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?
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?
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