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.

Carpet flavoured Womble hotpot.

It's about time I blogged about Harriet isn't it?

Well, moving house has put a bit of a spanner in the works as far as Harriet and her eating / sleeping habits go. It's been three weeks now and she still won't scoff down her food like she used to. I have been in the kitchen putting together some tasty dishes to try and tempt her palate. I made a delicious mango and rice puree and had to force and trick most of it into her mouth and then when there were only a couple of spoonfuls left she got a taste for it and was not happy when it ran out.
There's no pleasing some people.

(I have been so focused on Harriet's diet that I have neglected her dad's. I haven't seen him for a while and I think he may have wasted away to a stick and slipped down the back of the sofa.)

Anyhoo, Harriet needs more solid food now and because she's not eating enough she's woken in the night by a grumbling tummy. That means that I'm woken by a grumbling Harriet. New year's resolution number one is to handle sleep deprivation better. The sleep's not going to improve greatly in the near future so I have to stop whining and find a way to help myself through it. It's a shame really because whining is one of my strong suits.
Ask the stick.

I am trying to get a routine into Harriet's day to see if that helps her eat and sleep. That's resolution number two. I'm doing well with this one and it does seem to be paying off. I find that I flounder less now that I have a routine, and I thought it was all for Harriet!
I have so many balls in the air at the moment it is helpful that at certain times of the day I know where I'll be and what I'll be doing. It also makes it easier to keep tabs on whether I'm being a good mum or not.
We have set mealtimes, all taken at the table in her highchair. We are experimenting with different foods. The weirdest concoction I have made is banana and avocado, and that goes down well if it's heavy on the nana and light on the avocado. Today we're going to try something called "one pot chicken".

There's a set bath time too, which Harriet loves. She didn't have a daily bath before, but as it's something she thoroughly enjoys now we thought we'd up the frequency. She splashes about and has a great time rounding up her three yellow ducks. Today she was pounding on the side of the bath and shouting, "Attack! Attack! Attack!" (Add that to the epaulettes and the marching and you get a vivid and disturbing image of future possibilities.)
She also managed to pull herself up from sitting using the side of the bath. She didn't quite get to a standing position, but in her defence the bath was extremely slippery. I was hugely impressed. So was she. She slowly lowered herself down again and went back to her aggressive water slapping activities.
I know it's time to take Harriet out when there's more water on me than in the bath.

She's a real chuckler these days. I'd like to think it is because I'm hilariously entertaining, but I know that it's all down to her being a jolly little soul. She chatters a lot too. I was (force) feeding her the other day and I swear she asked for Womble hotpot. I pressed her further, to be sure I'd heard right, and she specified that she wanted it carpet flavoured. If I can give her what she asks for I may stand a better chance of getting her to eat.
So, how does one go about making a carpet flavoured Womble hotpot? I suppose you make it with onions, carrots, Wombles, and the things that the everyday folk leave behind.
And in this case, carpet.

My third and final resolution is to work on my posture. It's not too bad but I know that there's room for improvement. Bags of room. Harriet looks to me to see how to behave and how things are done. If I don't get to work straight away we'll have another slouching, frowning, mumbling grouch on our hands.

Happy New Year and thank you for reading my blog.

(I've just had a thought; are Wombles a protected species?)

Letter from the boss.

Area: Dept of family and home making.
Job: Harriet's Mum

Dear Employee,
You have been in the job for six months now and you are due for review.
We have outlined below five different areas and marked you out of ten in each. You will note that your score falls well below average and you have therefore been placed under an extended probation period of a further six months.

Personal appearance. 2/10
We scored you low on this, as there appears to be no consistency to the way in which you present yourself. You veer from slopping around in pyjamas all day to wearing designer dresses with epaulettes. It is very confusing for those around you.
We are not suggesting a strict uniform code here, but what happened to that lovely beige outfit you used to wear?
NB. Regarding hair, the ruffled "just out of bed" look only really works on students. On you it looks like you're just out of bed. And ruffled.

Catering. 1/10
As you are aware, part of your job is ensuring that those in your department are fed. It has come to our attention that you have only cooked two meals in as many weeks and that you count fish and chips to be nutritional fare.
We do not condone sub-contracting in this manner and would advise you to unpack your saucepans and use the bloody things. People move house and have babies every day (not the same people, obviously, that would be crazy) and they manage to keep the kitchen running.
What's wrong with you woman?

Establishing a routine. 0/10
Do you even know what a routine is?
In your defence, as soon as some semblance of a routine has emerged in your day a member of your division has disrupted it.As head of department, however, you are expected to keep your team in order. Might we suggest you acquire some backbone and take charge of your charges?

Growth and development. 10/10
While we recognise that you are strong in this area we feel it is important that you realise that kisses and cuddles alone will not nourish your dependants.
In nature there are creatures so tenacious that they can survive, thrive even, in the most hostile environments. Flowers grow in deserts that have not seen rain for decades.
Likewise, you have managed to produce a baby who continues to grow beautifully even though your dietary input is embarrassingly inadequate. A doughnut is not a square meal. It's a round one with jam in the middle, and not enough to sustain two lives.
I know you claim that you have no time to pee, let alone eat, but others manage just fine.
Your baby's glowing appearance is testament to her will to survive and ability to draw nourishment from affection alone.
You're flying by the seat of your pants, lady!

Retention of marbles. 7/10
It is imperative that you know where your marbles are at all times. You seem to be spilling yours all over the place at the moment and this simply will not do. Stray marbles are a hazard and will not be tolerated. Not only that but your behaviour since losing a few has become decidedly erratic.
Stop mooching. Stop grumbling to yourself. Stop losing marbles.
And stop flying by the seat of your pants.
It's weird.

Conclusion.
20/50 is crap.

Christmas at the Nick Nick Diddlings.

So how was it for you?

It was fun for me and here's why:
I have been doing so much running about lately that I've lost the last of my pregnancy weight and so don't feel threatened at all by the vast quantities of rich foods that accompany Christmas. They should feel threatened by me.
It is lovely to indulge on naughty food and even nicer to have been catered for on Christmas Day (we had lunch at the Nick Nick Diddlings, who slaved away in the kitchen and provided a slap up, top-notch feast).

We managed to find one day to put aside for Christmas shopping, which was a relief. I find that the pleasure of receiving gifts is dulled slightly if I'm unable to reciprocate. Not that I only give presents so I can enjoy mine, good lord no, it's just that we have had so much help recently that it would have been unbearable to have been unable to give something back, no matter how disproportionate and inadequate.

We have a huge Christmas tree. Harriet's dad sent us out on a foggy night with instructions to buy a 6 foot-ish tree. I found the farm and parked up, and then Harriet and I weaved through the Spruces looking for 'our' tree. Well, I looked for the tree. Harriet spent the whole time looking at me, searching my face for clues as to why I had dragged her out to this god-forsaken place, at this time of night, in this weather. She did not approve.
Nor did she approve when a huge tree was shoved next to her in the car, dropping its needles and being all smelly. We got it home and it turns out I'm no good a gauging sizes as the tree stands a proud seven and a half foot at least. In my defence ish is not an exact measurement is it? It could be two inches. It could be a foot and a half. It could be even more. Luckily it wasn't on this occasion, but it could have been is all I'm saying.

Finally I can get into the Christmas spirit again without feeling like a tit. It's all for Harriet now so the magic of the season has re-entered my life.
It was just marvellous to wake up with Harriet on Christmas morning. I know it'll sound mushy but what the heck, Harriet was the only present I needed.
Bluueergh.

Boxing Day will actually involve boxes this year as I intend to empty the last boxes of our belongings and get everything in its place today. Our new house already feels like home. I can't put my finger on what it is that makes it feel so. It could be that I now no longer walk into the cupboard when I'm actually meaning to go to the bathroom. It could be that I no longer fumble around for light switches. Or that I'm already familiar with the creaks and bangs that are peculiar to this building. Maybe it's just that our knickers are in the knickers drawer, our toothbrushes are in their pot and we've christened the toilets.
Who knows?

Merry Christmas to you, thanks for looking in, stop playing about on the Internet, and get back to stuffing your face with chocolate.

Logs on the fire and gits round the tree.

I sat down to write a blog last Tuesday (the 12th).
I was going to write about Harriet's half-year birthday, and how we were about to start packing everything we own in preparation for moving out the following Thursday (the 14th).
Full of optimism and joy, I was. Couldn't wait for Thursday night when we'd be happily sitting in our new home, surrounded by boxes. Gently smiling and rosy cheeked I imagined, from a bit of exertion, but with enough energy left to savour the moment and maybe even start unpacking.

The big problem with that picture is that it is so far removed from the truth that it is embarrassing. For starters, we had decided that we didn't have enough stuff to warrant the hiring of a van. Wrong. Also, we had completely underestimated how difficult (impossible) it would be to pack with a 6-month-old baby to tend to. Oops! Add that to the fact that we were moving over 100 miles away and you can start to imagine what the picture was actually like on Thursday night.

Let me paint it for you: Our new home is filled with boxes, the central heating and the beautiful raspberry paint on the far walls make a cosy setting, the sofa has been reassembled and sits invitingly in its new spot by an open fire. Now pan out a bit.
A bit more.
A bit more.
Can you see Cardiff yet? Well, that's where we are, miles and miles away sitting despondent on the floor. Boxes and loads of other stuff that has still to be packed surround us. It's coming up to midnight and Harriet is finally asleep so there are now two of us to carry on with the work. We are rosy cheeked with exhaustion, and malnutrition is kicking in.
In two days there has been no time for eating or drinking, just intense hard work and a lot of driving and lifting for Harriet's dad.
That's the real picture and it only improved at about 10.30pm on Sunday night, when Harriet's dad came home with the very last of our belongings after having handed over the keys to the old abode.
If it weren't for the fact that I now have a brow so furrowed you could park a bike in it I'd laugh heartily at my naivety about moving house. I'd be in a pool of my own mirth in fact.
The really hard graft is behind us now and we can get on with the more fun like tasks such as finding new homes for all our bits and pieces. The pressure is still on us as Christmas is now only four days away and we'd like to be organised and tidy by then so we can truly relax and enjoy ourselves. I mean, how are we going to overindulge on chocolates and biscuits if we don't know where they are?

Buying gifts is outside the realm of possibilities, unfortunately. There just isn't the time. Such a shame as we were going to buy really big, lavish, fabulous, expensive ones this year. Sorry everyone.

My poor little Harriet has been unsettled by the move. Her eating and sleeping patterns have changed, which is a pain but we'll get back to normal soon I'm sure.
Her half-year birthday was an exciting day. I still pinch myself from time to time to check that she's really real. I have moments when I remember that I managed, after five years of trying, to fall pregnant. Then I remember that I stayed pregnant to full term, and gave birth.
It all seems like it happened to someone else, because for years I sat by and watched it happen to every 'someone else'. (I think I've stretched my poetic licence too far with that one, but you know what I mean).
Then I was so very nervous when we brought our tiny, vulnerable little baby home for the first time that I didn't dare imagine her half-year birthday. But it came and was marked with quiet reflection. I've done a lot of that since having Harriet.

She is getting longer (can't say taller till she's vertical, can I?) and much more active. Her play gym still entertains her, but for shorter spells. She really wants to get about, but hasn't worked out how to yet. She'll walk if we hold her hands, and she enjoys that. She's nowhere near ready to walk unaided of course so she needs to work on her crawling, but she just can't quite coordinate everything.
She spends a lot of time on her tummy, and she does move herself, but it's more by accident than design.

Although there has been plenty of teething pain there are still only the two teeth visible. I was convinced that she'd have more teeth by now but they still lurk beneath, causing untold discomfort. Well, it's not really untold. Harriet tells us all about it at great length.
Bob still features in her tales too, but the best thing is that she now says, "Mum".
In fact I am more popular than Bob!

Didn't John Lennon get in trouble for saying that once?

A correction, some thanks, and an apology.

This blog is a bit of an addendum / confession.
In all the chaos that surrounds me I cannot tell if I am coming or going.
(My sister-in-law helpfully informs me that I am going to the new place, coming to Cardiff, going back to the new place, and then coming back to Cardiff again before going once more to the new place and staying there. Thanks Jen.)

Anyway, not that you'd know, but I was wrong in my last blog about how much time we've spent on our new home. I said we'd spent two weekends working on it when it was in fact just one very long, labour intensive one. It makes no difference to you, but I saw my mistake and had to correct it.

It provides me with the opportunity to get something off my chest.
We went back down to our new home last Friday to pick up the keys and start moving in. A lot of people went to extraordinary lengths to make it possible, and our thanks go out to them. Poppa Doc ran like an All Black on a wild-goose-chase through Christmas crowds, while Nanny Sue helped with the tricky negotiations.

Auntie Jennie and Uncle Phil drove for miles to help us transport a portion of our chattels and they were with us when we entered our home for the first time since the viewing.
I stood nervously on the threshold with fingers crossed, before opening the door. I begged out loud for it to be as wonderful as I remembered it. After a quick tour I was relieved to find that it was in fact more wonderful than I remembered. We found loads of great character details that we'd missed with the estate agent. I had been so blinded by the glorious entrance on the viewing that I had not taken much in after it.
2006 has been a fabulous year for us: our long-awaited Harriet was born, we got married in March so that Harriet and I would share the same surname, and now we have found our dream home. All this after years of hard slog, disappointment, and heartache, so I can be forgiven for being a bit overcome, can't I?
We were all stood together after completing our tour and we had just finished our wowing. I was ecstatic and my eyes met with my husband's (and formed a huge eye that could see in four different directions at once). As silence fell it felt like the right time to say something profound, spiritual and heartfelt.
I don't know why and I know not from whence it came, but for the first (and last) time in my life I raised my right hand and said, "High five!"
With every ounce of love he has for me, my husband was able to fight the urge to punch me and managed a cursory high-five to save me from looking even more of a tit. He really must love me.
I could have said anything else, anything, but it was like I was possessed by a really lame ghost. The awkwardness of that moment, and the silence which ensued, will certainly haunt me for a long time.
Jen and Phil, I'm sorry you had to witness that. I had a weak moment and shall be on my guard to never ever ever let a high-five catch me unawares again.

High-five?

What a twat.

Drowning in bits and bobs and cardboard boxes.

On a day-to-day basis I know that I can keep on top of my household.
Harriet is nourished and clean and the house is tidy. Us parents are fed and clean too.
Some days I struggle, it all depends on how well Harriet sleeps. If she doesn't sleep well, nor do I. If I don't sleep well I don't function well, simple as that.

So I do have to ask myself why we are moving home a week before Christmas with a 5-month-old baby. I mean life is quite challenging enough at the moment. What are we thinking?
I hate clutter, I can't think straight in a mess and I find myself overwhelmed by it right now. I feel like I'm drowning in it.
Everything we own has been rooted out of its hiding place and sits either in a box or waiting to be put in one. I am amazed at how much small stuff we have; it can't all be useful. Surely I can ditch most of it? Oh no, keep that, it was a gift. And that, I've been looking for that. Oh that could be handy, I'll be bound to need that in the near future if I choose to throw it out now. No, don't lob that! It has my dog's puppy teeth in it.
And so on.
I am going to have to organise this little stuff into piles of "useful", "sentimental" and "crap", sweep it into a box, and find a deep, dark cupboard in which to shove it in the new place.

Speaking of the new place…
We have started to make it our own with a couple of weekends of intensive cleaning and decorating. I have scrubbed the kitchen and bathrooms and helped with the painting. So far we have painted the main living room in a delicious colour called "raspberry torte", and a lovely sandy colour. Oh who am I kidding? It's beige; it had to be beige didn't it? It's beige with a splash of raspberry, which actually reflects my life nicely.
We'll have this room ready for Christmas and get cracking on the rest in the new year. It's not in such a bad state that it needs doing right away. In fact it's fine really, but we'll still want to put our mark on it. I think Harriet's room will be next as we're excited about having a nursery to decorate.

And speaking of Harriet…
Harriet has a new friend. I have not met him, but I know his name. His name is Bob. I don't think he is well behaved, because Harriet has to shout at him all the time.
It's really not fair. If she's not saying "Dad" she's shouting, "Bob", and he doesn't even exist! What about Mum?
There's only one thing for it and that is for me to get my name changed by deed poll.

Harriet has also started to make that noise babies and toddlers make when they want something. It's not a cry; it's more like they're trying to crank up the crying machine. It sounds much the same as the wartime air-raid sirens did, with a grating and chillingly slow build-up leading eventually to a genuine alarm signal, of which one ought to take heed. I hope that we can stop her from making a habit of this by pushing the sign language. She knows that she can tell us precisely what she wants now, so all we need do is furnish her with a large enough signing vocabulary for her needs, and to make sure we take note when she does sign to us. She won't need much encouragement because she clearly enjoys signing. Whether it's the round of applause or milk that she gets that pleases her I don't know, but she gets very excited when we acknowledge her communications.

She still has only the two bottom teeth, but is in a lot of pain as the others work their way up towards daylight. She bites on everything; the world is just full of teethers to Harriet. A table? Big brown teether. Her jumper? Pink woolly teether. Me? Big pink woolly-headed teether. Get the idea?
She has bitten me whilst feeding, which has got me thinking of alternatives to breastfeeding, but I'm very reluctant to use one. On the other hand though, I have never liked the idea of a pierced nipple. She's not aggressive about it and might stop if I can teach her that it doesn't pay to do it. I hope so anyway.

Her dad and I left her in the care of others for the first time this weekend. I couldn't think straight and it took all my strength to not run screaming back to her. I would have run and screamed the whole eight miles. I would.
I knew she was in very good hands, but I'm her mummy! There's only one of me and if she decided she wanted me and looked around for me and I wasn't there and her mouth turned down at the corners and her chin started to wobble and she started to cry and I wasn't there to comfort her, she'd never trust me again. And I'd never forgive myself.
As it was she didn't even notice we'd gone and she didn't need us, which is a good thing even though it doesn't feel like it.

Her crawling has not progressed. She is getting better at rolling over, but not even the lure of the remote control can entice her and get her on the move.
We want to have a real Christmas tree anyway so it's probably best that she doesn't get mobile just yet. Even those non-drop trees drop a few needles and I just know that she'll want to get her teeth sunk into all them baubles.
Hmmm, maybe they'll inspire her to start crawling.

She had her second taste of fresh fruit yesterday. Her dad wanted to try her with a banana so we peeled one, handed it over and stood well back. She nibbled on it for a bit then got frustrated because her vice-like grip kept halving it, so we mashed it and spoon-fed her the rest. It was the first time she'd had to chew and she managed just fine. I'd been nervous about it and had got her dad to promise me that he knew what to do if she got a lump of banana stuck in her throat.
I used to be so chilled out.

Just as a final note. I read a blog today posted by my new MySpace friend, Max. I highly recommend you check out her blogs (www.myspace.com/maddeusmax). She wrote about a dream she had in which her husband inexplicably lost a leg (he came home with it wrapped in bubble-wrap!) and it reminded me of a dream I had recently. In it I lost both my legs due to a complication of breastfeeding (with my hair coming out like it is I wouldn't be surprised if my limbs did start falling off). I was pretty cool about it, especially when I ordered my prosthetics because I was able to get shapely legs that were about three inches longer than my real ones had been. I was pretty chuffed about that and turned my thoughts to the idea of getting a prosthetic head.
Not that I'd want one three inches longer, but I liked the idea of a face that doesn't age.
Now that's extreme cosmetic surgery.

Thank you for looking in.

Harriet's first (unspoken) word.

Hello again.
I know I've already posted a blog today, but I have to tell you this...
Before we even conceived Harriet her dad and I decided that teaching our baby sign language would be a good thing. All the babies we'd seen that could sign were so much more content than your average baby. They really seemed to benefit.

So as soon as we found out that I was pregnant we ordered the book and DVD and waited excitedly for the day when we'd eventually start signing with her. In fact, so excited were we that we started four months early. About five weeks ago.

Tonight Harriet started to grizzle so I asked her if she wanted milk, and I signed "milk" as I said it.
Blow me down if she didn't sign milk right back at me!
I asked again to be sure, and she did it again! So I offered her milk and she really did want it!
I'm chuffed to bits! She already knows how to tell me she wants food; she mimes eating. I just need her to tell me what bit hurts when she's uncomfortable and we'll be all set for a super-content baby.

Maybe she could tell me what the hell she's babbling about too. That'd be interesting.

Bye and thanks for reading this little blog.

Revenge is a dish best left un-served.

It's official; we move out of the city in three and a half weeks time.
I can't wait. We pick up the keys to our new home on Saturday and between now and then we have a lot of packing to do. No time for anything else, except a bit of blogging.
I have to keep up the blogging; it's one of the things that keep me sane. My life is running at such a frantic pace at the moment that it's very useful to have somewhere to pool all my thoughts.

Lately I've been thinking hard about all the things I'll miss about this place so that I can make the most of them while I'm still here:
There are a few shops that I won't find in my new locale so I've already made all the purchases I can from them, within reason. There's only so much one can spend on spatulas and tea-lights before it starts to look truly weird.
I am also making use of the broadband and phone deal we have here. We'll still be connected to the Internet in the new place, but my usage will be pared down by the narrowing of our bandwidth. Can't have my cyber-fannying impeding my husband's work. So I'm surfing like a mad thing and enjoying long phone conversations while I can. I don't know if the poor sods I'm calling are enjoying it as much, but what are you gonna do?
I will miss a few TV channels too, as we'll be back to basics in the new gaff. I will easily make up for it though. Harriet can replace the comedy and entertainment channels and the view out of the window will be our discovery channel. We'll hire films on DVD, and I can take or leave sports, especially if the Ashes don't swing back our way next week.

Apart from all that I'll be making the most of living above a bunch of arseholes (NOT). I have been getting myself off to sleep each night by dreaming up plans of vengeance to exact upon my noisy neighbours. I am a resourceful and inventive sort so my plans are cunning and quite, quite evil.
I shall be carrying out none of them though. It is enough for me to dream of revenge, as that way my stress levels fall but nobody gets hurt. Also, if these acts remain in my head I have complete control over how well they work out. I can fantasise a whole day's worth of setting up an evil plan, then visualise its execution, followed by my noisy neighbours humbled and profusely apologetic response. In the real world nobody would be humbled or apologise after having a plague of seagulls caw and claw at their bread-paste covered walls, for example.
It would never work as well as it does in my mind so I'll dodge any disappointment and failure, along with dodging the effort involved in such a ridiculous scheme, and just dream.

Before I shoot off and get on with important stuff, I'll just fill you in on Harriet's progress:
She crawled for the first time at the weekend. She was very tired at the time so she only managed one pace before giving up. It was definitely a crawl though. She has since forgotten how to do it, but we'll keep at it.
She has learnt how to scream this week too, but I bet she doesn't forget how to do that. It's because her teething is beginning to cause her real grief. She has tooth number three breaking through and at least another two on the verge. I can only imagine what it's like for her, the poor thing.
What else? She drew first blood yesterday biting her own lip.
Second blood was when she scraped her fingernail down her dad's right nostril after a lucky shot saw her index finger slip right up it.

She sucked a grape today and appeared to enjoy her first taste of fresh fruit.

She gets more vocal with every day; Dad seems to be her favourite word. So unfair.
I am worried though because if she is taking her lead from her dad and me and aping us when she speaks; we need speech therapy, or just plain therapy.

Keep it real, folks. Unless it's violent revenge, in which case keep it imaginary.

Bye and thanks for looking in.

All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth.

Hello and welcome to another update on the goings on in my little pocket of the world.
A lot has happened, but I think I might still manage to make it sound dull. I'm a bit preoccupied and there's not much brain left over for blogging.
Here goes nothing...

It has been a week of much progress. Harriet is very different this end of the week from the baby she was at the beginning of it.
For a start she is now the proud owner of two front teeth. Hooray! We had no idea what to expect when her teeth cut through. We didn't know if there'd be blood, screaming, pain and tears. As it turns out there's no blood or drama, just the sudden appearance of a couple of needle sharp teeth.
Now this is one of those developments that could have a downside for me. In the past Harriet has found humour in biting me when she feeds, but if she tries it now I'll have to switch to bottle feeding and bring to an end one of the most satisfying things I have ever done.
Anyway, how cool is that? Two teeth and she's only a few days over five-months-old.

Besides her new teeth, our little Harry has produced some other new stuff. She has started rolling over from her tummy onto her back and vice versa. This is a big step towards being able to crawl, although I still think she'll go straight to walking. She's too interested in what's going on around her and it's difficult to have a good nose around when you're that low to the ground.
Not that she'll be much higher up on her feet.
Anyway, it's very exciting to see her moving herself around, though I know that my enthusiasm will dwindle sharply as she gets more and more mobile.

Another new trick, and another of which I might quickly tire, is Harriet's "Whoops I dropped it" game. She likes to drop her toys and pick them up herself, and she also likes to throw them for me to fetch. Now, I know I can look less than human sometimes, the sleepless nights take care of that, but to treat me like a dog is just plain insulting.

What else? Well, Harriet helps me when I dress her by putting her arms in her sleeves for me and lifting her legs and feet for her trousers and shoes. That's new, and useful. She also likes to remove her footwear, which isn't useful. We had to track back through the supermarket the other day searching for an ejected sock.
I've seen people doing that many a time and it felt oddly wonderful to finally be on the hunt myself. It's one of those little things that seem insignificant, but are in fact surprisingly symbolic.
Or am I just a sentimental old twat?

We get lots of kisses from Harriet now. She has a different one for me from the one she has for her dad. He gets delicate little pecks on the lips. I get big, wet open mouthed ones that quite often end with her latched on to my lips and suckling. I think her dad would get that sort too, but he has slightly more hair on his top lip than I do.

I must get off now and use my time more productively. I have lots to organise. My little family and I are planning to move to a place where autumn is more than a day long, and the night sky does not glow orange with the light from a thousand street lamps. We'll hear this week if our application has been accepted, and if it is we'll be in the new place before Christmas.

I hope this finds you happy.
Thank you for stopping by and reading my claptrap.

Cottage pie, kisses, and a handful of marbles.

Did you spot it?
I got to stage five on my personal Richter scale of sleep deprivation again.
That poor, poor man who told Harriet to cheer up caught me on a bad day. (If you're in Cardiff and you happen to see a man dangling from a street lamp by his scrotum, please unhook him and apologise for me.)

Well, I've had a couple of nights of relatively good sleep and am back to feeling like I can cope with the mammoth task of caring for my baby.

One of the hardest things about the job is that you have nothing to show for a day of extremely hard graft: There is still washing hanging out to dry. There is still a little bit of washing up to be done. There is always at least one room in need of serious attention.
The frustrating thing is that it's fresh washing hanging there: yesterday's is neatly put away, and tomorrow's is in the wash. The same goes for the washing up. And that's fresh clutter making the room untidy, because as we go through our day we scarcely have the time to clear up after ourselves.
I used to sit down in the morning and write myself a list of things to do and I ticked them off one by one as I proceeded unimpeded through my chores. (Yes, yes, I'm very anal. I have been told.)
Now though, I have a list of things to do that I don't have time to write down, and I don't get to proceed unimpeded through it.
I get ticked off, but nothing on my list does.
I merely tread water. Frenetically.

None of that matters when I've had enough sleep though, because I know that I get to spend my days with Harriet. I'm just writing it so that anyone who has been to visit recently can see this tremendously lavish excuse for the state of my home.
Now that's done I can move on to Harriet's progress.

She knows her name now and responds when we call her, if she feels so inclined. It's very sweet. I think it helped that her dad and I stopped calling her, "Monkey".

Also, moving on from her development last week of hugging, she now kisses. Her dad got the first one. They are not tidy little pecks. Oh no. There's a lot of drool involved, which is further enhanced by her kissing with her mouth wide open. A wide-open mouth that she smears all over your face while grabbing at your ears. I'm pretty sure it's affectionate.

I think I'm getting better sleep thanks to the fact that Harriet now has three solid meals a day. She has pureed fruit for breakfast, vegetables or vegetables and meat for lunch, and the same for dinner.
She absolutely loves cottage pie. Whenever I offer her a spoonful of food she expects her favourite. If it's not, we have to go through an adjustment phase as she gets over her disappointment. If it is a cottage pie day she grumbles impatiently while I fill the spoon and makes yum yum noises while I spoon it in. As hard as I try, I can't get it to her quick enough.

I've been inventing games to help Harriet gain confidence on her feet. I hold her standing upright on the bed and after saying, "Ready, steady, go" I take my hands away and let her fall. She stands still for a second or two sometimes, before keeling over into the plumped-up duvet. Other times just the word "Ready" gets her too excited and she chuckles and collapses to the bed as soon as I let go.

I find it very hard to believe that Harriet will be five-months-old on Sunday. It has been the most intense / happy / exhausting time of my life and the part I struggle to believe is that I have got through it without losing any marbles.
I hope I'm saying the same in another five months.

Thank you for taking time out of your day to read this.
If you just clicked on the link to my blog and skipped to this bit, thanks for taking the time to do that, I suppose.

Cheer up, Love!

Today I want to talk about throw-away comments.
I've slipped out a few idiotic ones myself over the years, so I know that they're easy to do and not always meant to offend.
Some are brought about by a lack of sleep, some come from nerves, but the ones to which I refer today are the ones borne of ignorance and arrogance.

A throw away comment I heard the other day that got my heckles up was a man saying, "It's women who are the hypocrites!" This was his pot shot, and his parting pot shot. It was his last attempt at leaving the scene of an argument with some dignity.
He failed.

Now, generally speaking, generalisations are a folly. (I'm allowed that one.)
Some women are hypocrites; it's true. But some aren't. It's the same with men.
I mean, I can think of a person who held the belief, quite strongly, that the perfect race was blonde of hair and blue of eye. Even though he was not in that bracket himself he still saw fit to go ahead and persecute those who were not blonde-haired and blue-eyed. He was not a woman. He was a bit shy in the testicle department, but it takes more than that to be a woman.
Your example of a woman being a hypocrite is in me writing this paragraph.

Now this next one just gets me tongue-tied. It's so, so wrong on so many levels that I just do not know where to start.
Harriet (I believe I have mentioned my adorable baby before) and I were coming back from town yesterday and we passed a chap, who just couldn't keep it buttoned.
He said, "Cheer up!"
Inoffensive, you say? Well, he wasn't talking to me; he was talking to Harriet!
The arrogance! What manner of idiot has the precise blend of ignorance and conceit needed to say, "cheer up" to a four and a half month-old baby?
This is where I flounder and struggle to find the words to explain how this offended me.

Let's see…
1. Harriet was cheerfully chatting and chuckling all the way from town up to the point when she clapped eyes on this knuckle-dragging moron. His logic must have been that if Harriet was frowning at him it must mean she frowned at everything. In that case he must think we all need to cheer up.
The twat.
2. Just how is a baby supposed to take that kind of instruction? Babies tend to take their cues from the visual anyway, so if she had felt inclined to follow his instruction she'd have been more likely to adopt an expression of dim-witted bigotry.
A tall order for one so young.
3. What on Earth makes people say this, anyway?
"Cheer up."
I always feel like swinging for people who say it to me. I know I could just cheer up and then people would stop saying it to me, but I won't be told what to do by ignorant bastards.
I'm happy, Harriet's happy. We're all bloody happy.
If we don't look it, it's your fault.

Well, let's leave that to one side now. Though I will just say that if anyone knows of a quick and easy way to deal with people who expect you to cheer up, even if you're not unhappy, just because they say so, please tell me.

Harriet?
Good of you to ask.
Well, she's coming on leaps and bounds. She's not leaping and bounding yet, that's just a figure of speech. Though you may be surprised to hear that she has started moonwalking this week. She can walk with our help, but every now and then she concentrates too hard. She stares intently at her feet and wills them to move. Problem is they move backwards and she moonwalks. Wacko Jacko would be impressed, but he's not setting a single foot anywhere near her.

She lifts her head for longer spells when she's on her tummy. She rolls herself over too, but it's not entirely on purpose yet. I suppose you'll know the day that she's worked out how to roll over on her own and crawl, because my blogging will come to an abrupt end.
I'll be far too busy chasing Harriet around and putting lotion on her carpet-singed knees.

Oh sweet Jesus Christ, she's soiled herself.
Must go: my eyes are burning.

Thanks for dropping by.

All the leaves are brown and this guy is gay.

It's autumn today.
I mean that in that it wasn't autumn yesterday, and it won't be tomorrow.
Our seasons follow a different pattern these days. Spring lasts a couple of months and winter runs from October to March. Summer is about five months long, hot in the middle and wet at both ends. (That sounds a lot like Harriet.)
Which leaves one day a year when the leaves turn from their verdant hue to crispy brown. Then they drop off, and that's autumn.
This season of mists and mellow fruitfulness is a blink and you'll miss it event these days. Its approach is heralded by a chorus of fireworks, which are let off all day every day from when they come on sale till they sell out, by work dodging, asbo morons.

Anyhoo, I looked out of the window this morning and saw that the trees lining our avenue had turned to yellow. It's all very pungent and pretty out there.
I love the smell of damp, rotting leaves. It's one of those potent smells that whisk me right back to my childhood. I have fond memories of crunching leaves underfoot with my mum.
I'll be taking Harriet out today to get a good whiff. It'll be more fun when we're able to kick about in the fallen foliage together, but we'll have to wait a year for that. They don't make wellies small enough for her tiny feet.
So, on to the subject closest to my heart:

There are some developments that bring with them sadness. For example, when Harriet begins to crawl, which can't be far away now, we will have to change our sleeping arrangements. At the moment we have a cot that butts up to our bed, with a small bolster to keep Harriet from rolling in to join us and getting squished by my enormous chest. From the first, terrifying night with our new baby, I have loved this arrangement. I have slept side by side with Harriet every night and have been able to reach over and comfort her or check her breathing, without hassle. On the first few nights we slept practically nose-to-nose.
And waking up next to her and having her beam at me first thing in the morning is just lovely.
When she is mobile, however, we'll have to move the cot from beside our bed and put its side up. She'll be away from me and caged, like the gorgeous little monkey she is.
So, when our little Miss Independent has learnt to crawl, which will be great, I will be just a little bit sad.

This week Harriet has begun to hug. Her dad and I have been eagerly awaiting this step for a couple of reasons: the first being that she clings on when we carry her about, which makes her much safer. And secondly, it's nice to know that she wants to hug us.
When I lift her up she wraps her warm, squidgy little arms around my neck and snuggles her face into the crook of my neck. It's just gorgeous, until she gets carried away and pulls out two clumps of my hair. I used to have such a thick head of hair.
Now I just have a thick head.

I have a feeling that Harriet will skip crawling and go straight to walking. She certainly knows what to do with her feet, although her style of walking could raise eyebrows. She's been marching back and forth this week, with our help of course, and it's very military in style.
I'm a little concerned, what with that and her penchant for epaulettes.

And me a pacifist.

Stage six.

Never ever ask me about stage six.

Anyway, what the hell am I thinking? Blogging about subjects other than Harriet's progress?
I'd better put that right...

Imagine if you will the noise made by the engine of a 50cc motorbike being driven at top speed in a low gear. Got it?
Good.
Now loop that sound, and imagine how swiftly you'd become irritated by it.
That is Harriet's new sound. She moved on (rather too quickly, I'm surprised to say) from the "ugh ugh ugh ugh" abandoned alarm clock sound, and she doesn't stop till she feels inclined to stop.

That's not really a first: our little Harriet has been showing her free will from the moment she was born.
What is a first is the fact that she managed to crawl a few inches the other day. I say crawl, but really she adopted a sniper position then dragged her face across the carpet. She did seem pleased with herself, though that smile could have been a grimace I suppose.

We've also had our first pointless GP visit. Harriet had been making her new sound alongside a couple of other things and I felt, neurotic newbie that I am, that I should whiz her along to the surgery.
I wonder how many times the sound "niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii" has been presented as a symptom.
Anyway, it would appear that some babies pop their teeth through one by one, after a short spell of drool-soaked grizzling. Others, and Harriet appears to be one of these, spend months moaning, groaning, dribbling, and gnawing before pushing through a full set of gnashers.
Well, not a full set, but three or four teeth at once. That's got to be bloody uncomfortable and when I think of it like that I don't mind the awful, grating din she makes. If that's her way of dealing with her pain I'll go along with it. It certainly gets me trying everything in the book to help her, so it is very effective.

Harriet has also started throwing out dirty cackles much more spontaneously this week. She's never had what I'd call a typical baby's giggle. From the first time she felt amused enough to let us know about it she has belted out the filthiest chuckles. My sister was the first to make her laugh and it took days and days and days of merciless tickling before I finally got my first hoot from her. I don't know who was more relieved.
That was a while back and I now find it very hard to remember a time before Harriet's laugh.

My final "first" for this blog is a personal one.
Last week saw me going out in public without having first checked myself over for deposits of sick. I had, until then, remembered to do the spot check.
Alas, I went out in a beautiful new red dress (French designer, don't you know), to which my little daughter had, unbeknownst to me, added a pair of exquisite crusty epaulettes.
Well, at least they were a matching pair.

Cheerio and thanks for popping by.

I am a complete idiot.

You can call me an old romantic if you like, but I really don't hold with any of that "you complete me" shite.
(You were wrong to call me romantic weren't you. Misleading of me to have given you the option really, wasn't it.)
I just don't like the notion that there are half-baked people wandering about out there waiting for, nay expecting, someone else to finish them off. It's all part of my yen for people to take responsibility for themselves.
Also, I wanted to be sure I was complete before I met the man of my dreams (actually, I don't know if I hold with that "man of my dreams" crap either. Especially considering my dreams.) I didn't want him put off by me being only half a being. I also think it's unfair to lay that all on someone. "Here you are, I'm all yours, if you could just fill in the gaps." An amorous dot-to-dot, if you will.
Much better to be all there, ready, waiting and able to commit to something more than a half-arsed affair. Don't you think?

While we're at it (well, while I'm at it) what exactly is meant by "complete" anyway? Is it like the child at the dinner table who proudly declares, "Finished!" when he has room for no more, not a single morsel? (Except maybe for chocolate cake). I certainly don't consider myself complete in that sense. I've always got room for more (especially chocolate cake) and intend to always be open to taking on more from life. (Especially chocolate cake).
Well, by complete I mean that I have worked on all aspects of myself.
At least all the aspects of myself that have made themselves apparent thus far.
I've not thought, "I'm not a forthright kind of person. I'll just hook up with somebody who can fight all my battles for me." Instead, I've tried to be as assertive as possible, or I've simply chosen to run away, arms flailing.
Either way, I've taken care of the situation myself without sitting back and getting my "other half" to do my dirty work for me.

I can't be absolutely sure but I think this rant is borne of exhaustion. I have found that sleep deprivation leads to several stages of torment.
In my case it's quite simple: Stage one is a moaning, disgruntled one, followed by stage two, where I'm still disgruntled, but I'm too tired to moan about it. Stage three and I'm so tired I've forgotten I'm tired, so I'm actually deliriously happy. Stage four; I've remembered and I'm quite angry about it, although I only have the energy to mutter of my discontent under my breath. Stage five is where I'm at today. I am tired and unhappy about it, and spontaneous ranting occurs. Some rants are pertinent to the main problem in hand: my lack of sleep. Others are random (see above).
Stage six? Well let's hope I don't get to stage six. I'm a pain in the arse to be around already, so let's hope for the sake of my family that I get some bloody kip tonight.
And some chocolate cake.

By the way, if any incomplete people are reading this, take my advice and go ahead and complete yourself. That way when the next half decent person comes your way you can tell them to take a hike: you'll be wanting a whole decent person like yourself.

Thank you for reading this.
The whole thing.
Bye for now.

Epiphany in a cardboard box.

Today I feel like celebrating.
It's the Cardiff marathon, but that's not what's making me jubilant.
It's a year since my sister came to visit, but that's nothing to cheer about either (though the fact that she will be here again soon is).
What it is is that the last time I watched these lunatics run past dressed as Scooby Doo, or cardboard boxes (genius), or as runners (how unimaginative!) I was feeling really ill. My sister had come to visit me, as she was worried about my mental health.
After 5 years of trying unsuccessfully for a baby I was beginning to fall apart.

We went out for a drink on the Saturday night and I had even more cause for misery when I found that none of my clothes fit. I even declared that the only skirt that did fit left me looking 3-months pregnant. I couldn't drink, which was really unlike me and, even though I'd only had about half a pint of lager, the next day I had a terrible hangover that I couldn't shake.
I was more tired, depressed and despondent than I'd ever been in my life yet if I'd had a window into this point in time I'd have been instantly uplifted.
Because my mystery illness was of course an early sign of my pregnancy.

I have frequently cast my mind back to the time before our Harriet came along and the long, miserable years we spent waiting for her. I have thought about the day that the test finally had a + sign on it. I could not believe it then and although I spent 9 months growing ever larger, and even though I gave birth, and despite the fact that I have been looking after Harriet for 4 months now, I've still had trouble believing it.

I think I was waiting for some event like today, when a wormhole (in the guise of a marathon) appeared and the two times were connected.
I got my window in time and it all finally seems real.

I'm usually this slow on the uptake.

I love the smell of nappies in the morning.

The first thing that went through my mind whilst changing the first nappy of the day this morning was, "I feel a blog coming on".
The second thought, as I rushed to the window for air, was, "that's not a blog".

Harriet has been on solid food for a few weeks now and we have ventured from "banana surprise" into the world of vegetables and meat and one of the results is this toxic waste. Its stench is thick enough to gag on. And gag on it I did.
Why should I be so keen to share this? I have no idea. I was very amused by the disproportionate size of the smell, and indeed the disproportionate horror, as it came from such a tiny and lovely place. But maybe you had to be there.
You'd have wanted to be anywhere else, believe me, but you've got to take the rough with the smooth.

So, aside from the first horrendously smelly nappy, Harriet has produced a few other firsts this week.

Firstly, she is starting to lift herself up during "tummy time", which means she'll be ready to crawl soon. We'll need to childproof our home before long, and maybe invest in a larger first aid kit.

She has also started making a really grating "ugh ugh" noise. It goes on and on and on, like an abandoned alarm clock.
I can't be sure, but I think what she's saying is, "I don't know what I want, but I want it now!"*
She grunts away while we try everything we can to appease her and it seems that what she actually wants is for us to try everything we can to appease her.

Harriet has always found whistling decidedly amusing and this week she has been moved to try it herself. I don't know that I have ever seen, nor ever will see anything more adorable in my life. She purses her little cupid's bow lips into the tiniest, perfect little O shape and softly says, "oooo".
My teary-eyed laughter puts her off perfecting her latest craft, and she breaks out into a broad, gummy grin.

Finally, this week Harriet had her first turkey dinner and we know where that got us.

Bye for now and thanks for looking in.

*Thanks to the late, great Viv Stanshall for this line.

Living with a bug magnet.

(sniff)
I'd advise you to read this as quickly as possible then leave, as I don't know how infectious I am.
You may wish to leave straight away without reading this, as there's no guarantee that I'll be entertaining either. I can't worry about that though. I'm far too busy trying to keep snot from the keyboard.

Have I mentioned Harriet before? Yes?
Oh well anyway, my gorgeous little girl has picked up her first bug and was quite ill on Monday night. Her nose was blocked, which made breathing hard work for her. I spent the night somewhere between sleep and wakefulness; my head too dreamy to be of any real use and yet too wired to let me sleep. That's how zombies are made. (Not real ones, obviously. I didn't wake up craving brains for breakfast.)
(But I did look like crap, and groan all day.)

Harriet had incubated a cold fit for the whole family, and so we succumbed to it dutifully. It was helpful to have the same bug so we knew how she was feeling and therefore what might make her feel better, but bloody hell! These bastard cold bugs like to hang around don't they? Jesus!

Anyhoo, as I understand it, this is one of the many functions of a child: to regularly challenge our immune systems. We must now expect a viral onslaught until she leaves home, taking her germs with her. I do not relish the thought of measles, nits, pox or squits, but suffer them we shall. I don't relish the thought of my lovely little bug-magnet leaving home either but, as she's not even 16-weeks-old yet, I think I'm getting ahead of myself there.

Harriet has still managed a few "firsts" this week, despite (and including) catching a cold. On Tuesday night she burst into fits of laughter at Jonathon Ross and Russell Brand on the TV. She's not laughed like that before. It normally takes a good bout of tickling or a serious gurning session to get her laughing.
I'm the same.
She has also started being mischievous this week. I won't go into detail, but she finds biting the hand that feeds her highly amusing.

Finally, today she played peek-a-boo for the first time. In the past, jumping out from behind something and shouting, "boo" had merely terrified her.But I stuck with it.
That's not cruel, is it?

I need to blow my nose now so I shall end this here. Thanks for stopping by and reading my blog.

Why me? Well, why not?

I'm back again, sooner than anticipated due to very sad news.
I feel the need to stand in a field, in the middle of nowhere, and shout into the wind. But I live in the city and anyway, that kind of behaviour is not done with a small baby.
So this shall here forth be my "field in the middle of nowhere".
Throw on your coat and earmuffs and join me...

I know that our time here is limited. That we are mere mortals and haven't cracked the eternal-life conundrum yet. I was also aware that an acquaintance of my husband's was terminally ill, but the news of his passing has still shocked me. It does still shock, doesn't it? It still catches in the throat like a well-aimed kick. No matter how much we prepare ourselves, we must always remember that we can never really be prepared. That would involve living forever under a black cloud, carrying the awfulness of the inevitable with us at the front of the mind, rather than deep at the back where it belongs.
I feel especially like ranting, as this was a good, clean-living, hard-working, family man. He was denied life-saving treatment on the basis of age, when really he was physically much younger than his years. He would not have abused the replacement organs, but would have continued to get the most out of life.
In fact, he would have got more out of a second lease of life than most get out of one long one.

The lesson learned? That we never really know what's coming. It's not always bad, but when it is we would do well to remember that there's a balance to life, even if it's not always apparent. And that bad things happen to good people, because good things happen to good people too.
You can't have one without the other.
There. Rant over. I will no doubt feel embarrassed and may even remove this post in a bit, I just needed to let it out.

Thanks for looking in.

A week in the life of a baby bore.

I have so far only posted the one blog.
I've written more, but each time something has happened to make all my words disappear.
Now I'm here typing my blog again and I've gone all cyber-shy. I am aware that a fair few people have read my blog and now I don't know what to write about and therefore can't work out what the hell I'm even doing in blog HQ.
Still, I'm famous (albeit in my own household) as a prattler so I shall do that for a short while. Join me on a quick ramble through the garden of my mind. It's in need of a darn good weeding in here and the climbing roses of my ego have almost completely covered the pergola of my psyche.
Is that a good thing?

Anyhoo, there is only one subject for me at the moment. One obsession. Her name is Harriet, and she's been full of surprises this last week.

Firstly, she had her quarter-of-a-year birthday on the 12th and we bought her a bouncer: one of those contraptions you suspend in the doorway. She looked lost and confused for a nano-second before finding her feet and going nuts. Her favourite thing appears to be turning her back on us, unless we have it hung wrong, but I think she's letting us know where we stand.

Secondly, she's learning how to blow raspberries. I have been reduced to a rasping, giggling imbecile. There are those who'd say that's an actually an elevation for me, but they know what they can do.
I am no longer woken by the sound of Harriet gagging on her own little fingers, but by the wet sound of her spitting and trying to rasp. A good start to the day, I'm sure you'll agree.

Finally, Harriet has eaten her first solid meal. She let us know she was ready for it and so we offered her a bowl of "Banana Surprise". She loved it and ate every last scrap. She nearly had my finger clean off when I left it too close to her gummy mouth with food on it. We wiped the surplus off, sat back, and awaited the eponymous surprise.
It came in the form of eight hours' uninterrupted sleep.
Glorious!

That's all for now. Thanks for dropping by.

My New Life

Waking up is an absolute pleasure.
The sound that stirs me from my slumber is a soft, high-pitched retching sound as my 12 week old baby sucks on her hand so hard that her fingers reach the back of her throat.
We tried for many years to have a baby so the sound of a baby possetting first thing in the morning is music to my ears. That, however, is a long story and I'll leave it for another blog, another day.

Once we're up Harriet plays on her baby gym while I fix my breakfast and sterilise "the pump". This morning breakfast took a little longer as the toaster was set to stun, for some reason. I like my toast toasted so the bread, which had only been mildly startled, had to go back in for another bout.
It looked very browned off when I eventually took it out and needed some serious buttering up before it would join me for breakfast.

I don't know how I do it, but most mornings I manage to feed myself and Harriet at the same time as expressing milk and checking my emails. I generally finish breakfast more proud of myself than is probably warranted, but until the Smug Police feel my collar, I'll continue to chance my arm on that score.
There are days when it all goes pear-shaped and Harriet and I are both in tears, in pyjamas at lunchtime. My toast- rubbery; her milk- proving just as rubbery as it keeps bouncing back.

On the whole though, we're getting more efficient as a family and enjoy every new development. Again, until the Boys in Beige* knock on my door I'm just going to go on sitting here letting off the faint stench of self-satisfaction. If that's a bad thing, well as crimes go it's a small one and (here's a sad image) as I'm only ever bumptious on my own I'll apologise to no one for it.

*Beige is such a smug colour, don't you think?