frolicked round the soft play venues and parks of SW17 with gay abandon. It was nothing short of fabulous.

Going back to work five days a week has also prompted a hefty dose of mum guilt. As mothers we not only get to push our babies out of our vaginas, forever ravaging our bodies, we also get mum guilt, forever ravaging our minds. As you tiptoe the fine line between your needs and your child’s needs it can raise its head at any given moment. And putting Bella into nursery for five days has unleashed THE GUILT (Caps Lock required). My rational brain tells me that she is really happy there. In fact she cries when we come to pick her up now (which is dispiriting in a whole new way). My rational brain also knows that as nice as our flat is, we don’t have 20 different baby dolls (THANK GOD, TERRIFYING), a bubble machine, a host of dinosaur toys, or daily singing time (well technically I sing, but it could also be classified as inflicting ear torture). In the blue corner we have the rational brain, in the red corner we have mum guilt. And mum guilt wins every time.

I also now feel a pressure to make the weekends EXTRA SPECIAL, as we only get those two days with her. And that means not just sitting in front of the “TV babysitter” watching back-to-back episodes of Hey Duggie and Justin’s House. (Incidentally, Justin, AKA Mr Tumble, seems very asexual, like an aggressively cheerful Ken doll. I am positive that if I took his clothes off there would be a plastic mound where his man-bits should be). However, thinking about it, extra special is all relative these days. Bella is a cheap date at the moment. I am an exceptionally cheap date. So extra special can be nothing more than going to the playground and letting her go on the slide 500 times in a row. And then the swings. 500 times in a row. And then the roundabout. 500 times in a row. Whilst I watch on, taking the millionth video of swing-time, and devouring all her rice cakes (the apple ones are JUST delicious). So that’s where I will be every Saturday and Sunday from now on. It’s a done deal.

swing 2 — Swinging. That’s where we will be…

Jul 22, 2019 0

Make me wanna scream (MJ and Janet)

The other day we were in the local supermarket, doing a routine shop in what passes for a fun day out nowadays. I gave Bella a carton of soup to hold, because the outstretched arm of demand was reaching for it. I thought to myself “how helpful of her, carrying that when my hands are full”. Idiot. Then we had to pay, so I had to remove said carton from her grasp. THE. TANTRUM. THE. TEARS. THE. SCREAMING. This incident is now known as “Soup-Gate”. With the terrible twos looming on the horizon like a malevolent thunderhead, Bella is warming us up with an array of tantrums. These come on like tropical storms. They appear from nowhere at a moment’s notice, leave a path of devastation and lobbed toys in their wake, and then are gone as fast as they arrived. Here are six of the classic toddler-diva tantrums:

The “exit” tantrum

When you need to leave the playground/softplay/park/shopping centre (insert scene of japes), because they have been on the slide 100,000 times and it’s gone dark and you feel like time has actually stopped. So you pick up your toddler diva with hope in your eyes, praying that this time, this time, you will get away with it. No. Never. Cue epic tantrum as you wrestle your FURY-FILLED, biting banshee into the pram.

The “strapping in the pram” tantrum

Similar to the exit tantrum, but this one can occur whenever the toddler-diva feels like it (which is most of the time). They generally want to walk by themselves and do not appreciate having their freedom curtailed. So putting them into the pram becomes quite the feat, akin to an obstacle course. You frantically BUCKLE, BUCKLE whilst you toddler turns into a rampaging bronco, all arching of the back, bucking and ramrod legs. A parental double act is recommended here.

The “how dare you give me beans again” tantrum

So yesterday beans were fine. Yesterday beans were delicious. Yesterday there were not enough beans in the world. Today they cause abject hysteria. Today they are thrown back in your face with all the force of jet propulsion. This is one of the messiest of all the tantrums, think one sided food fight. You end up peeling dried bean-juice off the walls a week later.

The “Changing Mat” tantrum

The toddler diva obviously does not tolerate being sat in shit for long (and very sensible too). But if one should have the temerity to try and CHANGE the soiled nappy then this can often cause one of the most ferocious of squalls. In fact the mere sight of the changing table seems to turn Bella into Baby Jekyll.

The “other child has the thing that I wasn’t interested in until they picked it up” tantrum

Bella is generally pretty good at “sharing” (I know this is not really sharing, it’s more she has no longer any interest in the thing she has given away), but the other day we were at soft play and there were two IDENTICAL rubber rocking creatures (it definitely wasn’t a horse) next to each other. Both her and a boy toddler wanted the same one. Natch. Coordinated tantrums ensued, like an orchestra of angst.

The “Who the f**k knows” tantrum

It could be because you put the dolly in the buggy the wrong way (trick question, there is no right way), it could be because you put the toy cow next to the toy sheep (WTF), or it could be because you TOOK A SOCK OFF (call yourself a mother). There is no point trying to guess the cause, just get into the storm shelter and wait this one out.

Jun 30, 2019 0

A diva is a female version of a hustler, v 2.0 (Beyonce)

One of my first blog posts was about how my three-month-old baby had more diva requests than Mariah Carey. Celebrity demands to ban vacuuming (Jay Z), have only cylindrical vases (Kanye), be lowered onto a sofa (Mariah), have 20 white kittens (again, Mariah) or 28 bottles of water at room temperature (Lady Gaga), were nothing compared to my tiny new-born diva. As Bella has grown up she has maintained her J-Lo ‘tude, it’s just the demands have changed and woe-betide any mother (read rider) that doesn’t keep up.

So here are her current top 12 demands:

1. Do not leave my sight, even for a second. With the advent of separation anxiety Bella wants me within arms reach at ALL times. I can’t even leave her side to go to the bathroom. Ahhh to pee alone without a miniature voyeur. One sweet day.

2. I will allow no one but mother to pick me up. Bella of course has a wider entourage of lackeys to attend to her every whim, but she has assigned me the job of chief-picker-upper. If anyone else tries to get in on this act she will swiftly make her displeasure very clear and they will be fired immediately.

3. My food must be yellow. Bella was a very enthusiastic advocate of baby led weaning at the start, but she hit ten months and suddenly would only put yellow food in her mouth. Mangos, cheese, bananas, bread and porridge are top of Bella’s list of demands. And she KNOWS when I try and trick her. I can’t coat a courgette in cheese so it looks yellow. She knows that there is GREEN food hiding under there.

yellow food — Bella’s yellow (and orange) approved menu

4. I will not sit in the high chair for more than fifteen minutes. The high chair rage starts for seemingly no reason, other than she has finished eating and therefore must be taken somewhere more fun immediately. It is usually prefaced by a series of epic ‘mic drops’, where left over food, spoons, wet wipes and socks are all dumped onto the floor with increasing force.

5. I will under no circumstances wear a bib. Bib rage also occurs on a regular basis. She will not be constrained by such a mundane piece of clothing.

6. And ditto for socks. No sock lasts on her foot for more than five seconds. I am seriously considering making some with ties attached, “Socks on a String TM”.

7. I need a separate room, nay wing, for all my toys. Currently Bella’s toys have turned our once calm, dare I say chic, lounge into a budget version of the Fun House. There are Day-Glo instruments of fun lurking under every cushion and I am using the Jumperoo as a coffee table.

8. I will NOT SIT IN THE CAR SEAT. This one gets full caps lock. We don’t have a car so we don’t have to put her in said seat very often, but when we do she unleashes full throttle squalling banshee diva, which no amount of distraction can placate. It’s like we have Naomi Campbell strapped in the back seat.

9. I must never be allowed to become bored. This one just gets worse as they get older. Bella needs to be constantly rotated round our weapons of mass distraction. It’s basically a parent powered merry-go-round, where you are the horse.

10. How dare you keep me out of cupboards and bins. Now she can only zombie shuffle at the moment, but it’s enough to get her to ALL the places she really shouldn’t go: the bin, the cupboard where wires and batteries go to die, the cat litter, the cat food dish, the laundry basket…the list is endless. Try and dissuade her from attacking said hazard and the result is not pretty.

11. I will not sit in my own filth. This one hasn’t changed, and is still fair enough. Neither would I. But at the same time…

12. How dare you expect me to stay STILL whilst you change my nappy. Bella does not want to be restrained by the the changing table so it’s like trying to wrestle a nappy onto a wriggling piece of angry custard.

Sep 27, 2018 0

I’m the quiet storm (Mobb Deep)

Last week we went to see my parents back up t’north. It was just lovely to be welcomed back into the warmth of the familial bosom, and I am not going to lie, it was even better to have someone else clean the high chair (the high chair is officially my nemesis, constantly crusted in the concrete that is dried Weetabix). But what wasn’t so good about being with the ‘rentals was that they couldn’t pick Bella up and cuddle her any more. In the six weeks since they last saw her she’s developed full on stranger danger and separation anxiety. My parents aren’t complete strangers, but they live so far away that they are definitely on the “stranger spectrum.” So every time they tried to lift her she would look back at me with confusion brimming in her eyes and then switch to full on red-browed squall within moments. This is sad for them, as they just want to shower her with affection, especially my Dad, who turns from gruff northern gent into PUDDLE OF GOO whenever Bella smiles.

I have found separation anxiety really hard to deal with over the last couple of months even though I know it is JUST A PHASE and I know it won’t last forever. Part of this is frustration that it’s so traumatic to hand her over to other people, when she used to be so happy to be passed like a parcel around a group of big cooing adult faces. People don’t seem to be very understanding of this behaviour in a baby. Some take it as a challenge. It’s like when you go out with a playa and you think you will be THE one to change him. “He just hasn’t met the right girl,” you say as he tries it on with every Lycra clad vagina in the immediate vicinity. People also think they will be THE one to change Bella, THE one she won’t cry on, so they keep on trying to pick her up. And trying. It turns into the oh-so-fun game of who can make my baby cry the most. Or they back off so fast they trip over their own feet, with a look of horror in their eyes, like she is a wild mustang to be feared, and ask me if she’s always been this difficult and clingy.

The separation anxiety has also made me start to ask what kind of person Bella will become, and wonder if she will be introverted or shy. Now, there is NOTHING wrong with this, nothing at all, but I am nervous because I used to be introverted and found it very difficult. “WHAT?” I hear those who know me cry. “Introverted! YOU? You could talk wallpaper off the wall.” And that is true now, but this wasn’t always the case.

When I was at school I was a figure of fun. Why? Well, because kids can be mean and I gave them plenty of fodder, a) I was aggressively tall and skinny, all elbows and knees, with snooker player spectacles (prompting the nickname “stick insect”), b) I had a MULLET and I only washed it once a week if it was lucky (prompting the nickname “chip pan head” and c) I was introverted…and introverted was always said as if it was a VERY BAD THING. At one point my teachers even had a quiet word with my parents about this. So it always seemed to me that my self-contained way of dealing with the world was just wrong, and that I should be trying harder to pass myself off as an extrovert. All this pressure was dumped on a poor adolescent riddled in hormones who looked like a cross between Billy Ray Cyrus and Timmy Mallet.

Over time I learned to adapt and change how I interacted with the world (and lost the mullet), but the idea that being quiet is a stigma has stayed with me. Even now I find it hard to leave my entire personality spread eagled on the table at first meet. So with this pedigree I worry about Bella. I keep descending down my own private ‘what if’ rabbit hole. What if she can’t talk to anyone at school, has no mates, and spends her time locked in her room listening to mournful EMO music, with too much eyeliner on, wearing waistcoats with small mirrors sewn onto them (flashback alert)? What if she LIKES REM?? What if she ends up getting called Big Bella? I mean she’s going to be tall with us as parents. You can’t fight genes. What if she never leaves her own bed,not even for custard creams, having to be winched out aged 30 as I look on wringing my hands, clutching my pearls and wailing “if only…”

Before I reach for the gin (read as I reach for the gin), I need to have a strong talk with myself. Why does it matter, so what if she is quiet? Apparently over a third of the population are introverts. Not only that, we need introverts. They are some of the most creative and powerful people driving society forwards, and that’s a whole different blog post in itself. Whatever Bella ends up becoming, all I can do is support her and love her. I will save her from strangers until she is cool with them again. And I pledge now to never make her feel wanting or guilty for how she is. Unless she is listening to REM, then judgement will be passed and words will be had.

(PS. Try reading Susan Cain’s ‘Quiet: The power of introverts in a world that can’t stop talking’)

Sep 7, 2018 0

Bomb-bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb (Chris Brown & Wiz Khalifa)

Today we got ‘baby-bombed’. Again. This is when a total stranger approaches at great speed, usually cooing loudly, and GRABS, or in more extreme cases, KISSES your baby without asking. On this particular occasion it was an older lady, hunched over double, so she advanced unseen below my eye line. Her gnarled hand, long nails painted a venomous red, reached out for Bella’s (let’s face it) generous thighs and she gave them a vigorous squeeze. Then she went for the classic one-two manoeuvre. Her rouged face came closer and closer to Bella as if in slow motion; I could see the saliva frothing at one side of her mouth, a thicket of wiry hairs on her sagging chin and a light dusting of dandruff on her shoulders. Then came the moment of truth. She KISSED Bella on the cheek. KISSED HER. How is that OK? Would you go up to another consenting adult on the street, jiggle their legs then plant a smacker on them, whilst making unintelligible noises only dogs can hear? No. You’d get punched or possibly shanked. Definitely told to f**k off. So why is this OK with a baby?

Baby bombing is an all new hate for me, and since having Bella I have found a host of new things that either annoy me or please me that never did before. Things that never even got onto my radar pre baby. Admittedly this is probably exacerbated by my emotions being somewhat closer to the surface than ever before, “mum-motions” if you will.

So, my new HATES:

Baby-bombing

TOP of my list, especially since Bella has developed stranger danger and separation anxiety. The typical M.O. of a baby-bomber is to swoop in all loud and high pitched, grabby fingers outstretched. On one hand I am pleased that complete strangers find Bella so cute they can’t help but touch her. But on the other (and this one wins) I also hate it because you don’t know WHERE THEY HAVE BEEN. And she regularly loses her shit during the thigh jiggling. Who wouldn’t – if someone came up to me and started pinching my (also generous) thighs I would weep for a week.

Doorbells

There was a period when Bella would not nap in the house. We would put her in her lovingly prepared, warm cot in her painfully expensive sleeping bag and she would shriek like she was lying on a bed of nails wrapped in a cat o’ nine tails. During this period she would JUST get off to sleep when inevitably the postman would ring the doorbell. ARGHHHH. Cue rabid squalling from the nursery. Eventually I disconnected it.

The tube

Now the Underground has never been a favourite, it’s not like if asked what I was doing today I would answer “oh just ride the Bakerloo line for a few hours, maybe jump off for some quality time on the Jubilee, feel the dirty breeze in my hair – BOOM”…but with a baby the tube is beyond tedious. There are a handful of accessible stations (stations that are entirely useless for any normal journey), no one stands up for you even with a passive aggressive British DEATH STARE directed at them, you develop guns of steel carrying the pram up 1000s of stairs and it is always hotter than an actual circle of hell.

The pavements of SW17

So I have spent many a day pounding the pavements of Tooting and surrounds, and have come to the conclusion that they are not in the least bit pram friendly. They may even inspire me to write a STRONGLY WORDED EMAIL. For a sleeping baby they are the equivalent of a new fairground ride: The Baby Boneshaker. It is effectively like going off-road, I need me a Land Rover not a buggy.

My new LOVES:

Smell of Baby Poo

This will sound weird, and it’s not at fetish level, but I love the smell of baby poo. Why? Because it means she has BEEN. This is what six weeks of constipation did to me, six weeks of watching Bella strain and strain, her face puce, her eyes watering, her little hands shaking, all simply to produce a series of dry dusty rabbit pellets.

Costa

Before Bella I was well on my way to becoming a coffee snob. I didn’t feel safe unless my coffee came from an independent establishment where Barista was a PROPER job, where there were ironic captions from lesser known beat poets on the walls and where everything was made from burnished wood, even the cups (yes I would put up with lip splinters to feel confident in my cortado). I even once trialled a bean that had passed through a weasel first (yes pooed out and turned into a latte, yum). But now I am all about a simple Costa. It has baby changing as standard, it has room for a battalion of prams and you can stay for hours without being evicted. What more could any mum want?

Leopard print

Actually any animal print. I always have been a fan, but was never entirely convinced I could pull it off. But now I am obsessed with it, for both Bella and me because it is the best pattern for covering up a multitude of food based sins. Those grubby little avocado hand marks don’t even show up on a leopard print blouse, and the sweet-potato vom just blends in to the tiger print onesie.

Aug 22, 2018 0

Question…(Destiny’s Child)

Last week I got asked by another woman, a mum no less, “why are you still doing THAT?” A perfectly innocuous question I hear you cry. But the THAT in question was breastfeeding. And THAT was said with such disgust that what she could have been asking was “why are you still mutilating small dogs and locking them in disused refrigerators?” Well everyone knows I am a cat person. Why indeed.

This question really got under my skin. As a first time mum you are always on the cusp of a guilt trip. You are convinced that you aren’t doing it right MOST of the time, so you don’t need any help feeling bad about your choices. But of course I said nothing. Of course. So, warning up front, this may get a bit ranty. How you feed your baby is such a personal decision and there is no one right way to do it. I am still breastfeeding Bella at eight months, and I have got to say I have not felt wholeheartedly supported in that decision. I did not expect to feel bad for breastfeeding. A few weeks ago the Royal College of Midwives announced they were putting new emphasis on supporting mums who bottle feed as much as those who breastfeed, which is great because I think that support is THE most important thing. Whichever way you choose to go, whichever way you can go, as you can’t always choose, will ultimately work for you and your baby and should be supported.

So when I was asked why I was still breastfeeding, despite myself I felt guilty. Maybe she IS too old; maybe if I don’t stop now she will still be supping on my boobs into adolescence. I will have to turn up at her university Fresher’s Ball to make her a White Russian (only classy cocktails for my gal). I will have to live under her dorm bed. I will be a 50 year-old husk of a woman, dedicated only to feeding my daughter, with two spaniel’s ears for breasts. I will be like one of those really sad dairy cows you see on the news, tied to a fence with pumps on their udders for 23 hours a day. The spectre of “Bitty” looms menacingly on the horizon. I need to constantly remind myself that she is eight months not eighteen. I also feel guilty that I am depriving Phil of father-daughter feeding bonding time (although nowadays there is more meaningful time spent over a piece of avocado than milk). And I feel guilty for not getting away from her more often as breastfeeding does tie you to four hour increments of freedom at most. Listen to that, I feel GUILTY that I can’t take time to myself more often…I am actually ridiculous.

fri night — One thing I will not miss about breastfeeding….the classic Friday night spent in with the breast pump, a Magnum and Love Island (well the last two can stay)

So why am I still doing THAT eight months in? Well it’s not because I just love how my veiny, baggy, puppies-in-a-sack boobs look (FYI, so sexy). Firstly it was so ridiculously hard in the beginning that I resent giving it up when it is now easy. My nipples bled for almost four weeks. Bella was constantly sicking up a hideous pink mixture of old milk and my blood. I had to sleep with nipple balm under my pillow so it was warmed up and therefore soft enough to apply at any given moment, before, during and after every feed. And Bella fed a LOT. A LOT. At the beginning she was a classic cluster feeder. At one dark point she chowed down every 45 minutes between the hours of 5pm and whatever time we all crawled into bed. At the end of every night (I say end, ha) I wanted to scream into a pillow whilst simultaneously hitting myself in the face. So because breastfeeding was so hard won, part of me doesn’t want to give up on it now it’s simple.

And breastfeeding is great now, both practically and emotionally. In pure practical terms Bella is a lean, mean, breast-emptying machine. She is done in five minutes flat. And it’s convenient; I don’t have to carry bottles with me, I can just flop out said saggy boobs whenever, wherever (a lesser known Shakira song). It’s also cheaper, nay free. Phil made this very pertinent point, as he and his excel sheet are masterfully keeping us afloat during these perilous statutory pay times. And lastly, someone told me that breastfeeding burns between 200-500 calories a day. With my continued addiction to Nutella and my ball-bag stomach I need all the help I can get. As well as practical plus points, emotionally there is also no doubt I feel close to Bella when breastfeeding, especially when she stops, looks up and beams at me halfway through. Heart. Melts.

Saying all this my breastfeeding days may soon be coming to an end. Why? Because Bella has just developed both two teeth and a penchant for clamping down on my nip like a rabid terrier with a bone. Those teeth might be small but they are like two tiny razor sharp knives when applied to what was once an erogenous zone. This is NOT a fun game. THE PAIN. THE PAIN. So the finish line is in sight, but until then, yes, I am still doing THAT.

Jul 9, 2018 1

Yeah, roses really smell like poo-poo-oo (OutKast)

This morning I went into Bella’s room to find that it stank like the inside of a Glasto Portaloo at the end of day three. I half expected to find a festival reveller passed out under her cot having fully soiled themselves. Not only had Bella pooed herself in her sleep, she had also done her first ADULT POO. For those of you not intimately familiar with the topic of baby shit (I have become that person who spends too much time on Dr Google looking at the poo-Pantone), breastfed baby poo looks like chicken korma and smells OK (OK being all relative). However as soon as they start eating purées and solids they start to produce adult-like poo, which bloody stinks. You need a Hazmat suit and tongs to remove the evidence. My only consolation is that one day she will be changing my pensioner nappies. Her first foray into the world of adult turds is a sign that she is growing up fast.

In fact now she is six months old she is looking more and more like a little girl each day, and less and less like a capuchin monkey. I had a frightening flash forward to her as terrible teen, which, if she’s anything like me, will be truly horrific. One day she will be going out sporting inappropriately tight velvet outfits from Bay Trading and I will put on my mum voice and tell her that she “forgot to put on a skirt” and to “get back upstairs and put some clothes on”. She will be sneaking off to the park to drink cider (read lighter fluid) and heavy-pet with boys who work at McDonald’s. Phil has already got a list of probing questions and a torch to turn inquisitor on her first boyfriend, or girlfriend, or gender-nonspecific-friend, as the case may be.

The biggest change so far has been moving out of the newborn phase, which happened at around three and a bit months. This created a maelstrom of bittersweet emotions inside me. On the one hand I am beyond excited by her development into a proper child. “She ROLLED OVER”, “she PUT HER FEET IN HER MOUTH”, “she SAID HI” (she definitely didn’t) being just a snapshot of text messages to my mum over the past few weeks. But on the other hand I also hark back with rose-tinted nostalgia for those (let’s face it horrific) newborn days. How quickly we forget.

So how do you know when your baby is leaving those hallowed fresh-from-the-vagina days behind?

Here are nine sure-fire signs:

1. They start looking weird in romper suits. At the start rompers are the easiest to put their floppy bodies in as they scream bloody murder at your sheer audacity in dressing them. But from about four months they start to look like Matt Lucas in a onesie.

2. Their bald patch grows over. When they are first born, if they have hair at all, they develop a monk-like bald patch where they rub their heads when sleeping. When this starts to fluff-over you know your newborn days are numbered.

3. They don’t fall asleep on you anymore. At the start they would just pass out on you at any given moment like your dribbling drunk uncle at Xmas. Now they are just TOO EXCITED (imagine eyes bulging) when in company to do any such thing.

4. In fact they don’t fall asleep anywhere anymore. You start to walk that tiredness tightrope – too tired and they won’t nap, not tired enough and they won’t nap. Basically they will only sleep whilst lying in a south facing direction, with you standing on one leg and rocking them to the rhythm of “Stayin’ Alive”.

5. You have to invest in distraction techniques. Weapons of mass distraction (more on this to come) are essential to keep them from getting bored and firing you.

6. They start to get thighs like the Michelin man. They get folds on their folds and you just want to EAT THEM. Their thighs are particularly crease-heavy, and don’t get me started on the “multi-gina” (thanks @ElleHuntingford for that very apt description).

7.The you-facing carrier starts to piss them right off. Suddenly you are carrying a wriggling piece of snarling custard.

8.They move to the big gal pram. You know it is time when you have to concertina them into the bassinet and being laid flat, unable to see the world around them, creates merry havoc.

9.They start to gum everything. Anything in arms reach goes straight in the mouth for a generous gumming. Anything. Your hand, your hair, cushions, napkins, cutlery, the side of the table, the floor, their feet, the cat.

eating her feet — The feet are going straight into the mouth. This is the MOST flexible she will ever be – I cannot even touch my knees.

May 10, 2018 0