Friday, December 31
more than thatI've made a number of New Year's Resolutions for 2005. Most are not for publication, but among the less fanciful are the following: eat more leafy greens; drink more water; learn to make a really kickass curry before we forsake the land of the chicken tikka masala.
It'll be hard to top 2004, what with the advent of the Bug and everything, but we've got coming home to look forward to, so it's already looking promising. Happy New Year everyone!
Thursday, December 30
brownian motion generatorNow that the Bug has two teeth they must be brushed regularly in order that good dental hygiene be established while she's young and impressionable. Make it a Fun Game! advise all the parenting books. No need really, as Rebecca thinks everything is a Fun Game (unless it ranks as a Cruel Torment, such as having her nappies changed, or being put in a pinafore). However in case she changes her mind I've invented a toothbrushing song which keeps her amused while the brush is being plied. It goes something like: 'Brushing, brushing the little toothy-pegs / Brushing the tee-thies / Brushing, brushing the little / brushing, brushing the little / too-oothy pegs...' &c.Now this might sound gut wrenchingly cutesy but hear me out: sung to the tune of the opening chorus of Mahler's Eighth Symphony, 'Veni, creator spiritus', it's almost, well, majestic.
Overheard in Sainsbury's: an old lady telling her companion, with grim satisfaction, 'He's got a Lumbar Neck.'
Wednesday, December 29
prêt-à-porterEver since the Bug was wee, family and friends have been extremely generous in their contributions to her wardrobe. Often, and helpfully, they choose items a season or two ahead, which go into the 'grow into' drawer. Such has been their generosity that it's become necessary to check what's in there from time to time lest Becca outgrow something without even getting the chance to wear it. It's also a good idea to take a quick look before buying anything new, in case it turns out she has one already. Her Gran and Grandad have sent her some Debenhams vouchers for Christmas (thank you Gran and Grandad!) and wanting to make the most of the January sales, this morning I hauled everything out of the grow into drawer and made up an inventory, categorising the clothes by age range and season in the country we'll be in when she's that age, given our plans to fly south next October.* Obsessive, or just organised? 'I'm not anal, am I?' I asked Jack, anxiously. He may well have paused just a beat too long before replying, but I prefer to put a positive spin on my list-making. Although putting it onto a colour-coded spreadsheet may be crossing the line.
*No winter 'til 2006! At least in theory. And once we've finished with this one! In any case, hurrah!
Tuesday, December 28
glorious mudKnocked off a quick training ride this morning, so that's me effectively shafted for the rest of the day. Am typing this with trembling fingers while Jack takes the Bug out for a bracing walk. Still, I enjoyed it immensely - today's a stunning winter's day under the big East Anglian skies, clear, light and watery, with a wind straight off the North Sea. Once I got up some speed, the following thoughts began to alternate through my brain with each turn of the crankshaft: 'Hey! I'm fitter than I thought!' and 'Man, I've got a lot of work to do before the London to Cambridge.' These soon gave way to 'This is lovely - why haven't I ridden the road between Impington and Milton before?' and 'Oh. Because it comes out onto the A10. Bugger.' After a quick joust with heavy traffic, managed to locate the cycle bridge and make it to Milton, then headed towards the river via the Fen Road. If you've the right sort of bike for it, there's something deeply satisfying about cycling through mud, so I splattered along the towpath as far as Clayhithe, cycling through as many puddles as I could and grinning merrily at the people with green wellies out walking their spaniels. Arrived home thoroughly muck-encrusted and feeling very pleased with myself. However am going to have to invest in some proper cycling leggings as thanks to the aforementioned breeze my knees were going stiff with the cold, and strenuous exercise and cold muscles are generally a bad combo, which can often precede the sort of tearing noises that human flesh is not meant to make.
Here's another Christmas picture, showing Rebecca testing the authenticity of her new stacking rings.
Monday, December 27
some photos from Rebecca's first Christmas
A bracing walk around the local country park.
Snacking on something shiny.
More to follow - turns out we took 87, so the editing could take a while.
if you're happy and you know it
Becca's passion of the last few days is for banging two objects together to see if they make a noise. This morning it was a pair of her socks, recently removed and slightly soggy from chewing. We could almost see her placing a mental tick in the 'Does NOT make noise' column. As Jack says, it's an important category distinction.
She's also fascinated by Mummy clapping and has discovered that she can reproduce the effect by grabbing my hands and bringing them together. Huge grins, and chortles of excitement. From her, mostly.
Sunday, December 26
nice weather for ducksFirst Christmas with Rebecca was quiet but lovely. Santa had been most generous, but true to predictions the Bug was more interested in the wrapping than its contents, wailing indignantly when it was fished out of her mouth as an anti-choking measure. Grateful thanks are due to all the kind folks who contributed to her mountain of presents, so mountainous, in fact, that we had to have a little sleep halfway through opening them, and Jack and I didn't open anything for ourselves until long after she'd gone to bed. Not that we cared in the least as watching her romping happily among the crinkly silver, red and green paper and curling ribbon was the best part of the day.
Foodie moment: for dinner I roasted a duck, stuffed with chopped onion, an apple, cored and halved, a couple of bay leaves and a handful of sage from the garden. During the cooking process the bird decreased noticeably in mass as about two pints of fat ran off. As per Delia's instructions I poured it off and set it aside for future roast spuds. Served the duck with finely-sliced Savoy cabbage, wok-cooked with a ladelful of the duck fat, more chopped onion and bay leaves as well as a dollop of cranberry sauce and a splash of white wine vinegar for a bit of tang. Despite being somewhat improvised, the whole thing was a huge success.
While I was preparing dinner Jack watched Balamory for the first time with the Bug. 'Quite good, isn't it?' I commented when he came in to check how I was doing. 'Oh yes. I'd give that Miss Hoolie one,' he replied enthusiastically.
Today I went for a run. Yes, a run. Amazingly, I did not drop down dead after fifty yards, nor did I, as expected, hack up fifteen pints of phlegm before vomiting copiously on the front yard. In fact I kind of enjoyed it. May even do it again.
Friday, December 24
god rest ye merrySome photos of Rebecca's first Christmas are available here: more to follow after Santa's been.
Met Jack and workmates for the traditional Christmas Eve lunch at the FSG, where, for the first time in front of an audience, Rebecca demonstrated her newfound ability to clap. How proud we were. And I mean that in a completely unironic way. (And since you ask, I was on the mineral water, actually.) raise high the thingummy doodah
Current reading: Vernon God Little. Am not on improbable quest to read all the Bookers by the year's end - it just happened to be on the new acquisitions shelf at the local library, rather unexpectedly, as they mostly deal in large print Catherine Cooksons. Fear that may be missing out on some of the refs and resonances as am only person in known universe not to have read any J.D. Salinger. However am enjoying, although it's a bit overwritten. Here's a bit that's not:
The Lozano boys are out hawking T-shirts on the corner of Liberty Drive. One design has 'I Survived Martirio' splattered across it in red. Another has holes ripped through it, and says: 'I went to Martirio and all I got was this lousy exit wound.' Preacher Gibbons tuts, and shakes his head.
'Twenty dollars,' he says. Twenty dollars for a simple cotton T-shirt.'
Children are expensive to run. Oh sure, there are the new clothes every three weeks, not to mention the mountains of nappies, rivers of formula, the dizzying variety of stain-removing products, none of which can get orange mush out of pastels. And then there are the unexpected expenses. Such as yesterday's, when I was in such a hurry to get the Bug in out of the cold that I strode off with the pushchair leaving the twenty notes I'd just withdrawn still sticking out of the local ATM. I can only console myself with the hope that it might have fallen into the gnarled and grateful hands of some OAP, but I fear that more probably some gruesome protochav is regaling himself and his gruesome associates with Superkings and solvents.
Never mind. Went for a festive curry last night at the best curry house in the Western world, where we were welcomed back after some nine months' absence with open arms and made to promise to bring the Bug in for a visit. And, as ever, had a superb meal. The bhindi bhaji. Oh, the bhindi bhaji....
The Bug currently enjoys banging two objects together to see what sort of noise they will make: very effective with building blocks, less so with plush toys. Today she even managed to clap her hands together for the first time, which new accomplishment excited me more that it did her, I think. And recently she experimented with two segments of clementine, which produced a subtle but pleasing squish.
Merry Christmas everyone. And peace to all.
Thursday, December 23
while you were sleepingBug woke at 4.20 this morning and refused to go back to sleep for some time, even after we'd caved in and let her into our bed (going to have to work on this iron discipline lark) resulting in a disordered and crabby morning routine. Mood lifted however by deluge of Christmas packages and envelopes through the front door - so many in fact that our postie has just popped back with a stray one he'd overlooked - and including a large family parcel posted some weeks back and feared by sender and addressees alike to be lost and gone forever. So, yay Royal Mail! and lucky, lucky us!
Wednesday, December 22
all the boys and girlsYesterday to Kathie's for lunch, where the Bug demonstrated her marauding prowess by attempting to crawl up the chimney. She was also introduced to Playdoh, and had to be deterred from trying to ingest a piece the size of her head.
This morning to the Rhyme Time Christmas party - our third - at the local library, where we decorated paper hats, sang conspicuously secular Christmas carols and trampled fairy cake into the industrial carpeting. True to form, Becca succumbed early to the general excitement, passing out before we even managed to get in line to meet Santa, and leaving me to join in with 'Jingle Bells' all by myself. A sympathetic librarian slipped a present for her into my hand as I tiptoed out with the pushchair. All the other children got books, so we have high hopes.
Tuesday, December 21
the voyage outMaiden epic journey took place this morning: an unhurried but purposeful crawl from kitchen to living room while I cleared away breakfast detritus (breakfasts having become somewhat area-effect since the introduction of the high chair). As of last night, Jack is haunting (squatting? lurking? am ignorant of terminology) eBay for a playpen.
Monday, December 20
news flashShe stood up! She pulled herself onto her feet in her cot, then proceeded to give the top bar a good fanging. (Fortunately it has a plastic sleeve to prevent splinters.)
Unfortunately by the time we'd got the camera out she'd subsided onto her backside, and looked most annoyed about it too, so photographic evidence will be furnished as soon as it becomes available. In the meantime I'm just going to sit here and glow quietly...
entr'acte*
The Bug's latest exploit was to pull the Kentia palm (Howea forsteriana) off the plant stand and onto herself, showering the living room with potting mix in the process. Righted plant pot freeing trapped baby, brushed her down and banished her to her cot while I cleared up the débris and she screamed herself to sleep. However ongoing orgy of destruction means there will be scant chance of blogging during business hours unless I can convince her to make the afternoon nap a regular occurrence without having to push her around the streets of Cambridge for an hour and a half first. No good leaving her in the pram after the walk either, since her eyes snap open as soon as the front wheel touches our driveway. As for accomplishment of household tasks, or even trips to the bathroom, either frequent banishments to cot will be required or we're going to have to get a playpen. Which as far as I can tell is a sort of upholstered cage.
Busy, busy weekend: Lisa and Paul to dinner on Friday night on the grounds that we must make the most of them before they vanish into the twilight zone known as New Parenthood: 10 weeks and counting. Bug-wrangled most of Saturday while Jack helped a friend move house, then kept the streak alive that evening by babysitting young Aidan as Susan and I are doing a babysitting swap. Despite dire pronouncements concerning the youngster's penchant for highly vociferous, and, frequently, visceral, objections to bedtime, arrived to find him sacked out in his cot where he remained throughout the evening, having apparently decided that screaming himself sick upon being put to bed was a custom honoured rather in the breach than the observance. Went home a very relieved babysitter. On Sunday did as little as poss: drank coffee, wrapped presents, lay in the bath with Fiona Kidman and made a brief appearance at a mulled wine and mince pies party that evening, most of which was spent preventing the Bug from destroying the stereo system.
Sudden bitter sobs from above...
*Given the recent vogue for random apostrophes, wouldn't entr'acte be an excellent name for a manufactured boy/girl band? Of course you'd probably have to misspell it. And, come to think of it, move the apostrophe.
Friday, December 17
design for livingDebate this morning on Radio Four about the theory of 'Intelligent Design' now being taught in some US schools as an alternative to Darwinism. Inevitably the theory's proponents are being accused of trying to introduce 'creationism by the back door', and of undermining the secularity of the American education system. And fair enough too by the sound of it. A couple of British scientists were summoned at the last minute to defend opposing positions; the Darwinian called the pro-Designer a crank. Classy stuff. However he also made the reasonable point that if the human body were the result of deliberate planning rather than an undirected set of evolutionary developments, we would have every right, when meeting our Maker, to ask for our money back. Which brings me, in my usual circumlocutory fashion, to the maternal body. If anyone's actually responsible for the prototype, may I suggest the following features/improvements for the beta version:
- A zip, for easy removal of baby when construction complete. (I mean, c'mon, childbirth? Whose sick, twisted idea was that?)
- A third breast. Or at least the potential to grow a third breast should the default two not keep pace with demand.
- An extra arm. Well, obviously.
- At least two eyes in the back of the head. Or preferably multiple eyes, placed at even intervals around the entire skull, for easy surveillance/curtailment of infant's orgy of destruction while blogging
For the first time in many weeks I'm going to have to put the rain cover on the pram for our afternoon walk. Which makes me realise just how dry East Anglia really is, given that it's technically part of the British isles. It'll probably rain for the next six months now...
Thursday, December 16
nine monthsToday Rebecca has spent as long on the outside as she was on the inside. She is developing her crawling technique, plonking each arm down in from of her with grim purpose ... actually her unhurried style reminds me of the tuatara in the tank at my old university, who would place a forelimb carefully down, pause for thought for five minutes or so before following carefully through with the opposite hind limb. She's also working on hauling herself up onto her feet: so far she's only made it to her knees, from where she can pillage the contents of the coffee table, stuffing whatever she manages to dislodge into her mouth. Yesterday I had to retreive a couple of unposted Christmas cards - the addresses were a little smeary with drool but still legible, and at least she didn't suck the stamps off. She cries most bitterly when prevented from eating paper, but is otherwise a cheerful little soul. Took her to another Christmas party this afternoon, where she was much fussed by a couple of brothers, aged six and seven, who rolled around on the floor with her and soon had her crawling happily around after them. She received another Christmas present from one of Santa's representatives, and tried, once more, to tear the wrapping paper off with her teeth. When I unwrapped it for her she promptly bit a corner off the picture book, but so far has made little impression on the cellophane wrapping around the nursery rhymes cassette. But then who can unwrap those bloody things anyway?
Another recent discovery is the shiny metal pedal bin in the kitchen. This fascinating artefact appeared to contain a smiling, waving, if slightly distorted baby, which she pawed at fondly. However, when she began to lick it I was compelled to intervene.
Wednesday, December 15
there is nothing like a dameAs if yesterday's monumental achievement weren't enough, this morning the Bug raised the stakes with a creditable attempt to pull herself to a standing position in her cot. Only made it as far as her knees this time, but it means we're going to have to drop the cot base lest she manage to pitch herself out on the floor. Also means another excited phone call to her father who's unfortunately out of the office this morning.
Went with a group of mates to a panto last night at the Arts Theatre - Jack and the Beanstalk - good British fun, with lots of smut and shouting. Vitali, who's from the Ukraine, appeared somewhat bemused but joined in gamely with the booing, singing and cries of 'Behind you!'; I had a wonderful time and came home in a state of great excitement waving a flashing wand, which Fiona had given me to take home for Becca. When we gave it to her at breakfast this morning, she blinked in confusion at the dancing lights, then broke into a grin of delighted wonderment.
Tuesday, December 14
later...She can now crawl slowly but purposefully towards a tower of blocks in order to destroy it. Crikey.
Meanwhile, it seems I can no longer keep track of a hot beverage. If they ever make a film of my life it's going to be called Dude, Where's My Coffee?
holy mobility
Wow. She just crawled. Forwards. About three feet. In a straight line. Using opposed arm and leg movements. Cor.
This is the point at which parents of older children click ruefully and say 'It's all downhill from here.' Before, when I told them of her frustration at her inability to crawl, they would sigh 'Enjoy it while it lasts', 'It gets worse' and 'You'll look back and remember how good it was'. So I will allow myself a small suffusion of maternal pride. Have already excitedly rung her father at work.
Monday, December 13
i am your neighbourCalendar reassuringly speckled with scribbles, fore and aft. Two such scribbles J's work Christmas parties, (nominally) grownups and kiddies, Fri and Sun respectively, both excellent fun. On Friday night we left the Bug in the capable hands of James (in whose care she was introduced to the delights of 'mega-bouncies', and was not, apparently, sick) and drove miles through unlit countryside to Childford Hall Vineyard, who appeared not to trust their wares enough to serve them with dinner: instead, we got French wine. Well, I say we: I was driving and therefore uncharacteristically abstemious, unlike some of those present who, having visited the local offie for refreshments for the coach trip to the gig, arrived somewhat precelebrated. Danced and gossiped the night away before trundling off into the freezing night to recover our daughter, who blinked and smiled sleepily as we bundled her, heavily blanketed, into the car, and then, once installed in her own cot, sang herself to sleep within minutes. Wee angel.
Sunday's shindig just as raucous although with far shorter participants, and much greater quantities of pink icing. Smallest reveller a tiny girl of four and and half months tricked out in a splendid party frock of royal blue satin organza with a big sash: not the sort of garment I'd have stuffed such a tender infant into, and her mother was at pains to assure anyone who'd listen that this had been a present from her grandmother and that never in an eternity would she have chosen such a get-up herself. Rebecca took part in Pass The Parcel and was introduced to balloons: by some miracle she managed not to burst one with her two sharp little teeth, or I expect you'd have heard the howls all the way to Bedford. She then passed out with the excitement of it all, waking in time to meet Santa for the first time, receive a present and try to open it by eating the wrapping paper off it. I have to say that whoever went out and chose then wrapped presents for every single kid present, labelling them according to age and gender (Rebecca's said 'Girl: 0-11 m', and was a cloth picture book) deserves a gold medal and a very big drink.
We now have our Christmas tree up: it's 12 ins tall, decked with the edited highlights of our collection of Christmas baubles, and placed firmly out of reach of grasping little hands on the kitchen counter.
Rebecca is underwhelmed by the Christmas decorations.
Rebecca explains to Santa that she'd have preferred a PS2.
This is what happens when you can only crawl backwards. So far.
Friday, December 10
kiss kiss bang bangRebecca's a happy, confident little girl but just lately she's decided that she's afraid of loud household appliances: the food processor makes her cry, even when she's in another room, which is rather frustrating since most of her current diet is puréed. And the other day I terrified her by hastily wielding the hoover around the post-lunch débris. This morning she was watching me get dressed, and when I fired up the hair dryer the lower lip began to wobble and thumb was thrust firmly in mouth, but she managed to keep her composure.
Mind you Jack guffawing at the News Quiz while feeding her dinner reduced her to frightened sobs so clearly it's loud noises in general that perturb her. Perhaps I didn't attend enough thrash metal gigs while pregnant. Or maybe being subjected to the soundtrack of Kill Bill while still in utero has marked her for life.
Last week we saw The Incredibles, a smart wee parable about forsaking your true identity and talents and embracing suburban mediocrity. Have been pondering it ever since. What most appealed to me, perhaps inevitably, was the depiction of the mother, the former Elastigirl. Shape-shifting and mutablility are frequently associated in the comic book with emergent and angst-inducing adolescent sexuality, and in the horror genre with liminal, ambivalent sexuality/gender - think lycanthropes and vampires. However in The Incredibles, the ability to change shape is depicted as a specifically maternal quality as Helen/Elastigirl wraps her arms around the dining table to hold her scrapping children apart, or morphs into a boat, a parachute, a giant bungy cord in order to protect her family. And yet glimpsing a reflection of her lycra-clad arse in her superhero costume, she emits a rueful sigh: clearly her powers don't extend to morphing her post-three-pregnancies body into a shape that she's happy with. Nifty.
There are new Bug pictures up on the photos page, btw.
Thursday, December 9
Today Rebecca has discovered the living room door. She sits before it, staring up at it as though it were the monolith in 2001. She pushes and pulls it back and forth, watching it sway on its hinges, then makes a spirited attempt to gnaw one edge. Occasionally soft thunk noises, a small fuzzy head making contact with wood, can be heard, but they are too muffled to provoke alarm.Wednesday, December 8
the perils of children's telly'[Miles] Jupp, a comedian in his non-Balamory moments, says: "It's weird that huge numbers of five-year-olds recognise my face. And also slightly jarring when you are trying to embark on a career." During last year's Edinburgh Fringe, he was performing stand-up, "and when I went out on stage there were 10 children in the front row. Nightmare. The show was only 40 minutes' long, and I had to keep cutting through huge chunks of filth. That kind of thing is a problem." Source. don't mention wednesday
Last night I tested the proposition that Moosewood recipes can be greatly improved by adding meat. Result!
Arbury can be a scary place: this morning a woman emerged from a local shop and addressed a dog tied to a lamppost as 'Hello, Sexpot!'
Spent most of the morning's walk humming 'Roly, Roly, Roly, Roly Mo!' Shoot me.
Tuesday, December 7
eliminate the impossibleThe latest game is Soggy Jigsaw, in which we try to reassemble the masticated remnants of the cover of the Big Issue, and figure out how much of it is still in Becca's undiscriminating maw.
Come to think of it, wouldn't Soggy Jigsaw be a great name for a band?
Monday, December 6
they call me and i goIt's taken me eight and a half months to realise how dog-tired I am. Some days, after she's gone to bed ... was going to say that I can't stop moving even if I wanted to, but what I mean is even though I can stop moving I don't want to.
Went to Mickey and Susan's last night for a selection of curries and other delicacies Mickey had brought back from Leicester. A long way to go for takeaway but well worth it, especially the chickpeas. As we arrived, wee Aidan, recognising the Bug, exclaimed 'Baby Becca!' When she returned his greeting by swiping him playfully across the face, he scuttled away, protesting 'Bad Becca!'
Friday, December 3
The Bug can sit up all by herself! She rolls onto her front, raises herself onto her hands and knees and then pushes herself back onto her haunches. Having accomplished this she looks extremely pleased with herself and glances around the room for encouragement and approbation. Which she gets in spades.My word, it's cold. We sang 'Jingle Bells' and 'Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer' at Rhyme Time on Wednesday (accompanying ourselves with jingly bells that Rebecca tried to eat) so it must be winter.
Thursday, December 2
winter's taleThe Bug's favourite toy at the moment is a set of blocks - a present from her Aunt Charlotte. The blocks are transparent, just big enough for her little hands, and house various brightly coloured marine creatures. She bangs them together, thumps them on the floor, gnaws the corners and throws them across the room, and if I make a tower of them, Godzilla-baby promptly demolishes it with great glee.
Daily routine, as ever, in a state of flux. As the afternoons start to turn into evenings around 3:30 these wintery days, I've moved our daily walk to the morning and aim to be out of the house for an hour's SAD-averting daylight by 10.00, often in time to catch a mother-and-baby group. And an hour's brisk trot on a clear morning pushing a ten kilo three-wheeler loaded with another eight and a half kg of baby plus sundry paraphernalia is a good way to work up a sweat even on the crispest of days. I stomp about admiring the contrast of rich red berries and faded gold leaves against the bright blue sky, and occasionally break into a run from lamp-post to lamp-post with shouts of 'WHEEE!', causing the Bug to flap her arms with delight and old ladies to cross the street nervously.
Wednesday, December 1
rien de rienRecent momentous decision: last week I finally decided to pack in my job. My maternity leave doesn't end until February, but having fretted about the decision ever since going off on leave in the first place, it was a relief to go into work and tell my very understanding boss that while I had considered rejoining the ranks, buggering off to New Zealand sounded like the far better option. The original plan had been for me to go back part-time - two, two and half days per week tops - and to find a local nursery place for the Bug. But since the new improved plan is to go back to NZ next autumn, putting her into a nursery that would suck up any money I managed to make seemed like a monumental stuffaround for a few short months. Added to which, the closer it came to decision time, the less palatable I found the idea of taking to a nursery in the morning and then driving off and leaving her there for the entire day. Ultimately I couldn't actually visualise myself doing it. After all, in February she'll only be 11 months old.
So now I am to be a fulltime parent, for the time being. The decision's sitting pretty easily, now that I've gone ahead and made one. It's in the same basket as whether to change your name on marriage, in that whatever you do you feel as though you're letting the side down: stay home and you're betraying the sisterhood; go back to work and you get 'Oh, are you going back to work?' in tones of pious reproach, followed by warnings that you are condemned to miss your precious child's first steps, words, attempts at basic calculus. However with this and all such dilemmas I cleave to the sage advice of an erstwhile flatmate and good friend: 'Decide what is important to you and bugger the rest.' Words to live by.
