main blogorrhoea	Wednesday, June 30 Today Kathie and Mike's little boy Robert has his first birthday. Happy Birthday Robert! The day he was born, I found out I was pregnant. I've always considered this a rather groovy coincidence. Darth Fish has also developed fin rot and is in the isolation tank. A close eye is being kept on Tarquin and Arabella. And in future we won't be going to the garden centre in Shelford for our fish-buying needs. Tuesday, June 29 bodemode Like most comfortably neurotic Western women, I'm obsessed with the many flaws in my appearance. (Although as a feminist I am obliged to disguise this beneath a carefully-maintained facade of unkemptness and strident disdain for evil fashion dictatrixes such as Trinnie and Suzannah, who, btw, will be in the first intake for the fiery pit when I rule the universe.) Perhaps I read too many Cosmos at an impressionable age (I've long since given them up), perhaps it was too much Fay Weldon and not enough Angela Carter. For whatever reason, I've burned up many an idle bus trip, when I should really have reading a good book, pondering the answer to the following question: should the Body Modification Fairy suddenly appear before me and offer to grant me one wish, which single physical feature would I change? More hair, fewer chins, smaller arse, perfect eyesight, skin that didn't burn in the sun, feet that were less hippo-shaped? the possibilities, alas, are endless. Or they were, once. Now that I'm a mother, however things have changed, and I've been able to hone it down to a single, insoluble dilemma: third breast, or extra arm? Here's one for the next Concise OED: Reality TV programmes bewailing the obesity 'epidemic' (and inviting us all to have a good laugh at the lazy stupid fat people) -- Schadenlardentelly Last night Jack brought me home a bunch of pale orange and bright pink gerberas. The two colours matched his beard and face, shining from his bike ride. To get the flowers home, he'd stuck them in the top of his backpack. As I unwrapped them, a few petals floated to the floor. 'Might be a bit battered', he explained. 'I went under a tree.' (They were, however, surprisingly intact.) the sound of inevitability Svend now has a blog! gubybab Rebecca has now decided that the Baby in the Mirror is creasingly funny. Monday, June 28 Rebecca continues to sleep through the night. (Mostly. Typing this, I'm suddenly aware of the low buzz of the Jinx Fairies massing on the horizon.) She's now happily installed in her cot in her own room. Each morning, when you go in to her, she returns your greeting with a face-splitting grin around the two fists she has stuffed in her mouth, then swings both legs up in the air and waggles them with delight. As a way to start the day, it's better than - why, than coffee! Sunday, June 27 left the building Lance Armstrong is no more. He has succumbed to his fungal infection. Jack had put him in a hospital tank and dosed his water with antibiotics, but he was too far gone. This morning he was sitting at the bottom of the tank flipping his tail feebly; when I checked him this afternoon I found to my horror that he had grown fur. A hasty executive decision was taken that he should be put down humanely. In fish this can be done by putting them in the freezer, in a small container of water of course. The fish's metabolism quietly shuts down and it dies quickly and (hopefully) painlessly. Poor wee Lance. Jack has buried him in the garden. Can't remember which of us decided to name him Lance. But now I'm all worried that we've jinxed his namesake's chances in this year's Tour... Last night the Bug, in her little rocking seat, stared intently at her father as he consumed a steak sandwich, then smacked her lips noisily. That's my girl! Saturday, June 26 double the fun Went for another swim last night at the Palais de Fungus. Don't think I've ever been on a Friday night before - I used to go either first thing in the morning or at lunchtime. In both of these slots you spend most of your time diving frantically out of the paths of the Ostentatious Olympian Overtakers: the full-on, outta-my-way swimmers who have scheduled in a speedy 120 lengths before they have to rush back to their incredibly important and high-powered jobs. Last night, by constrast, it was quiet, comparatively empty and the atmosphere was relaxed - I even had the odd amiable conversation with other swimmers - mostly to check if I was in the right lane as I can't see a thing without me specs. Pausing between laps to adjust my wristband, to which the key to my locker was attached, I commented to the middle-aged bloke who was waiting to start a length that I was having difficulty keeping it on, and he showed me how to tuck the key under the band into the key-shaped recess that I'd never noticed before. Oh, how nice to have a friendly chat at a swimming pool! I thought. How refreshing the change from the aggressive peak-time swimmers! I must come on a Friday night more often. Then middle-aged bloke told me that he had learned the key trick from a little girl he used to take swimming, who was eleven years old, but 'c-c-c-c-could easily p-p-p-p-pass for 23 or 24'. Feeling just a little bit grubby, I thanked him and hastily resumed my swim. A few laps later I noticed that while he was still in the pool, he wasn't actually doing a hell of a lot of swimming. Took a long and thorough shower after that session, I can tell you. Oh and managed 25 laps - over twice what I'd done the other week. Then I came over all dizzy and had to get out of the pool. Friday, June 25 rant in f major A friend of mine recently sent me a poster from that Dove ad for 'firming cream' - you know, the one allegedly featuring four 'normal' women ranging in from size 10-18 (can men be thus easily categorised, according to size? Ahem. Don't answer that.) She complained that the lads from her work hated the ad because it depicted, and I quote, a bunch of 'porkers', and asked us to forward it to the men in our lives to confirm (or not) that not all blokes are quite so choosy. Tbh, up until now I hadn't really been bothered about the ad, except to wonder how rubbing something on your flesh can possibly make it firmer unless it's plaster of Paris. However her email precipitated a rant that I thought I'd share with the group, so, context established, here goes: 'Will show this to Jack but am willing to bet that he will not see what the fuss is about: Jack's 'Oh my God, feed that woman' threshhold is pretty high by media (or even by my) standards, i.e. he finds women I find attractively normal (and yet aspirational) too thin, and women who are actually too thin (Courtenay Cox, Gwyneth Paltrow, Keira Knightley) to be borderline grotesque. Maybe I should be reassured by this. A few years ago when I dieted myself down to what I considered to be an acceptable weight (i.e. an English size 10-12) he was getting v alarmed at how skinny I was and urging me to eat more. Looking back at photos of myself taken at that time, I realise I did have a bit of a lollipop look (huge round head, tiny little body) about me. Advantages to having a baby? Socially sanctioned fatness - the bigger you get while preggers, the better, and you will find people smilingly appraising you as though you're a prize marrow. Disadvantages? After you've dropped/evicted the sprog there's a sort of competetive 'how fat are you how many months later' thing going, with people urging you 'don't worry - the weight simply FALLS off when you breastfeed'. Today's clue: not off everyone, it doesn't. And what's more, the reason you put on the extra lard, and in many cases, retain it while breastfeeding is precisely that you NEED it in order to supply the goodies. Every time I look in the mirror and shudder, every time I fail to get into any 'pre-pregnancy' (hate that term) clothes (the apotheosis of success for those determined to 'get their body back'), every time I am tempted to beat myself up for the state of my body, I look at my gorgeous little daughter and think that my body made her, which as far as I'm concerned is a pretty impressive indication of what it can do, and I let it, and me, off the hook.' Here endeth the lesson... ma non troppo Last night Jack and I had takeaways in front of the football. We even held hands tightly during the penalty shootout. God help us, we've practically gone native. Although we did not, I hasten to add, scream abuse at the referee. Rebecca has decided to celebrate the suspension of baths with a festival of regurgitation. I find myself washing a lot of face flannels. In fact when the next census comes around am tempted to list profession as 'washerwoman'. Thursday, June 24 lance armstrong is unwell Lance Armstrong is currently in an isolation bucket. He has fin rot. Poor Lance Armstrong. Rebecca is looking very natty today in a little lime green outfit from the Younger Elder range by Otterworks i.e. our mate Alison. Some weeks back Alison presented us with a package for the Bug; we opened it and found said outfit, which consists of a little green fleece jacket, fawn corduroy trousers and hat trimmed with the green fleece. When we thanked her profusely, she looked sheepish and produced a packing case containing fleece sleepsuits, a jacket, several hats and a number of items bearing duck motifs - bath towel, bib, bath glove and bootees - all produced under the Younger Elder label. Apparently once she started making baby stuff she just couldn't stop. Blimey. And, yay Alison! Have just taken the Bug to the doctor about her manky skin. Nice lady doctor prescribed various unguents and advised me not bath her for a week. Strongly tempted to respond 'Oh you English, that's your answer to everything,' but managed to restrain myself. Tuesday, June 22 fin and claw Tarquin and Arabella now have two new little friends - a silver fantail called Lance Armstrong and a blackamoor called Darth Fish. So far no-one has eaten anyone else. While we were at the garden centre purchasing Lance Armstrong and Darth Fish, we happened upon a number of owls that were being displayed by the Raptor Foundation; by display I mean that their handlers were standing outside the entrance with owls perched on their gauntleted wrists. I chatted to the man with the tawny owl; the owl fixed me with its luminous maroon eyes and allowed me to stroke its chest gently with the back of my hand. As I did this I was acutely conscious of how sharp and curved its beak was. The owls on display were a mixture of natives and exotics and included a comically drowsy snowy owl that looked like a big sleepy pillow with claws, and a tiny little grey African owl the size of a small parrot. Their eyes were stunnng range of colours - amber, deep orange, bright lemon yellow, dark brown. I love owls - especially the way their heads swivel while their bodies remain motionless. Reckon a trip to the Raptor Foundation may lie in our future. (I wonder they'll let me in free if I show them my owl tattoo.) Monday, June 21 they'd eaten every one Last night Rebecca's Nana babysat for us so we could go out for dinner. Seizing this rare opportunity (the first since her birth) with all four hands we gabbled a set of Bug-maintenance instructions, thrust our firstborn into her arms and fled to a fish restaurant, where I devoured half a dozen oysters (no longer off limits! damn I love no longer being pregnant!) and a big pile of smoked salmon, before sitting back with what Jack calls my happy anaconda face and wondering what was for dessert. Strolled back across the Fens and before we knew it we were back in Babyland, returning home to find a tear-stained Bug and a harried-looking grandmother who explained that she (Bug, not grandmother) had been inconsolable since our departure, only pausing in her howls of grief and despair to suck down two bottles in two and a half hours. I picked her up and she gave a small giggle of triumph and snuggled into me smugly. Little sod. Friday, June 18 scoop Got a phone call this morning from my brother Jim sounding excited but knackered (tbh, mostly knackered). His wife Jo gave birth to their daughter, Evelyn Rose Fenwick Williams, on June 18 at Waitakere Hospital in Auckland. Congratulations Jim and Jo and welcome Evelyn! The Williams quest for world domination proceeds apace... In other news, Rebecca's Nana Pam arrived yesterday and I will never forget the look of joy on her face when she first saw her little granddaughter. The Bug seems to have that effect on people. We're bringing her home for a visit in October and to attend her Aunt Charlotte's wedding. When booking the tickets Jack asked for the airline to provide a bassinet. Yesterday the travel agents rang me to ask what size the baby would be. 'In four months time? I have no idea!' I replied, slightly peeved at this outlandish enquiry, before deciding that it was actually probably quite a reasonable one. In the end, the easiest way to figure it out was to extrapolate along her growth chart. Have thus calculated v roughly that she'll be about 9-10 kilos and 70 cm long, provided she keeps up her limpet-like adherence to the 75th percentile curve. And frenzied feeding patterns, of course, and that I don't manage to grow a third breast, in which case we will need a medium sized cage. Still perhaps I should run some sort of sweepstake - a sort of speculative Guess The Weight of The Baby, all proceeds to go to a worthy charity, natch. Any takers? We get at least a couple of cold calls a day from various purveyors of double glazing, stone cladding and usury. One of life's minor little miseries, and if I ever find out who's responsible for the recorded messages, or worse, the silent phone spam, I am going to hunt them down and inflict pain on them. In the meantime one does one's humble best. Yesterday, I picked up the phone to hear the all too familiar crackly silence followed by a faltering female voice: 'Helloooo? Meesees Eldaire?' At the time, the Bug was lying on the living room floor yelling like a banshee, so instead of hanging up or engaging in conversation I simply held the phone out in Rebecca's direction so that the caller could share the joy. After about a minute of this I asked her 'Did you hear that?' 'Yes...' gasped a horrified voice. 'Good,' I replied, 'I can't talk now,' and put the phone down. Am now thinking of recording some of the Bug's greatest hits onto the voicemail. Which puts me in mind of a former flatmate, back in Wellington whose extremely vocal amorous exploits used to keep us awake for many a long night, so much so that we eventually christened him and his paramor the Howler Monkeys, and were seriously considering using their cries of ecstasy as a background to a 'We're not home right now' message. However in the end we chickened out, figuring Telecom NZ might take a dim view of our using their service to record obscene voicemail. Wish we'd done it now... Thursday, June 17 early ramblings Woke this morning at 5:30 to the sounds of the Bug fretting and wucking in the next room: 'Where are my slaves? Slaves! Attend me!' Opened one eye and thought, without a trace of irony, 'Marvellous! A full night's sleep!' Am definitely getting used to this parenthood thing. The Health Visitor came over yesterday and weighed Rebecca who is a splendid 13 lb, 11 oz or 6.2-something kilos for the metrically minded. In the back garden, scarlet papery poppies and deep purple lavender are strikingly harmonious in the same bed. Must plant more purple things. My mother-in-law comes to visit this afternoon. By 9:00 AM, the bathroom sparkled and gleamed. Need coffee. Wednesday, June 16 happy bloomsday... ... though I will happily admit that I have never read Ulysses - Dubliners and Portrait of the Artist were as far as I got. (Not much chance that I'll get further any time soon: at the moment it's taken me a week and a half to get through an essay and half from the Johnathan Franzen collection How To Be Alone, not a particularly apt title from my pov.) And happy three months today to my lovely little Rebecca, who has apparently decided to celebrate her quarter of a year by reinstating her 4:00 AM feed. Sigh. This morning I had coffee with a very nice woman whose 11 week old daughter was sleeping through at 5 weeks. Let the competetive child-rearing commence! Tuesday, June 15 just like, erm... Yesterday evening I went for my first bike ride in about nine months. I tried to keep up the cycling for as long as possible while I was pregnant, but eventually the lingering hot weather, heat-crazed motorists and exhaust fumes did for me and the bike finally went in the shed when I was about 16 weeks gone. (Curiously, it was around this time that my morning sickness abated.) Jack gave the bike a quick fettle on Sunday and yesterday at about six thirty I shoe-horned myself into last year's lycra, strapped on my shiny new red helmet and zeroed the odo. (It read 1,960 miles, which reminded me that I'd been aiming to reach 2,000 before packing it in. So close.) Set off down Kings Hedges Road, initially in rather wobbly fashion, but rapidly regaining confidence and the ability to dodge buses, and ended up cycling across the newly-built Milton cycle bridge, through the country park, down to the river and back along the tow path, dodging marshalls with megaphones as there was a rowing event on. Total distance six and a bit miles - same as my daily commute although at a considerably lower average speed, largely due to the off road stretches. Still, for a first effort in ages I was quite pleased, and surprisingly I'm not even sore today, despite not having time to do any warm-down stretches, as I arrived home to find the Bug screaming herself hoarse and Jack looking very relieved to see me. After that the evening went downhill as she vomitted up every single feed and immediately howled for more, eventually screaming herself to sleep around ten and waking at four for another feed - our first broken night in a week. Must be the heat. She's going for her second lot of immunisations at midday so who knows what delights the rest of the day holds in store. Monday, June 14 we've been to a marvellous party Just got back from Aidan's first birthday party. In attendance were half a dozen one-year-old boys and their mums, and Rebecca. And me. Once the toddlers had been released among the finger food the whole thing soon began to resemble a Roman orgy, only with much smaller participants. Rebecca sat on my lap in her little pink party frock (the only dress she owns), regarding the carnage with wobble-headed bemusement, while I ate too much sugar and chatted to the other mothers about what to do about various minor but disgusting ailments of the very young - always instructive to compare notes with more experienced mothers, especially when you're making it up as you go along. We took the birthday boy a push-along wheelie toy thing with flashy lights and sound effects (which I'm sure will prove an audivisual treat for his parents too.) Strange to think that we'll be hosting some birthday-related carnage of our own nine months hence. Happy birthday Aidan! Sunday, June 13 existen$ Was taken aback by a recent bank statement that revealed almost no activity in my accounts - the month's ins and outs covered in barely half a dozen lines. Since I went on maternity leave, practically every day, it seems, is Buy Nothing Day. I find this realisation oddly satisfying. the duck lies shredded in a pancake soaking in the hoisin of your lies -- bill bailey Last night Jack took me to see Bill Bailey at the Corn Exchange. This was our first ever evening out with just the two of us since the birth of the Bug, and as such was a significant moment. (It also marked, slightly belatedly, our eight years together - a matter no less momentous.) Lisa and Paul having kindly (and bravely, as it turned out) agreed to watch Rebecca for the evening, we invited them over for dinner and BABY 101. It all seemed to be going well until our daughter decided that five minutes before we had to leave was a good time to get in some screaming practice. A number of hasty diagnostics having failed, we eventually thrust our caterwauling infant at Lisa and legged it, guilt and remorse dogging our every step. However once we got to the venue a couple of phone calls home assured us that our baby had not in fact died of grief at our departure; on the contrary having polished off a bottle of milk she was now sitting up placidly watching the football. Thus reassured we were able to enjoy the gig, which turned out to be the funniest live show I'd seen in years. It was a mixture of political commentary, surreal philosophical musings and musical pastiche, highlights of which were the Hokey Cokey à la Kraftwerk and 'Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Da' as performed by Portishead. The man's a comedy god. Got home to find the Bug happily asleep upstairs and Lisa and Paul looking extremely relieved. So a successful evening all round. Another small moment in the Life is Good series - cooking an omelette for Saturday lunch (local field mushroom and homegrown oregano) and realising that since I'm no longer pregnant any more I can in fact leave it a bit runny in the middle like a good omelette should be. Runny or soft-boiled eggs being among the many foods off limits to pregnant women. I love not being pregnant. Saturday, June 12 through the looking glass Apparently children pass the mirror self-recognition test at something like eighteen months of age. Currently, if I hold Rebecca up to a mirror her gaze travels from her own reflection ('Huh. No idea what that is') to mine, which elicits a beam of delight ('Mummy!') She's been sleeping through for an entire week now (bar one unfortunate vomiting incident the other night.) As she'd previously been sleeping for 3-4 hours stretches at night, usually waking at around 4 am for a feed, we'd considered ourselves pretty lucky compared with those poor sods whose bairns wake on the hour every hour for weeks and weeks. Still, you don't realise how knackering broken nights are until they suddenly stop. Life is, indeed, Good. Friday, June 11 Ever in relentless quest of self-improvement, last night I left Jack and the Bug to play nicely together and took myself off to the swimming baths, conveniently located a twenty minute drive away on the other side of town. Pool is a tad what we NZers call 'skody' - I believe in local parlance this would be 'minging' or possibly 'skanky', but I could be wrong - the sort of place you're likely to find a disposable nappy in the cubicle and where the showers are those communal non-segregated ones, full of men with pot bellies, blurry tattoos and hairy backs, and are generally ankle deep in scummy water. Shudder. Must remember to look out for some platform flip flops, or possibly a shortish pair of stilts. Still, the parking's free, and once I get my bike up and running again I'll start swimming at the other pool, at which the parking is not free, but which is marginally less grubby and has proper segregated showers with cubicles so you can actually take your swimsuit off to have a wash - a daringly modern concept, it appears. The Brits do a number of things very well - stately homes, real ale, football thuggery - but alas, 'leisure centres' (which is what swimming pools are listed as in the phone book) are not one of them. Having negotiated the fungal horrors of the changing facilities I managed a whole twelve lengths before retiring in exhaustion - it's been about a year since I went swimming, and while my body's been through a lot since then, this has not included a great deal of exercise. A year ago, I would have pressed the point by flogging my knackered arse up and down a couple more times but breastfeeding a perpetually ravenous baby gives you an entirely new attitude to your body, its resources and their expenditure: to put it plainly, the tireder I get the less milk I produce, so no heroics as far as the pursuit of physical fitness is concerned. Next week I'll aim for fourteen. Thursday, June 10 out and proud Just took the wee one into my work to show her off. She was at her adorable best - beamed and cooed at everyone she met, and didn't even puke on anyone, in spite of the heat, which tends to set her off. (Heart swells with maternal pride.) And she now has a styly new tie-died purple babygro, courtesy of Liz, who just happened to have one on her. Result! complacencies of the peignoir Advantage to being home during the day: grooving to early morning birdsong in the garden as I hang out the washing. Point-counterpoint of different bird species calling across the chimneys, trees and rooftops melodic as well as rhythmic; chaotic twittering from the neighbours' budgies adding texture to the mix. Nigh impossible to transcribe birdsong, but let's just say it only needed some high hat and a thuddy bass to make a nice house-rocking dance track. No, I'm not on happy drugs. This morning's Life Is Good moment brought to you by yet another full night's sleep followed by a pitcher of Fair Trade Coffee. Life is, indeed, good. 'snap!!' moment of the week A colleague of Jack's gives birth to an 8 lb, 8 oz baby girl (Ellen) during an emergency c-section following a presumably not particularly successful induction. And while the baby's birth weight, exactly the same as Rebecca, puts her firmly in the 75th percentile, her mother, barely 5 feet tall, is a good 4-5 inches shorter than me. Lawks. Wednesday, June 9 bugography Jack's just put up some more photos of Rebecca in various adorable attitudes here. join us.... Just got back from my first mother and baby group, held at a local nursery 10 mins walk away. I'd been nervous about going for a number of reasons - dread of walking into a roomful of strangers, distaste for what my sister calls 'joinny-inny, rally-roundy' type activities, fear that it would be a bunch of dead-eyed neurotics talking endlessly about nappies, and, let's face it, general snobbery and misanthropy. However since none of this should stand in the way of Rebecca receiving some form of socialisation, I decided to stop thinking about it and just go already, so loaded a shrieking infant into her pram, bolted on the sun canopy and marched resolutely up the road, loudly humming 'This is the self-preservation society' in a vain attempt to cover her screams. (She stopped howling after a couple of blocks; as I write, she's in her pram by the open French doors, making little Maggie Simpson sucking motions in her sleep.) Now I'm glad I went. As soon as I trundled in I received a warm welcome and a cup of tea and within minutes was chatting to a bunch of friendly women and being plied with leaflets. Turns out there's no shortage of baby-related activities within walking distance - baby yoga, baby massage, various talks and classes, a breast-feeding drop-in group (not sure what the deal is with this one - do you show up, plug the baby in for 20 mins, burp them, sponge yourself down and leave, or is there more to it than that?) Anyway, for some reason going to a group made me feel more as though I'm doing this motherhood thing properly. I may go to more groups. I may even turn into one of those Women Who Go To Groups. In the meantime, am definitely going back next week. Tuesday, June 8 weather with you The first bird has eaten the first ripe strawb of the season. Or pecked away a third of it and left the rest, which is even more annoying. I guess that shows that summer is here. That and the fact that it's suddenly very hot (weather boffins predicting a high of 32 degrees in southern parts of the British Isles) and I've had to cancel a doctor's appt this afternoon because I don't want to have to put the Bug in a stiflingly hot car as the heat is making her grumpy and thirsty enough as it is. book book Last night I finished the second book I've read since the Bug was born, 12 weeks ago today. (I'm not counting What To Expect The First Year (Eisenberg et al) and Help Your Baby To Sleep [A Few Drops of Gin in the Formula Usually Does The Trick], published by the National Childbirth Trust.) A Needle in the Heart, which I finished yesterday, is a collection of short stories by NZ writer Fiona Kidman, and was sent to me by Jack's Aunt Shirley, who lives in Pembrokeshire, shortly after Rebecca was born. My friend Juliet was our first visitor at the Rosie and brought me The Corrections, by Johnathan Franzen. Both women also gave us presents for the newly-born Bug, but both thought that I should have something for myself, to read whenever I had the time. Amid the flurry of babygros and teddies that followed the birth (and for which we were very grateful) these books, carefully chosen just for me, meant a great deal. What's more, I greatly enjoyed both of them. Albeit in very small instalments, but I am going to continue to make time to read. Happily, following my last birthday a small pile of books still awaits me. These include one from Rebecca herself, who has mastered delegation at an early age. The latest Margaret Atwood first, I think... Or should I start with Eats, Shoots & Leaves? Monday, June 7 nietzshean gardening A recent discovery: you can't kill mint. I planted some a couple of years ago in the narrow, gravelly, sun-starved border at the back of the house. Last year the window under which it grew was replaced by a set of French doors; in the course the renovations it was repeatedly stomped on by builders' big boots, crushed under tool boxes and piles of bricks and had a ton of cement dust and sundry chemicals dumped on it. Yet instead of perishing miserably it has sprung back and is sending out ambitious-looking runners. J was even able to make tzatziki with it the other night. After rinsing it off v carefully, natch. I like hardy plants you can't kill. Can't ever imagine myself ministering tenderly to an ailing orchid in a hothouse's rarefied atmosphere. I like plants that thrive in heat and aridity, that don't take offense if you don't water them for a week. The ones that will tough it out with neighbouring plants, and send weeds whimpering back underground. I like rosemary, sage, lavender, parsley - plants with a strong smell and an attitude, that will double in size days after you chop them back. In a recent gardening blitz I put in four new lavender plants in different varieties - violet, pink, white, blue. And the pale pink lavender we planted last year when we found out I was pregnant has grown strong and thick, and is flowering. Sunday, June 6 yea verily Life Is Good moment of the week: sitting up in bed this morning reading with the Bug sacked out next to me in her little yellow pyjamas, while Jack made pancakes downstairs. Life Is Good Moment #2: 7 o'clock this morning, waking up to realise that the Bug had slept through for the third night in a row. Moment #3: Jack just called me upstairs where Rebecca, for the first time, has grabbed a toy off him, held it by herself and stuffed it in her mouth. She's been grabbing and holding toys on her pram mobile but has never held an unattached object before. Life is truly very, very good indeed. later... The Bug has now done three new things today. Earlier I was showing her our reflections in a mirror and pulling faces at her, which made her laugh (or rather chortle) for the very first time ever, at least while I've been in the room. And just now while Jack was feeding her (expressed breast milk, for those who think formula is tantamount to offering them gin laced with cocaine) he was able to let go of the bottle while she clutched it with both hands. Kid's a genius, I tell you. Saturday, June 5 again again! A Parent's Song of Joy She slept through the night, She slept through the night, la la lalala I don't feel crap in the morning She's still lying still in her cot And not because she's de--aad But because she slept, and I don't care if it was a fluke, or early, Cos she slept, slept through the night. - Source (Thanks Naomi for sending me this!) Friday, June 4 and another thing What is is about June 19th? So far we've been invited to 3 parties. Is the world due to end on the 20th and everyone knows but me? Or have I merely forgotten what it's like to have a normal social life? She's still asleep, btw. the big sleep The Bug slept from 10:30 last night until 8:30 this morning. Unlike her anxious mother, who woke up on cue at 5:30 and had to go in and check her at regular intervals to make sure she was still breathing. She woke briefly for a feed off my by then porn-star-sized bosoms (although porn stars' bosoms probably don't leave a little dripping trail of milk from the bed to the bathroom and back again, except in porn for v specialised tastes). She is now asleep again, ten hours not being enough apparently. Am I doing something wrong, or right? Should I be feeling smug, or worried? Has she got narcolepsy or am I just boring company? Is she going to do it again tonight? Will I become one of those legendary insufferable parents who brag about their prodigy sleeping through the night at 3 months? (Not that I've ever met such a person: most of the babies I know never seem to sleep ever, much to their parents' chagrin.) What exactly counts as 'sleeping through' anyway? Five hours? Six? Waking up for the first time that morning in daylight? (It gets light early at this time of year. I should know.) Maybe I should stop obsessing and go and read a book or something. One of those literature type ones that isn't about babies or bosoms. Previously, in h-blog

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