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.