See, I knew, I knew I would be utterly useless at keeping this blog. It’s become akin to that friend that you used to see every day for a coffee before they moved away to Northumberland to become a sheep farmer or something, and now despite many well meaning plans to visit, you end up simply thinking of them wistfully and then pushing them to the back of your mind. Even now I can’t give it my full attention, as while typing I am simultaneously trying to find the perfect faux fur coat online and thinking of ten ways not to become a total Bridezilla.
Yes people, the wedding is upon us. I think, the last time I wrote, it had been put back until May 2011. But, since we’re moving back into our own place in January (I try not to talk about this too much, I really just cannot bare the thought of packing yet again), we decided to move back to the original date of May 15th. In other words, five months. FIVE MONTHS. I must be mental.
And if I’m not, I soon will be. It seems that so far, nothing has gone smoothly. My dress arrived from eBay (a £200 bargain, we’re on a strict budget) and despite being utterly perfect, and exactly what I wanted, it didn’t fit. I could get into it, and I could even get the zip done up – halfway. The Mother and I ended up wrestling with it one evening, thinking of various ways to coax the zip up to it’s fully closed position.
“Justzipitupquickanddon’tthinkaboutit,” I say, in a high squeaky voice, every single ounce of breath squeezed out of me, “comeon!” I am red faced, sweaty, and EXTREMELY tense. If this dress doesn’t fit, then that’s it. There will be no wedding. The only other one I’ve seen that fits the bill is by Vera Wang and costs more than the deposit on our new flat.
The Mother tugs at the zip and puffs, “it’s really not going to go, I don’t think – “
I cut her off, “just bloody well force it,” I honk, “I don’t think you understand the seriousness of this. Unless you get that zip done up, there won’t even BE a wedding.”
She jiggles, coerces and persuades the zip, but it’s definitely not budging. And as I look down, my leftover baby-belly is making itself far too apparent. I poke it, and think of it like an uninvited guest, growling at it slightly.
The Mother looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “There is a solution,” she says, “where you would almost certainly fit into it, without the hassle of getting it adjusted.”
“What?” I bark, “lipsuction? Surgery?”
“No,” she replies, “just give up chocolate. How much do you eat? I buy you two bars a week, and I know you have some at work on the odd occasion. How much?”
Shiftily, I look at the wall, pretending to mentally work it out. “Not much, just, you know….” I scuff the ground with my bare toe and clear my throat, “a couple of bars a day.”
She looks at me in amazement, and then shakes her head. “Well,” she says, “there you go.”
And so, I sit here writing, not with my usual Dairy Milk, Wispa or Maltesers for company, but an apple. The sweet part of my lunch consists of more fruit, and as for deserts after dinner, the cakes and gateauxs have all but disappeared. I did have a custard tart the other day, but frankly since it was roughly the size of my little finger, I don’t think it counted. And I can safely say that I now know why skinny people never look happy – yes, they might have an enviable figure but they’re permanently starving…. a life without chocolate is like a life without air. Practically impossible to live.
My manager at work keeps shouting, “that better not be chocolate you’ve got there! And remember, nothing tastes as good as skinny feels!” I look at her and reply, “actually, it does. Chocolate does, chips do, cakes are definitely up there…”
There is a good news / bad news situation to report. The good news is that we’ve found a place to move into in January. The bad news is, it’s a flat. The good news is, it’s absolutely gorgeous, pretty big, has a small balcony where I can grow a small amount of veg in pots, has a lovely kitchen, has all white goods for sale (you know time is marching on when you get excited over the thought of having a dishwasher…), has massive windows, three whopping storage cupboards and is on the bus route to my work. The bad news is, it’s a FLAT. With two bedrooms. Which means when Baby Number 2 comes along (no, I am NOT pregnant, just forward thinking), we are going to have to move YET AGAIN, which was pretty much what we wanted to avoid. BUT it is really lovely, and will certainly suit us as a family of three.
There are so many things to organise – Christmas, moving dates, packing, Letting Agents forms, seeing friends, finding a new sofa / bed / bookshelves / dresser…. and on top of that I’ve got two websites to write for, the Moneymaker to crack open (how am I going to earn my millions if I never so much as open the Word document?) and a wedding to start organising. So here is my ‘to do’ list, compared underneath with the ‘done’ list.
TO DO:
1. Write four articles for female lifestyle website.
2. Write two articles for new satire website.
3. Fill out reference form for Letting Agent.
4. Write thousand words on Moneymaker.
5. Make arrangements to see everyone I haven’t seen in last week / month.
6. Finish (yes, FINISH – I refuse to be packed into shops like sardines in a can desperately looking for presents this year) Christmas shopping.
7. Write Christmas card list.
8. Write Christmas cards.
9. Organise moving date / van.
10. Find and purchase new sofas.
11. Find and purchase new bed.
12. Find cardboard boxes to pack stuff in.
13. Find out at least what order things for a wedding have to be booked in and look sensibly at companies and suppliers.
DONE:
1. Bought a new tea towel from Whittard.
2. Read Country Homes and Interiors magazine.
3. Daydreamed about living in the country and working from home as an author.
4. Eaten jumbo pack of M&M’s.
5. Watched Neighbours and shouted at the television (I hate that Lynn Scully…)
6. Read favourite blogs on the internet.
7. Spent hours on Rightmove, looking at what £1800 a month rent gets you. No idea why.
Oh dear.
I knew it. I knew I would be completely and utterly useless at keeping up with this blog. When I started out, I was so full of promise, which just turned out to be hot air on my part – for a while I blogged every day, about every single thing. Now you’re all lucky if you get one post a month, dear readers. Frankly, I’m surprised so many of you (thanks to my stats page!) are even still checking to see if there’s anything new here – but I do want to say thanks for your dedication. And while I’m not making any promises, I’m really going to try harder with more frequent posts. Honest. Ahem.
During the last couple of weeks, the Boy has become an expert ‘cruiser’, wandering around the lounge and bedroom, aided only by the support of one hand and a sofa / bed / table, letting go occasionally to take one or two wobbly steps by himself. When he first did it, I almost wept. He’s since graduated to three steps on his own, almost making it across the room, and every time he leaves the safety of a solid object, my heart leaps a little, my stomach turns over, and I find myself holding my breath a bit. On Wednesday, he held one hand and we walked in circles round the lounge floor, before he decided he wanted to do a little side-to-side dancing.
“Da, da, da, da, da,” I sing joyously, looking down into his beautiful face. I am consumed with love for him. He opens his mouth, and says delicately, “da, da,” and my heart explodes with joy, into a thousand little heart shaped pieces. He looks at me, and I say, “love you.” He smiles and looks back towards his feet, to observe what these peculiar creatures are doing, and I kiss the top of his head. He’s like an addiction, I breathe him in and when I’m parted from him, I long to see his little round face, kiss his plump cheeks and hear his cackling laughter. Before him, there was nothing, and after him there has been everything.
I’ve been on holiday from work now since last Friday (although since I only work three days a week, some might say that I’m permanently on holiday. Guffaw, guffaw. Some might also say that a mother’s work is never done, and sitting at a desk all day answering a few phone calls and comparing X-Box games with your work chums is an absolute doddle compared to looking after a small child all day, starting at 4.30am when they first start hollering. Ahem.), timed specifically to coincide with the Boy’s First Birthday and the few days that followed it. I had ideas of walks in the country, with the Other Half carrying the Boy in his brand new back carrier, shopping, markets and time spent with the Mother. In reality, we were all (including the Boy) ill, the back carrier was never even purchased, let alone used, and the only market we went to was the supermarket. Despite all this, his birthday was a resounding success.
Sunday night saw the Mother wrapping presents, while I frantically iced shop-bought cakes (there was a brownie disaster that I still can’t bring myself to talk about…) and blew up balloons with the aid of only a 99p balloon pump from Asda. We collapsed in front of X-Factor and I surveyed the room, wondering if I had made the right choice by deciding against hiring a hall and having a full on party. Given how exhausted I felt, I concluded that I had, and went to bed gleefully anticipating the look on the Boy’s face when he saw his pile of presents the next morning.
I’m not sure what I was expecting regarding the opening of the presents, and while the Boy dutifully pulled apart his first BB (before breakfast) present (clearly because he couldn’t wait until after breakfast. Absolutely nothing to do with my impatience….), he didn’t seem quite so interested in the others, instead scooting off across the carpet at a lightning speed towards the usually-blocked-off stereo and DVD player.
“Look baby!” I cry enthusiastically, “presents!”
The Boy turns and looks at me, laughs, then crawls away. I feel my heart sink a little bit, but decide to persist. Fifteen minutes later the presents remain wrapped and I’ve followed him round the room while he picks at fluff on the carpet, attempts to fiddle with the neatly-stacked-but-overflowing bookshelves and lastly tries to escape out of the door. To the hallway…and beyond, I think grimly. I look at the Parents and the Other Half, and although they still have smiles plastered on their faces, they seem to be looking a little bit….well… stiff.
The Mother clears her throat and says gently, “perhaps you should unwrap them for him?” I sigh, and slowly start to tear at the corner of his Brand New First Bicycle, courtesy of the Parents, and all of a sudden, he zooms across the room to join in. I abandon all sense of rubbish-duty, and snap away with the camera, capturing his very first birthday moments.
The Boy’s presents include a Smart Trike, an activity-tent thing (which requires three of us and twenty minutes to assemble), a Fisher Price telephone (the same one that has been around for years and graced my very own toybox in my youth), a new car-seat for Big Boys, a play tunnel, a pop-up animal thing courtesy of the Godparents (aka The Best Friend and her husband), a pull along dog, several books, a musical DJ toy (with working microphone, we were impressed to discover), a pack of Mega Bloks…. I could go on forever. In short, he is very spoiled. Mostly by me. Ahem.
The guests (the Best Friend and the Other Half’s parents) arrive, we all eat my iced cakes, watch the Boy roll about amongst his new toys and then sing happy birthday to him around his Peppa Pig birthday cake. He plays for a bit more, then starts to grumble for his lunch and a nap, so dutifully everyone goes home, and I’m left with a pile of paper plates, screwed up wrapping paper and a very tired Boy.
Although I couldn’t have asked for a better day, I did find myself feeling rather melancholy in the afternoon, and reliving the same time last year. I can still remember the weight of him as the midwife placed him in my arms, and that indescribable feeling you get when you see your baby’s face for the very first time. The impression that after being with this little person for the last nine months (and eleven days!), that you already know each other so well, yet still have so much to discover. The simply mind-blowing way that one minute you are just you, and the next minute you are you-plus-a-small-one – and life will never be the same again.
Yesterday, we had the first of several house viewings (to rent, not buy – when I looked at a mortgage calculator they offered us…. £80,000. That would just about get us a cardboard box in the roughest part of our town…), which did not go quite as planned. Firstly, the Other Half left the piece of paper with the address on it at home, so after driving round for twenty minutes (“you are SUCH an idiot, why didn’t you remember it?” “I don’t know, I-” “You are SUCH an idiot” etc) we went back to retrieve it, meaning that when we got back the agent was leaning against his car, looking at his watch and tapping his foot. He did not smile. After struggling ourselves and the Boy out of the car, we stagger over and make our apologies, then head inside.
“As you can see,” the agent says, sounding a little bored, “the front door leads straight into the lounge, with the stairs in front of you.” He gestures for us to wander about, and we obey diligently. To say it’s small is an understatement. I think of our sofa, our bookshelves, the dining table, the TV (humungous, ironic really considering we have no home), and all of the Boys toys, and think, no. Absolutely not. He then goes on to tell us that there was a leak just before the new person was due to move in, and so she took another house. A leak? Alarm bells sound in my head. Is this likely to happen again? The agent tries to distract us by pointing out the new carpets and curtains. Nice try mate, I think.
We move through to the kitchen, where he tells us that it’s a good size (he’s right, it’s pretty big) and indicates the under-stair storage. Suddenly the lounge ceases to be a problem. “We could get our dining table out here,” I gesture to the Other Half, “and I’d have somewhere to keep my hoover!” I turn to the agent, “our last flat had absolutely no storage at all, it was a complete nightmare.” Then, spotting a fridge-freezer in the corner I say excitedly, “does that come with it?” It does. As does the washing machine and oven. My brain starts ticking over, and I try to smile at the Other Half. He refuses to make eye contact (last time I got over-excited by our flat, we took it, only to be inundated with problems afterwards) and instead asks what bracket the council tax is. The agent doesn’t know but says that it, “shouldn’t be more than £120 a month”. I love someone who knows their stuff.
The kitchen leads into the garden which has a washing line (joy!) and a shed. When he tells me that I could do what I want with the garden, including ripping out the neglected trees and making a vegetable patch, I practically get my wallet out to give him a cheque. But the Other Half talks over me, and starts asking about home insurance. The answer we get is somewhat baffling, and we’re none the wiser as to whether they fix the repairs or we do – home insurance seems to be an added extra not organised by the company. Hmmm.
We walk back through the lounge to the stairs, and I suddenly remember the farce we had with our previous flat, the TV aerial socket and the phone line. “So the aerial and the phone connections work then, do they?” I say, “you’re absolutely sure?” “Well, the last tenant had a TV, and I doubt she had Sky, so…..” he tails off, and since we all seem to be just standing around looking at each other, I assume that this is his final answer. Something is starting to niggle at me, and although the kitchen and garden are wonderful, I’m not convinced. Glancing over at the Other Half, I can tell from the look on his face that he is thinking exactly the same thing.
Upstairs, the bedrooms are…. not big. I’m overjoyed to have an airing cupboard (situated in what would be our bedroom), but could I use that as permanent clothes storage? Somehow I doubt it, and looking around I’m not entirely sure where our bed would go, let alone my two wardrobes. The bathroom, although equipped with a shower and bath (Other Half and I have differing opinions on ablutions) has no window, which I really wanted. Looking out of one of the bedroom windows, the view is…. bleak. It’s not a scruffy estate, in fact it’s quite tidy, but it just feels… sad. The whole house feels sad and neglected. When the Boy starts to cry for no apparent reason, I can’t help but think he’s got the measure of the place. We ask about the administration and deposit fees, and he tells us a figure so large that I have to grip the windowsill to prevent myself from fainting. Upon leaving we ask him what checks they do, whether they do employment and references. He says no, and states that if we paid the holding fee on Monday, we could move in on Wednesday. Which begs the question of why I would be paying them money to check our backgrounds if they actually don’t… check our backgrounds. Hmmm.
We thank him, and head back to the car, climb in and sit for a bit. “It was nice,” I begin, “and I doubt we’d get anywhere better.” I think about the bathroom window and small bedrooms, and deciding I’m being too picky, suggest we go for it. The Other Half looks at me like I’m mental, and says, “did you see the cracks in the window frames? And didn’t you notice it wasn’t double glazed? The heating bill would be monumental!” I huff and puff for a bit, and then decide he’s probably right, and we decide to go for a drive to see the outside of the next two viewings booked for Monday. We pull up outside the first one, and I leap out of the car to peer through the front window – it looks… dark. I can’t see much, although the lounge looks a little bigger. I’m unimpressed when I squint harder and see in the distance that the boiler on the kitchen wall seems to be the main feature. There is also some sort of huge bush in the front garden which I can imagine getting tangled in when trying to get the shopping, the buggy and the Boy all through the door at the same time. I get back in the car and say, “mmmm. Not bad. Do you think we could get round the back to see anything?” The Other Half peers around, and drives round the corner, where I crane my neck to see if any of the back garden is in view. It isn’t, so he drives round the other side. Result, I think, as we pull up right next to the fence.
I climb out and squat down, trying to look through a knot-hole. All I see is paving slabs. I stand up, and half heartedly jump a bit, to try and see over the top, but it’s too high. The Other Half joins me. “Do you want a leg up?” he offers, and lifts me up by the knees so I can grip onto the top of the fence and have a good look. I suddenly have images of a neighbour spotting us, and calling the police – this must be what a burglar feels like (although they’re more concerned with the contents of the house rather than the layout, I expect.) It turns out to be hardly worth the effort – the garden is small and made up of mostly uneven paving slabs, enclosed by a fence at the back which is low enough for any nutter to climb over. I shudder, and say, “that garden is out of the question. We’d need to lay some turf and add some fence panels at the back.” The Other Half, puffing slightly, says, “can I let you down now?”
The last place looks more promising, but is a long walk from the bus stop (on the plus side this could mean the final exit of my baby gut). The Other Half takes the lead this time, walking casually up to the front window and then equally casually walking into a spiders web. He dances around on the front lawn for a while, flapping his arms while I laugh hysterically and say, “it’s good that you’re being subtle – we wouldn’t want the neighbours to see us!” He huffs, and gestures for me to take a look. I hand him the Boy and shading my eyes, peer through the window – I’m ecstatic to see a fridge-freezer, empty and waiting. The whole kitchen looks small, but nice, and the whole house has a nicer feel. But the garden is really what counts, I think, and drag the Other Half round the back. The gardens back on to some woods, but the Other Half, undaunted, nimbly climbs a tree and peers over the fence, and across the other two gardens to the house in question. “Massive,” he declares, while I stare open mouthed at his tree climbing skills. This from the man who is supposedly scared of heights.
We wander back through to the car, and see two families with children riding bikes around the cul-de-sac, and for the first time today I find myself thinking, ‘I could really see us here.’
We’ve recently accepted the fact that, due to my trial period at work not finishing until November, we won’t be in our own place until January. This is fine, in theory, as it means we have extra time to cram as much saving as possible in, and it also means I have time to sit and trawl through rightmove.co.uk, daydreaming about our house-to-be.
Ever since I discovered I was pregnant, a long-running but permanently stifled longing seemed to bubble to the surface – the unignorable desire to live in the country. I have this fervent urge to live in a roomy but cosy house, with four children, a dog, a cat and a large garden. I sit and daydream of being surrounded by trees and fields, growing things successfully in the garden, earning a living as a writer and generally being relaxed, while sporting wellies and the latest from the Toast catalogue. I’ve always thought we’d end up on Location, Location or even better, Grand Designs, renovating an old wreck in the country and building a hi-tech chicken coop that does everything except lay the eggs for you. Now, I know that unless the Moneymaker actually gets finished and published (unlikely, particularly as I haven’t so much as opened the file in about six months… oh dear), we win the lottery (chances: slim to none), or I stumble across a job that pays a hell of a lot more than my current one (even more unlikely), we’ve got two chances of my rural dream coming to fruition – bob hope and no hope. Still, that doesn’t stop me reading Country Homes and Interiors magazine and spending the odd few minutes (read: hours) perusing the internet, pondering over what we can afford.
After our last place, the absolutely awful flat above a barbers (which seemed to good to be true, and indeed was – the noise from the pub across the road, the Chavvy McChavs wandering through the street, beered up and looking for a scrap, the teenagers loitering outside the co-op swearing and smoking, and the smell of curry from the takeaway a few doors down did not add up to the wonderful place I’d hoped to raise the Boy), I’m determined to find something as close to perfect as we can afford. Perusing rightmove.co.uk is all well and good, but as I click through the available properties, my idea of our new home seems to drift further and further away. I enter our requirements into the search boxes and am fairly unimpressed the results that pop up. Now, I’m not expecting some sort of four-bed-two-reception-open-fire-acre-of-land dream, but to scroll through and lay my eyes on a photograph of the very flat that we moved out of this time last year is a bit much. I grit my teeth and do a bit of swearing, and then go back to the search options and change the amount of monthly rent.
This time, the results are more favourable. The flats are on the ground floor rather than over shops and takeaways, and there’s even a few two-bed houses in there. Obviously, I really want a garden for Benjamin (and to grow our veg in, to satisfy my urge to be a domestic goddess and commune with nature…. or something…), and since there seems to be a lack of those, I search for properties at the very top end of our budget. And then, inspired by the fact that you can always cut costs in other areas, a bit over our budget. Nice, nice, I think, as a three bedroom semi pops up, and then, since buying supermarket own brands would make us a teeny bit richer, I enter a figure quite a lot over our budget. As a four bed detached house on an acre of land with its own large shed and two garages (two? We’ve only got one clapped-out car…) appears on the screen, I imagine my eyes to be bulging in the manner of one of those cartoon characters that has just seen its dinner, but needs to catch it first.
“Look, look,” I call to the Other Half, and the Boy even scoots over for a look. The Other Half peers at the screen and says, “yes very nice. I like the-” and then he stops. I glance sideways at his face, and realise that he’s clocked the rental price per calendar month. He looks at me, mouth agape, and then looks back at the screen.
“Are you mental?” he asks, “how on earth would we afford that?”
I look at the computer screen, completely devoid of all sense of reality, and say, “well if we eat supermarket brands, we’ll save loads and-” He cuts me off, crying, “supermarket brands? We’d have to only eat them once a week to be able to afford that!”
“You’re so annoying,” I retort, “you’ve got no vision.” I huff and puff and wander into the kitchen to make some tea.
“I do have a vision!” he exclaims, “my vision is of us sitting on boxes, with no electricity or heating because we couldn’t pay the bill, starving because we couldn’t afford to eat, in a house that costs us a thousand pounds a month. That’s my vision!” He tuts, and snaps the laptop shut, then wanders into the lounge.
I think for a minute, then call to him, “does this mean we wouldn’t be able to afford to buy somewhere to renovate either…..?”
To celebrate the arrival of Autumn, (hello, lovely soft jumpers, sumptuous velvet dresses and jeans tucked into the tallest of riding boots… I do love clothes for the colder months) I decided to change the header and generally jazz things up a bit on the blog. The aim is to do this more often, perhaps a change per season… but we’ll see how much procrastination affects my good intentions.
The Boy, clearly having no regard for my intentions to keep him a baby forever, has decided to race ahead in the milestone field and reach the next step in his development. Despite me picking him up regularly and attempting to cradle him (“oh, look at this tiny baby!”), he tends to look at me like I might be slightly mental and struggle away back to his noisy toys. What doesn’t help matters, is that every third customer in the shop seems to come complete with pram containing a real tiny baby, newborn and mewling – I turn instantly to mush, any thoughts of work and clothes are forgotten and I end up rushing over to the pram to coo while my womb seems to jump up and down in excitement. Woah there girl, I think, a good two years left yet before you’re put to use again.
So anyway, the other day the Boy was crawling around the floor, investigating the doorstop, a small pile of dust and the bookshelves (that’s my boy!) when suddenly, he pulled himself up on the coffee table, turned and looked over his shoulder at me and… let go.
He looks at me. I look at him. We both look at the floor. I hold my breath a little bit. The clock ticks. Thirty seconds pass. Forty-five. He collapses in a heap and chuckles at me. Unsure as to whether I should laugh or cry, I scoop him up and smother him with kisses, while he (predictably) struggles away, desperate to get away from his over-affectionate, wimpy mother. Thinking this might be a one off, I go back to my magazine, then turn to look at him scoot across the floor, swipe his robotic monkey out of the way and pull himself up on the radiator. Again, he lets go. This time, he reaches a full minute, and I give him a round of applause. He grins, and shouts, “goggy goggy goggy”.
He can now stand, unaided, for just over a minute, and is oh so close to walking – we’re talking a hairs-breadth away from one-foot-in-front-of-the-other action. Already, I’m planning walks through the country and games of football in the park – in my head, he seems to have jumped from eleven months to two years, and looking at him I think, slow down baby, just stay small for a little while longer.
After the success (!) of the trip to the New Forest, a few weeks back we decided to take the Boy on his first visit to Brighton. I had visions of wandering blissfully through the Lanes, picking up knick-knacks and pretty clothes, books and quirky toys, arm in arm with the Other Half while the Boy gurgled happily in his buggy. The rose-tinted spectacles wobbled slightly when we both got in the car and looked blankly at each other when the subject of directions cropped up.
After two hours in the car (don’t ask), I start to realise that we must have some sort of radar for destinations with massive, jam-packed one way ring-roads. I had completely forgotten that Brighton runs on some sort of bizarre single lane, one-direction system, which basically means that if you miss your exit, you’re destined for another trip round again. And again. And again. When we pass the same church for the third time, I grit my teeth so hard that I can feel the enamel cracking, and snarl, “do you think there is any hope that you could get it right this time?” The Other Half looks at me out of the corner of his eye, and I see him purse his lips. Not exactly the start to the day I was hoping for.
When we finally manage to get parked, we emerge, blinking, from the depths of the dark multi-storey into the bright sunlight of the Lanes, and decide to head to the bank first and foremost. I assume that the high street, with all its Halifax-goodness, is just around the corner, and we can stop off there before embarking on a day of relaxed bliss. We wander down the hill, and follow a sign that directs, ‘TOWN CENTRE’ in capital letters. Brilliant, I think, that wasn’t too difficult. However, once we get round the corner and up a small hill, the signposts for the ‘TOWN CENTRE’ seem to disappear, replaced instead by ones that spitefully shout, ‘BEACH’, mocking us for our apparent inability to follow the simplest of orders. I huff and puff for a bit, and after fifteen minutes and two trips up and down the hill, I turn to the Other Half and demand to know why he’s so useless.
“You know,” I say, jutting my jaw out, “most men would think to bring a map or something. You never do anything unless I think of it first. Why is that?”
He sighs and looks away from me, saying nothing, which only serves to infuriate me further.
“Seriously,” I bark, minutes away from a full meltdown, “why can’t we rely on you to do anything? You’re a man. You’re supposed to know the way, and like… provide and stuff. You’re absolutely useless.” I stomp back up the hill with the buggy, while he sighs and follows close behind.
“It’s not my fault that I-” he starts, but I cut him off. “It’s not your fault? It’s not your fault? Whose fault is it?” I launch into a tirade about how if he hadn’t been so ‘babied’ by his Mother, then maybe he would be more capable, and proclaim him a complete moron for not even thinking to ask for directions. He stops a middle-aged man who is eying us both suspiciously, and enquires where we might find the Halifax. The man points, gestures and explains, while obviously trying not to get too close to either of us. I suddenly realise that hollering at each other in the street is more Shameless than The Waltons, and make a mental note to master the art of Counting-To-Ten rather than Losing-The-Plot-Loudly in future. After a circuit of the high street, we finally find the bank, then, after a quick kiss and a mutual apology, wander back towards the beach front.
Surprisingly, the middle part of the day goes rather smoothly. We walk along in the sunshine, looking at the small market stalls, and then the Boy gets his first glimpse of the sea. Admittedly, he’s more excited at bath time, but I suppose at not even a year old, he doesn’t really understand the fun of running away from the waves. Plus, he can’t walk yet, which admittedly does pose a problem. I take some rather nice photographs, write the Boy’s name in the sand, and we find a waterfront cafe for lunch which has plenty of room for a buggy. And this is where things take a nosedive.
We order sandwiches and chips, and attempt to feed the Boy. His latest trick is to spit out his food when you’re not looking, and over the last few weeks he seems to have developed some sort of ear-piercing scream, which he likes to exhibit particularly at meal times. By the time the bill arrives, all three of us are covered in lumpy, half-pureed Hipp Organic chicken and rice, and we have been shot several disapproving looks by the childless couples sipping their lattes after the Boy decided to let rip with his finest, shrillest shouting fit yet. We pay, leave a hefty tip to make up for the mess and the noise, and quickly evacuate. I can practically hear the other customers sigh with relief as we bump the buggy down the steps.
The Boy, by now placated with food and exhausted from hollering, settles back in his buggy and gurgles away to himself, and we can’t help but laugh. The funny thing is, two years ago, I would have been the one tutting at the noisy, messy child and the ‘inept’ parents who can’t keep their offspring quiet – now I realise that you simply cannot silence such a small person. I look at him and smile, trying to pick the puree off of my sleeve, wondering why you would want to.
Although I’ve been a bit sparse on the old posts lately, in my defence I’ve turned into something of a workaholic (if I’m not at my part time job, I’m blogging on Hilkat, if I’m not blogging on Hilkat, I’m attempting some sort of craft project) and a Boy-aholic (kissing his plump cheeks, playing hide and seek with a pillow, watching Noddy in the mornings…), which leaves roughly three minutes a week to post on here. The other problem has been that this blog runs pretty much on the basis that the Boy reaches his milestones regularly, and is thoughtful enough to space them out over the months. Like buses, there has been none for ages and now they’ve all come at once – which is why there has been nothing but tumbleweed rolling around the place lately.
For the last few months, I’ve spent my days off racing after the Boy while he crawls around the floor, stopping only to turn and laugh or blow a raspberry at me while I honk, “no, no, NO, NO!” as he pulls books off of shelves and swings from the chairs. Frankly, it’s exhausting, and while I love that he’s interested in exploring, and has certainly mastered the art of crawling, I find myself swinging between desperately wanting him to be able to walk, and clinging to the memory of when we could leave him in the middle of the bed and know that he’d be there when we came back. Half of me is absolutely gagging to be able to go to the park and the beach with him, and actually let him roam in the way little boys should, while the other half argues back that he’s just my baby and surely still needs feeding every four hours. When I think about how he used to snuffle into my shoulder, and how he couldn’t even hold his head up, my eyes get all watery and I find myself having to clear my throat a lot – those days are gone, and you can never get them back. I now understand why women long for more babies – as fun as the more advanced stages are, and as hard as the first few weeks are, a mother will always long for her child to be her baby again.
Anyway, I seem to have digressed into melancholy, and I’m all too aware that you all visit for the humour, not the prose, so I’ll get back to the issue in hand. The Boy has an absolutely inordinate amount of toys, but has recently been favouring a set of coloured plastic stacking rings which sit happily on a pole when assembled in size order. For ages, he’s picked up the odd ring at random, shaken it (they rattle) and smacked it against something else (the floor, the table leg, Mummy’s head), before launching it across the room. The other day, however, things took a rather unexpected turn when I picked up one of the rings and gave it to him in his hand.
The Boy looks at the ring, and then looks at me. I look at him. He looks at the plastic pole. I look at the plastic pole. We both look at each other. We both know what the other is thinking. I hold my breath a little bit, and he half-heartedly, non-committally, pokes the ring towards the pole. The hole in the middle grazes the top. It falls onto the floor. I look at him. He looks at me. My heart beats a little faster, the way it does when I’m watching the lottery and I’ve got two numbers. He retrieves the ring and tries again. This time, I hold the plastic pole in place and the ring teeters on the edge. We seem to have got stuck in slow motion, the way basketball players do on American soaps. It wobbles a bit more, and then falls over the pole. The ring is on the pole, I repeat, THE RING IS ON THE POLE.
I squeal, and the Boy jumps a bit. He looks at me, then laughs. I gather him up and smother him in kisses, declaring him a genius. The Mother, who was watching from the doorway laughs and tells him he’s the cleverest little man in the world. I pop him down, and consider doing a lap of the lounge with my t-shirt over my head, footballer style, then decide against it. The Boy struggles away from me, almost tutting with frustration when I try to kiss him again. He zooms off across the floor, and I look on as my little boy grows a tiny bit in front of my eyes.
Well friends, it’s been a while. My half hearted post from last week (or was it the week before?) has done little to stave off the huffy e-mails enquiring as to the whereabouts of the daily entries from days of old. The thing is, having a part-time job, a full-time son, a neglected Other Half, the Parents, the Friends, two blogs and a pretty hefty napping routine is leaving me short of writing time somewhere. But (I’m sticking my hand on my heart as I say this, honest Guv), I will do my absolute utmost to post at least every other day from now on. Honest. What do you mean you don’t believe me? Humph.
Today was a pretty uneventful day. I was supposed to be having coffee with the Best Friend and the Expectant Dad, both school friends from days gone by (has it really been sixteen years since we danced out of the school gates with marker pen scribbled all over our faces and comedy breasts daubed all over our newly-redundant uniforms? Almost two decades since someone scribbled, ‘I hope you get what you want out of life, if not my mate’s free,’ and decorated it with a giant cartoon penis in my ‘leavers’ book? ), but instead the Boy had been showing signs of a snotty nose, it was pouring with rain and, best of all, I had to go and have a blood test. During pregnancy, I became anaemic , and spent 60% of the time sleeping (the remaining 40% was split between eating and moaning – probably a 30%-10% division respectively), and while this should have diminished after the Boy turned up, it…. hasn’t. Well, that’s the theory. Almost a year later, and any days that don’t see me at work, see me fast a-kip for at least an hour in the afternoon – I literally can’t make it through the day otherwise. So off I trotted to have two vials of my blood stolen for a full blood count and tests for anaemia, thyroid and liver (have my days of swigging neat vodka from the bottle and screaming, “I’m a rock and roll staaaaarrrrr” while daubing my name over toilet walls finally caught up with me?), as well as various other nasties.
The Father, being a sufferer of bowel disease, cholesterol and other uncomfortable illnesses, is an old hand at blood tests, and by coincidence also had an appointment with Mr. Pointy, so we went down together. Now, I believe in being early. Everywhere I go, I’m early. I’m early for work. I’m early for the bus. I’m (mostly) early to meet friends. Which is why I decided that with an 8am opening time, fifteen minutes to drive a five minute journey would be more than adequate.
“Easy,” I honk to the Other Half, who has been roped in to driving us, “plenty of time, and we’re bound to be the first in the queue. Or at least pretty near the front.”
We arrive slightly later than I expected, mostly due to the Other Half completely changing his driving tactics with the Father in the car (“why are you driving so slowly?” “It’s a thirty speed limit.” “What difference does that make? You never drive this slowly.” “I do if it’s the speed limit.” “Oh, pull the other one, you drive faster than this when you park the bloody car!”), and deciding to take the scenic route, but as we pull up I don’t feel too worried – how many people could possibly have accrued at this time of the morning? The Other Half stays in the car with a book and the radio, while we troop up to the door – and then stop our tracks. The room is full. Not a seat to spare. People have even leaked into the corridor, and are leaning against the walls reading newspapers. I walk up to the machine and press the button twice for two tickets. Thirty-three and thirty-four. I look at the screen. It reads simply, ‘08’. I decide this must be a mistake, and wait for it to correct itself. It doesn’t. The bell rings, and the number clicks over to ‘09’. How can it be possible that thirty-two people managed to queue here before 8am? How? I could understand five, or even six, but thirty-two? Did they start lining up at 4.30am like they do for the Harrods sale?
Stuffing the ticket into my pocket, I feel glad that I at least had the sense to bring a magazine. I flip to an article about ‘personal branding’, and am drawn into a world where people employ others to ‘market’ them and improve their ‘personal visibility’. My eyebrows really start to struggle off of the top of my head when I raise them particularly sharply after reading that there is one Personal Brand Consultant who offers the ‘Well-Stocked Mind’ option – they simply tell you which openings to attend, which books to read, what films to see and so on. You can literally pay someone to think for you. I look up from the magazine. This is genius. Why haven’t I discovered this before? Although, rather than the Culture-Related Stocked-Mind (I rather think that literature and cinema are things that you either like and understand or do not), I would opt for the Everything-Else-Stocked-Mind, surely the concept is the same? I stare at the wall, envisioning a mind like a catalogue, flipping through little categories when I can’t identify why the Boy has been howling non-stop for three days and then suddenly coming across the answer. I’d be bigger than Super Nanny – I’d be one of those Parenting Gurus that have magazine columns and permanently well behaved children (although frankly I’m convinced that in private they shove chocolate buttons at them and park them in front of Fifi like the rest of us). The only thing I’m concerned with is quite how the information filters into your brain – does it hurt? And more importantly, could it be done while the recipient is asleep….?
