What Would Buddha Do?

Harriet has expanded her signing vocabulary!
She already knows how to ask for food and drink, and we have been trying to teach her how to let us know when she's full. We felt that these were important signs to start with: she needs to be able to let us know if she's in need of sustenance or if she's stuffed doesn't she. Well she has decided that it's also crucial for us to know when she wants a bath and so has invented a sign for that purpose. It's really just a heavy hint, as she sits splashing on the sofa and then looks about her in stark disappointment at the lack of suds and ducks.
When she first did it she fixed me with an intense look and grinned as she slapped at her imaginary bath water. I thought she might be pretend splashing so I did it back and said bath, at which she squealed with delight. It wasn't bath time, and it messed up the routine, but she got her soak. I had to let her know that her mime meant something and I wanted to reward her attempt at communication.
She signs for a bath every day now, which comes as no surprise to us as she absolutely loves the water. We hope to take Harriet swimming soon, although I'm scared retarded about that.

Her crawling is progressing fairly quickly, although she still looks a bit frightening clawing her way across the floor. She spends a lot of time on all fours, teeters for a bit and then flops onto her tummy and drags herself off. She's getting damn quick now, especially if she's set her sights on something she shouldn't have; cables, fireplace, dead ladybirds.

We get a lot of dead ladybirds here. On one side of us is open farmland and the other is a hill, so we are effectively a windbreak and the first port of refuge for insects seeking shelter. Notably ladybirds. We've had dozens come in to shelter from the winter and cark it on the carpet since moving in and I seem to always be vacuuming flattened bugs off the floor. (Harriet's babywalker is the prevailing method of euthanasia).

We've had a couple of wasps appear in the kitchen too. Not your 10-a-penny drones either. Unlikely as it sounds we had two big queens take over our kitchen. [insert gay joke here]. The little I know about wasps made me keen to get them out before drones commenced nest building in the late spring. The only problem was how to deal with them. I don't like to harm any creature, even pointless and evil ones like wasps and doctors' receptionists. We thought long and hard over this issue, while the wasps grew more and more agitated in their glass cells (upturned tumblers). In the end we had to put Harriet's safety above the wasps' and they were dealt with accordingly.
And the Buddhist in me wept.

Good bye for now and thank you for reading my guff.

Zen and the art of motor skill maintenance

I am finding it hard to concentrate on anything at the moment.
There's a constant noise in my head, not dissimilar to tinnitus. I don't have a problem with my ears though, but rather there's a voice in my head making a kind of neeeeeeeeyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh sound.
You see it has dawned on me that in just seven days time I will be preparing myself for the last night with Harriet sleeping by my side.
Seven days!
I find this thought so unbearable that I actually have to face away from this while typing it (grimacing). I am desperately trying to look on the bright side, but no matter what I come up with I just keep returning to the fact that it's the end of an era.
MySpaceMate Mandoh very wisely pointed out that there will be many mini eras unfolding and ending and that part of being a parent is dealing with this reality. (I paraphrase, but that was the gist wasn't it Mandoh?)
That is in fact the only solace I can find and I'm working with it and reminding myself that I must embrace each new phase, as they will each enrich Harriet's life. And in order for Harriet to have new phases the old ones must pass on. That's progress, and who am I to stand in the way of that? It's my job to facilitate it, isn't it?
"Neeeeeeeeyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!"
I consider myself to be a rational and strong person. However, I think if you look deep, deep inside you'll find a quivering, paranoid, spineless poof; my 'inner ninny' if you like, and that's who is screaming and scared to move on. I think I need to go in there and give the ninny a good slap.

News on the Harriet front: She now crawls for the fun of it, even if she has no particular place to go. (She used to crawl resentfully, and I know she was thinking that we were a right pair of sadistic bastards, just sitting by and smiling and watching her struggle). It looks like she's doing the doggy paddle, but she uses her knees more than she did at first and so goes a bit faster.

She feeds herself (and her immediate surroundings) with a special soft-tipped spoon (don't want her scooping her eyes out). Time doesn't always permit the self-feeding, but I suppose the more she does it the quicker she'll get. To be fair, it's the cleaning up that takes the most time and energy. I am still too woefully disorganised to let her at the cutlery every mealtime. I shall blame it on the fact that I am still finding my feet in our new home.

She crawls over to me when she wakes up in the morning, which is very cute.
"Neeeeeeeeyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!"
She wears a kind of sleeping bag that fastens over her shoulders so her efforts are a bit clumsy. I don't know about running before she can walk, but she does attempt a sack race every day.
Anyhoo, she puffs and pants and lumbers her way over for her breakfast and that's what I wake up to.
At the moment.
*bites fist*

Finally, she laughed at a French person today. Now on its own that could be forgiven, but with the marching, the epaulettes, and the screams of "Attack!", it paints a very dark picture.
I am going to have to keep my eye on this one.

Thank you for looking in.

My fantastic sister's doing a runner.

A little while back, before I became Harriet's Mum, my sister was breaking her heart over how she could help me.
I had undergone test after test yet the doctors could find no reason why I was not falling pregnant. I wanted Harriet's Dad to be a dad and he wanted me to be a mum, but it just wasn't happening. We were doing it right.
We'd seen pictures.
Eventually we were faced with the fact that IVF was our only option, and because I was in my mid thirties at the time I was told that I'd have to go private: I could not afford the time it would take for me to reach the top of the NHS waiting list.
Way to break it to me gently chaps, "You're old and barren."
So we tightened our belts and started on the arduous process of readying ourselves for the emotional roller coaster ride that comes with the IVF process.

Back to my fantastic sister:
She offered to run the London Marathon to raise funds for us, because she knew that time was tight and we needed a lot of spondoolicks ASAP. *
Well, after five long years of trying for a baby and just as we'd found the right IVF clinic for us, I fell ill with what turned out to be a foetus.
I was really sick, but happier than I had ever been in my entire life.
Obviously.
My sister still wanted to run the marathon, so this year I am immensely proud to say that she is partaking in it to raise funds for the National Autistic Society. She hopes to raise awareness of the plight of those with Autism and their families, too. A truly worthy cause.
I hope to be posting details here on how you can help her, if you'd like to.

Watch this space…

*I know that other family members, and friends gave support too, financial and emotional. Thank you. You're all super.

A grand day out.

I am one of five offspring and our get-togethers nowadays are too few for my liking.
On Saturday Harriet, her dad and I drove (well, he drove and we passenged) for a couple of hours to see my brother on his fartieth birthday.
(My fartieth is looming and I am attempting to belittle it.)

Harriet was overcome by the size of the crowd that greeted her. She is the twelfth grandchild on my side, so with all of them present along with all my siblings and their spouses there were eleven adults and eleven children to meet. Many of them for the first time.
She was very straight-faced and mute for quite some time; she always weighs people up before affording them a smile or a 'word'. There were so many people for her to suss that she just didn't have the time for smiling till late afternoon.

I have been to countless family gatherings over the years and they are always lively and loud.
After a couple of hours I nipped out and away from the throng with Harriet to visit an elderly neighbour. I used to visit this neighbour when I was a young girl and we have formed a rather improbable bond. She's quite school mistress-like in her demeanour and I was always such a shy girl, so we were an unlikely pairing. She's somewhat afraid of thunderstorms. When I was little if a storm rumbled over I'd stop my brothers / sister giving me a dead leg / Chinese burn / black eye and pop round to keep her company.
My childhood home sits in a valley and storms get trapped there for lengthy periods so she had time to teach me how to play the piano, which was cool. I never got really good at it, but it was fun nonetheless.

She's eighty-seven now
and pretty mutton,
shaky on her pins,
but bright as a button.

I went to see her to introduce her to Harriet, and because her brother had died and I wanted to pass on my sympathy. She was very pleased to see us and welcomed us in and sat us down.
I told her I was sorry to hear about David.
She turned her ear to me and raised her eyebrows. She hadn't heard.
"I'm sorry about David."
Eyebrows up another notch, neck craning.
"Sorry to hear David died."
"Hmm?"
"Sorry about your brother."
"Hmm?"
"Sorry about David"
"Hmm?"
"I was sorry to hear about David."
"Hmm?"
"SORRY YOUR BROTHER'S DEAD."

The pathos was pretty dead at that point too.
That is one sentence that shouldn't really be shouted.
At an old lady.
(I really was sorry about David passing away. He was a kind and uncomplicated person in a world where those qualities are considered less important than they ought. But I didn't know him terribly well and my sadness over his death was mainly at how hard it had hit Liz. She'll be okay though; she's a truly remarkable woman.)

Ooh! Ooh! Before we left Harriet crawled for the whole family to see! She's been attempting to shift herself for some time and it all came together on my mum's living room floor. Her crawling isn't what I'd call typical; she kicks her legs like she's swimming and drags herself with her arms. But what the heck! She's finally mobile!

Anyroad, the family do was done by half nine and we set off home, with me in the driving seat. To fuel me for the drive I'd had my first cup of coffee since becoming pregnant in September 2005 and I buzzed all the way home (and I continued to buzz into the early hours).
With my two lovelies snoozing in the back I pootled along and got a real thrill as I neared our new home. It's always nice to get home, isn't it? And it's especially nice for me now home is somewhere gorgeous. I smiled away to myself as I entered our hometown and was thankful to not be driving into a seething city. I'd gone off the city a long time before we moved away from it.
Home, sweet sweet home.

Last note, before I wind up this epic blog. Harriet also has two more new teeth. I just know that you're dying to know that.
She now has four teeth on the top and still just two on the bottom.

And my hoohas hurt.
Thanks for reading this poppycock.

Stepping out with my baby.

Our health visitor back in Cardiff kept telling us, "Babywalkers are evil" and, "99.9% of infant casualties are babywalker related" so, "Whatever you do, don't get a babywalker for Harriet!" So we went ahead and bought a babywalker for Harriet. (That health visitor always had flaky reasons behind her hysterical and unsolicited offerings.)
Harriet loves it. She was unsure at first. She grizzled and looked at us, mystified by this strange seat and our disproportionate excitement over it. She didn't want to stay in it for long because she had not yet discovered its secret.
She has now and it's crazy seeing her wheel herself about. I know for sure that she likes me because she follows me around with a mix of concentration and joy on her face. If she's not squeaking along behind me she's giggling and squeaking away from me at top speed (top speed for her being pitiably slow). This new contrivance of hers has helped enthuse her crawling too. She's been moving herself about on the carpet in a haphazard way for a few days, but has been unaware of the fact that she's actually getting anywhere. Now however she knows she can move, knows she is moving, and wants to be moving all the time.
Little Miss Independent.

With this new state of independence in mind we have decided that we will change Harriet's sleeping arrangements on the 12th February, her 8-month birthday. If you've not read all my blogs you may not know that we have a brilliant cot that butts up to our bed, with a bolster to keep Harriet in and me out.
At the moment she is safe because she can't crawl off and hurt herself. In just seventeen days time we'll move the cot away so we can have both of its sides up, because by then she'll be on the verge of crawling (if not crawling already) and a potential danger to herself.
The End of an era dawns. Gulp!

I had to set a date so I can prepare myself. I've read all about the difficulties of weaning, and separation anxiety, and the like, but didn't realise that I'd be the one struggling! Harriet is a wilful little lady and seems very able to take change as it comes. I, on the other hand, want to pickle this whole time of my life and climb in the jar with it.
Wholly ridiculous I know.

Oh by the way, Harriet has been exceptionally talkative today. I really do believe she is trying to tell me something.
Keep your eyes on the news, because I expect a story involving Bob, David Bowie, and some mischief with cat pooh to break very soon. The cat pooh features strongly and, if Harriet is to be trusted, David Bowie has been a bit of a bugger with it.

Fangs for the mammaries.

Mango yoghurt! Oh that makes more sense.
It's obvious really that Harriet was asking for mango yoghurt and not Womble hotpot! You can see how the two might sound similar when spoken by a seven-month-old baby. But what was I thinking?
Did I really think a child of mine would ask for something as ludicrous as Womble hotpot?
At this time of year?
I have worked like a slave through a list of foods that babies are able to eat from six months, making recipe after recipe trying to get Harriet back to eating solids. I had the lot met with a mix of disgust and indifference. I didn't make Womble hotpot obviously, but I did spend hours making the "one pot chicken" dish, which Harriet found interesting.
She studied me as she sampled it with a look of grave mistrust in her eyes.

After trying an impressive array of vegetables and fruits, pureed to perfection, I was exhausted, deflated, and thoroughly frustrated.
Harriet's dad stepped in, whipped up a bit of banana, yoghurt and flaked rice and our little munchkin gobbled it all up and made "yum-yum" noises all through the meal. (They plotted against me, I'm sure. I think it's their way of letting me know that I'm not indispensable.)Harriet has since gone on to form quite a mango yoghurt habit. We're weaning her onto strawberries and apricots, but the mango is the thing.

We still don't know exactly why Harriet went off her food, but what could be to blame are her two new teeth! She now has all four front pegs.
These new arrivals are also two more potential nails in the breastfeeding coffin, as she's still a bit too happy to nip the nip for my liking. With four little gnashers she could do permanent damage.

It's all go here at the moment as Harriet is making huge leaps, metaphorically speaking, towards self-propulsion. She spends a lot of time on her tummy and sometimes wriggles enough to move and sometimes gets herself on to all fours. She just needs to combine the two and she'll be off. She doesn't have the patience for it though. She wants to be on her feet and can pull herself up to standing now, but doesn't know what to do once she's there.
She has all the components; it's just a case of sitting down and having a good long think about it to piece it all together. Fat chance of that though, she's far too busy.

Anyway, must go. Harriet is climbing out of her playnest and writhing her way to the kitchen.
She knows it's a mango day.

Thank you and goodbye for now.

Trivial Pursuits.

Our little Harriet was seven-months-old yesterday. We had a modest celebration: no cakes or champagne, and I told her that it's only in her first year that we'll make this kind of fuss on a monthly basis.
We have found that Harriet likes her labels.
By this I don't mean that we are rearing a chav. No, she merely enjoys sucking on the washing instructions on her clothes and burpies. Sod expensive toys, well researched and crafted for optimum 'education through play' they may be. Give her a cloth or a teddy with a big tasty label and she'll be busy for a useful stretch of time. I can attempt a chore or two while she's occupied. Otherwise I have to wait for her to sleep to get things done.

Harriet is a power napper in the daytime. She rarely sleeps for more than forty minutes, which makes getting tasks done a kind of "Krypton Factor" / "It's A Knockout" affair. I need the mental agility to work out how to get big chores done in little time slots, and then it quickly becomes as farcical as a preposterous game show with inflatable costumes when I actually try to execute my multi-tasking plans at top speed.
It's not hard to imagine Stuart Hall in the corner laughing at my efforts.
Maybe it's the giant carrot costume.

One of the things I have to do while Harriet sleeps is trim her nails. She's too much of a wriggler for me to get it done when she's awake. I can usually get all twenty little nails clipped in the allotted time and I am proud of the fact that I manage to keep them too short for her to harm herself.
Mostly.

And it's for the sake of my sanity that I allow myself to feel proud for such a trifling little thing. I have found that I can fall quickly into feeling like a sham of a mother if I don't celebrate the minor accomplishments. They all add up, you see. My end of the day trivia checklist needs to have on it more achievements than failures.

Anyway, I don't always get all nails done in the time and yesterday Harriet robbed me of one of my tiny triumphs by only allowing me to get her fingernails done before waking up and scratching her forehead with a toenail.
I ask you.

Only a quick one today, but thanks for looking in.