Monday, January 31
what is the matter with mary jane?20 mile loop on the bike yesterday morning, similar route to last week but in reverse, and including a shortcut across the sheep paddock outside Oakington, which was so boggy that when I emerged the bike looked like it had been dug out of the ruins of Pompei, and back on the tarmac the front tyre gave off great showers of clods like sparks from a Catharine wheel. Good, sweaty, satisfying ride, especially once the second wind kicked in outside Dry Drayton. Only one minor incident of road rage (not mine, I found it rather funny) and home to poached eggs and smoked salmon (post-training protein and fish oils) prepared by J. Result!
In other news, our front-loading washing machine is now doubling as an entertainment system. Rebecca spent a considerable part of Sunday sitting on the kitchen floor with her legs stuck straight out in front of her staring at it like it was cartoons or something. She was particularly rapt at the spin cycle, bouncing up and down flapping her arms and chuckling with excitement.
It struck me recently that paying 50p a throw (quite literally, on a bad night) for a titchy jar of rice pudding for the Bug is a needless waste of cash. So last night I rustled up a family batch of Alison Holst's (we worship you, O Alison!) Fluffy Rice Pudding. Holy damn, it is one of the most delicious dishes I have ever tasted. Make some today!
Sunday, January 30
scrambled eggsYesterday morning Jack took Rebecca for a long walk to Aldi for bargain brioche, cheese and charcuterie,while I lounged in bed for two whole hours reading John Updike. Bliss. More Mummy time in town that afternoon, where I combed the shelves of the public library growing less and less consolate at the proportion of drek to books I would actually consider reading. Eventually found Don DeLillo (The Body Artist, 2001) to continue my Contemp. US Authors kick. How I miss the UL though who knows what manner of unspeakable acts I would be required to perform in order to secure a borrowers ticket. Will get in touch.
Later, that evening as I feed her mushed up apple and yoghurt, the Bug opens her mouth up trustingly like a baby bird for each spoonful, and I feel I will suffocate with love.
Saturday, January 29
tubthumpingAt our Mothers Who Lunch Infrequently lunch yesterday, Jo told me that Weebles are back in - I wasn't aware that they were ever out, but apparently they've been reissued, or whatever you do with toys, and have even been made politically correct. Or 'diverse', according to current parlance. Excellent! So now there are Afro-Caribbean Weebles and presumably also single parent Weebles, transgendered Weebles and disabled Weebles, which wobble but they do fall down.
Friday, January 28
what's the storyHaving got crawling thoroughly sussed the Bug has worked out that the same principles may be applied to more vertical challenges, and has managed to climb onto our futon (which is on a low frame) as well as the book train at the local library. She is now casting longing glances up the stairs, from behind the stair gate.
Carrie the lovely Health Visitor came and weighed her the other day and she's passed the magic 9kg mark (by 0.28kg) and as such is big enough for the big girl car seat we got her over Christmas. Which means that we can restore her current car seat to Susan and Mickey in time for the arrival of their little one in a couple of months.
Roly Mo the other day: 'I love the smell of a story in the morning' - oh great, now the Fimbles are doing Apocalpyse Now refs.
Speaking of children's telly and cult cinema, am I alone in detecting eerie resonances between Balamory and The Wicker Man? Both are set in a Hebridean island community that regularly takes part in strange and colourful rituals, both feature a wild-haired posh bloke in kilt and castle and a virginal police officer and there's an uncanny resemblance between the mother of girl missing from Summerisle and the woman who runs the Balamory sweet shop. And there's definitely a cultish gleam in Miss Hoolie's eyes too.
After mothers and sprogs group yesterday I took the Bug to a local park and gave her her first ever go on the swings. She seemed to enjoy it, grinning like a loon even after she'd thrown up all down the front of her pink anorak.
Thursday, January 27
out, out*One of those afternoons. My hands smell permanently of vomit, no matter how many times I wash them. Feel somehow like Lady Macbeth, only grosser.
*Incidentally, also the title of a slightly disturbing poem by Robert Frost. At least, it would be disturbing if it weren't by Robert Frost.
Wednesday, January 26
dot dot dashLunch chez Clare yesterday - she served vegetarian chilli, which she makes using a small amount of dark chocolate. This gives it a darkly unctuous taste and texture but with very little sweetness. As we ate, Rebecca rampaged, periodically hauling herself up on Clare's knees and attempting to purloin food from her plate. The cats, sensibly, fled in terror, and as I swiftly forestalled a raid on their food bowls, Clare commented that I must be exhausted by the end of each day - just when I was thinking how much easier it was with another adult present to help run interference. Have always thought one can get used to practically anything in time.
Now am worried that am going to turn into one of those parents who slumps exhausted on other people's sofas uselessly intoning 'Darling, don't do that' over and over while my child destroys their home. Must overcompensate.
Must dash - off to baby Rhyme Time in a short while, and the Very Hungry Caterpillar is doing a gig at half two.
Tuesday, January 25
look ma, no handsWent to see Team America: World Police last night on the principle that any film the Chimp-in-Chief wanted to ban must be worth a look. Grubby, juvenile hilarity, featuring a Kim Jong-il who sounded (and looked) suspiciously like Cartman, and some catchy songs ('America! Fuck, yeah!') that I must refrain from humming in the presence of the Bug for fear of warping her fragile little mind.
In other news: the Bug nearly has a third tooth, is partial to kiwifruit, and can stand independently for about two seconds, arms windmilling wildly, before plonking backwards onto her arse. She has also, alarmingly, discovered how to use the remote control to change channels.
And finally, a breaking baby bulletin: my good pal and erstwhile Mairangi Roader Sarah M and new husband Pete are expecting a wee one of their very own in June! Hurrah!
Monday, January 24
team tangerineYesterday gloriously crisp for a couple of hours' blat on the bikes around the west villages with Alison - clocked up a total of nineteen miles, taking my odo (finally!) over the century since birth of Bug: prospect of knocking off the 1,000 before London to Cambridge in six months may be a bit of an ask but will do humble best. Back to Alison's afterwards, blissed out on endorphins, for homemade pie and mash; home in time to take afternoon tea with the ever urbane Donald.
Freezing today: thick frost, and a brief flurry of snow during breakfast that drew excited shouts from J. Apparently the Bug was impressed too.
On this morning's Today programme, I swear I distinctly heard the word 'staircase' used as a verb, by some dingbat politician, needless to say. The context was the government's cunning election-year initiative to encourage poor people to become property owners, which will permit them, apparently, to'staircase' out of poverty.
Wow. Much more snow...
Sunday, January 23
air on a shoestringFor those who lack the forty or so squid a month (and the rest, depending whether you live in the Sarf) for gym membership, not to mention readily available childcare or, at the end of a long day's baby-wrangling, the can-actually-be-arsedness, I present: The Baby Workout! Equipment: one baby (preferably a cooperative one). With just one baby, aka your progressive resistance tool, you can perform chest presses, shoulder presses, and for an ab workout, sit her on your stomach and do crunches (helps if you say Boo! at the top of each crunch). Sit her on your shoulders and do squats and calf raises as she squeals and waggles her legs with delight! Push her around in a heavy fixed-wheeled pram for a couple of hours a day and that's your biceps, triceps and back taken care of right there! Next week - the Twins Workout: hammer curls with a difference!
Congratulations and much love to Sarah and Grant in NZ on the arrival of their firstborn, a little girl. 5 weeks early, she appeared before her name had been decided on, we understand. Am looking forward to hitting Mothercare on your behalf first thing tomorrow morning. Yay! and woo!
Saturday, January 22
ishbel aliceToday we went to the baptism of Ishbel, whom I'd last seen in the local maternity hospital when she was one week old and five weeks early. At nearly six months now, she's solemn-faced and lovely, with very round red cheeks, a head of thick, dark brown hair that sticks straight out like a hedgehog's spikes, and a quite impressive knack of thrusting out her lower lip when peeved. Service very High Anglican, conducted with a flourish (several, even) by the amiably fruity parish priest. We held Rebecca up so she could stand on top of the pew in front, where she bounced up and down, chuckling and flapping her arms in delight at all the other babies in the church. At the aftermatch function we caught up with long-lost college friends, to whom we proudly presented our daughter, who gurgled and frolicked with the many other small people until the appointed hour, when all the parents turned at the same moment to our kind hosts, Jake and Juliet, and intoned ruefully 'Well, it looks like it's time for someone's afternoon nap' before trooping as one to our cars.
Having been a sparkling little social pupa all afternoon the Bug is now overtired and overwrought and is screaming the place down upstairs as her hapless father tries to soothe her back to sleep and I better go and help.
Friday, January 21
swellegantTautology du jour: 'He never misses an opportunity to be opportunistic!'
- Some dingbat politician, of some other dingbat politician, on this morning's Today programme.
And, as a corollary to J's entry on national holidays:
Australia Day: "Aborigines? What Aborigines?"
Thursday, January 20
My reading choices these days are mostly random - it's more fun that way - but I've just started to address my almost total ignorance of the late twentieth century and contemporary American novel. Haven't got very far - recent/current reading comprises:John Updike, Toward The End Of Time (1997) - misogynistic sexagenarian New Englander ruminates about the decline of civilisation, his loins. Sample quote: 'The earth is like a nude woman flash-bulbed in her bathroom at an awkward transitional moment of her toilette. Despite her wrinkled ugliness, we lust for her.'
Anne Tyler, Back When We Were Grownups (2001) - frumpy but likeable step-matriarch learns to love pre-destined self-abnegation. Can't furnish a quote I'm afraid as it's already gone back to the library.
Next stop Portnoy's Complaint, I spose.
Wednesday, January 19
wings of desireTurns out that pushing an overloaded pram around for two hours a day is really good for your triceps. And while I am far from being the lean mass of corded muscle of my fondest fantasies (think Linda Wossername from Terminator 2, and my word I'm going to have to go and watch that new boxer chick flick with Hilary Swank, phwoar, check out the traps on her, but I digress) since I've been doing this (pushing overloaded pram around the streets of Cambridge for extended periods) my post-baby 'bingo wings' (British term for flappy fatty bits on the underside of the arms of women of a certain age) have disappeared. Who knew?
Tuesday, January 18
green-eyedRebecca's dinner plates are made of green transparent plastic. The other night she discovered that if you pick one up and press your face up against it, the whole world, including Mummy and Daddy, goes green. This discovery fascinated her no end, and the sight of her little face peering through the plate, nose flattened against the plastic, mouth agape with delight, was one I won't forget in a hurry. Next time it might be a good idea to take the food off first though.
Monday, January 17
snapshotsAbout to go singin' in the rain:
A couple from a recent jaunt to the Bot Gardens:
finger on the pulse
One of the best ways to get serious about your own nutrition is to have a baby. While I've never been especially keen on convenience junk, the consumption of which always makes me feel grey and scaly, neither have I ever in my life expended so much thought and care on oily fish, legumes, leafy greens and colour palettes of fruit and veg and relevant portion sizes, quantities and preparation. Don't worry though, I promise to stuff down the occasional pizza to keep orthorexia at bay.
Speaking of which dim sum yesterday was excellent especially the little steamed/fried custard buns. Despite having stuck to Chinese tea, Jack decided to round off the occasion by throwing himself down the stairs with the Bug in his arms while I looked on in horrified disbelief. What was amazing, apart from the fact that neither of them was hurt, was the way in which he made no attempt to break his own fall or shield himself from injury but instead, entirely instinctively, wrapped himself around Rebecca like a human roll cage, protecting her as they bounced from step to step. Mighty impressive.
Sunday, January 16
Was planning a training ride before lunch but ended up getting trapped under a sleeping baby instead. Oh well, there are worse ways to spend a Sunday morning. Maybe I'll get my ride in after dim sum...Saturday, January 15
Just watched The Day After Tomorrow. Basically, it's Deep Impact, for liberals, with snow. However despite its political sensibilities it's overpopulated with squarejawed heroes and its few female characters sit around tending the sick, waiting to be rescued and occasionally bursting into decorous tears. Meanwhile the British chaps stoically sip tea and whisky and wait for their stiff upper lips to become literalised. Basically it's a bog standard disaster movie: even finishes with an optimistic Presidential address, unfortunately not by Morgan Freeman. Happily, the Chrysler building survives intact, for a change. [earlier]Happily reading the Internet, I've just been jolted back to reality by the following from upstairs:
JACK: 'LET GO! HELP! ARGH! ARGH! OW!!! MMMMMPH!'
BECCA: *chortle* *squeal!*
What the best-dressed babies will be wearing this spring: butternut squash
Stairgate: It Will Take You To The Nursery. But Will It Bring You Back? hats off to the zebras
Another thing I'll miss about the UK is squirrels. I know we're not supposed to like the grey interlopers but whatever their colour they're zippy wee beasties, and I particularly admire the way they can run along a branch as far as its slenderest reaches and then leap casually towards another tree before the branch even begins to bend under their weight.
A college friend of mine used to feed them chocolate biscuits on his balcony - apparently they would delicately remove all the chocolate before tossing the denuded base disdainfully over one shoulder. Then one summer he left Cambridge, and the following morning his neighbour was awakened by scuffling noises. Upon investigation she found that a squirrel, desperate for its fix, had got in through her window, climbed onto her desk and, twitching with frustration, was frantically trying to remove thick cellophane wrapping from one of her chocolates.
Friday, January 14
clothes maketh muppetNever thought I'd say this, but the evil Trinny and Susannah are right: what you wear can change your life!
Thursday, January 13
every day would be the first day of springWhen I rule the universe there will be a special circle of hell for cyclists who ride on the bloody pavement and then have the effrontery to expect me, a woman pushing a pram, to get out of their bloody way. Form that this hell will take is still in the planning stages but will probably involve something Sisyphean but humorous, such as being condemned to spend eternity riding a bicycle with square wheels up an endless escalator (possibly spiral) suspended over a fiery pit. Or similar.
Oh and the seat would be made out of something pointy too.
Wednesday, January 12
Yesterday, crawling towards me, the Bug distinctly said 'Ma-ma'. Still just random syllables at this stage, I realise, but wonderful to hear all the same.Phrases I never want to see in print again but undoubtedly will: 'seminal feminist work'. For shame, Grauniad! -- Source
Tuesday, January 11
siren songRebecca's favourite song is the children's classic, 'The Wheels On The Bus'. I would even go as far as to say that it holds her transfixed, which is particularly useful when changing her nappy and getting her dressed, during which process she spins round and round like a rotisserie chicken, if a rotisserie chicken had come back to life and were making a break for freedom. However as you can often run out of verses before the last button is done up, I've added a few more:
The chavs on the bus wear too much bling, too much bling, too much bling,
The chavs on the bus wear too much bling,
All day long!
The Goths on the bus are very depressed, very depressed, very depressed
The Goths on the bus are very depressed
All day long!
The Canadians on the bus are very polite, very polite, very polite
They offer their seats to the elderly
All day long!
The punks on the bus are slashing the seats, slashing the seats, slashing the seats,
The punks on the bus are slashing the seats,
All day long!
The Germans in the bus say 'Zis is not efficient, zis is not efficient, zis is not efficient',
The Germans in the bus say 'Zis is not efficient.
The buses are far much better in Germany!'
OK, I'll admit that it's a bit of a work-in-progress. And is not very pc. And that the scansion could use a kick in the arse. And that it may have to be toned down a fraction once her linguistic comprehension comes on a bit.
Monday, January 10
don't give up the fightThe Bug is delighted with her newfound ability to stand up, pulling herself to her feet on whatever's to hand. In her enthusiasm she often overreaches herself, resulting in noisy floods of tears and a forehead covered in contusions of various vintages and hues. So we've bowed to the inevitable and put the coffee table in the roof. This has the added advantage of freeing up some floor space for me to do Pilates in front of the telly without constantly kicking up against the furniture.
Sunday, January 9
this is my jerry springer momentAfter all that kerfuffle we had to watch the Jerry Springer opera last night on the telly. I do feel that the indignant Christians scored a bit of an own goal over this one, really, because I probably wouldn't have bothered if they hadn't made so much fuss, and I can't be the only one to feel this way. Still, although the show was gloriously, satisfyingly offensive from start to finish, there's nothing new under the sun - the profanity-laced and unfortunately rather catchy choruses reminded me of the musical numbers from the South Park movie, especially, 'Three-Nippled Cousin-Fucker' (my favourite), and the tap-dancing Ku Klux Klan struck me as rather Mel Brooks. Still, I laughed like a drain, and can only commend the BBC for its judicious use of my licence fee.
Saturday, January 8
a very naughty boyWas going to post a rant about the silly Christians who are picketing the BBC over the scheduled screening (BBC2 tonight at 2200!) of Jerry Springer: The Musical. Possibly mentioning some of the more pressing world events towards which they might direct their strongly-held religious principles. However have just done my whole Pilates tape in one go and am feeling all mellow and calm so will simply say: 'Guys - if it winds you up, don't watch it.'
NB: I don't for a moment think that all Christians are silly: I have a number of friends whose Christian convictions I admire and respect. This is because they seem to have read, marked, learnt and inwardly digested the important bits of the Bible - you know, the ones about not sitting in judgement on people, doing unto others, and refraining from chucking rocks at people? Here endeth the lesson.
Friday, January 7
annabel karmel got nuthin on meYesterday the paediatric nutritionist came to talk to the first-time mums group about weaning, and suggested a number of ways you can induce a child to eat something she doesn't like. However I've already cracked this one: either you leave said foodstuff on the floor, especially if the floor hasn't been cleaned in a good while, or place it a hair's breadth out of reach on top of a high set of shelves housing delicate objects. No baby can resist. Or in Rebecca's case, you could try to disguise it as an explanatory pamphlet, or an envelope marked 'Important Documents'.
And this morning at breakfast we discovered that Marmite* on toast is the best food in the world, something that we had hitherto merely suspected.
Saw a sign outside a pub the other day advertising, somewhat tautologically, its 'Ambient Surroundings'.
*Proper NZ Marmite, not the gritty viscous mud-coloured stuff they purvey over here under the the guise of Marmite.
Thursday, January 6
next july we collide with marsThought I'd give Desperate Housewives a go last night to see what the American right is supposedly getting so steamed up about. (Mind you, the American right got steamed up about the Tellytubbies, so my hopes weren't high.) Anyway, so far DH is looking suspiciously like class porn masquerading as feminism (as opposed to Sex and the City, which was clothes porn masquerading as feminism). Apparently Germaine Greer didn't reckon much to it either but since I don't reckon much to dear old Germaine I haven't read her Guardian piece on the show, so those who're that bothered will have to find it for themselves.
Wednesday, January 5
à reboursThe singing tortoise we - sorry, Santa - got Rebecca for Christmas is drunk. Or has gone tone-deaf. It lies on its back lurching from note to note sounding as though it's about to be very, very ill. Quite conceivably, after a week's exploratory slapping from its new owner, it's simply punch-drunk.
On this morning's Today Programme Boris Johnson and some other dingbat politician noisily debated the proposition that today's three minutes silence in commemoration of the tsunami victims is an empty gesture, and that the three minutes would be best spent doing something useful. They spent at least three minutes, although it seemed longer, huffing and blustering and interrupting each other, the irony of the situation evidently lost on them. Eejits.
Incidentally, if you have any spare cash the site you probably want is here.
Tuesday, January 4
yuh-ohThe Bug has now mastered hauling herself to her feet in her cot, where she stands gripping the bars and peering longingly over the edge.
J returned to work today after 10 days of blissful round-the-clock coparenting, during which, at my urging, we went to Babies R Backwards and bought a playpen. It's hexagonal, quite commodious, with a padded base, and the Bug seems quite happy in it, at least she hasn't raised any strong objections yet. So now I can keep her from eating the mail, feeding building blocks into the video and frolicking among the cleaning products while I scrape the day's orange guck off the floor or nip up to the toilet. Or, you know, blog.
Monday, January 3
proofFinally, Rebecca stands up in a room with a camera in it:
On New Year's Day we went for a family stomp around the Wandlebury Estate, notable for its Iron Age fort. Pushing an overloaded three-wheeler up its slopes (a rare topographic feature in Cambridge) through mud and drifts of dead leaves and against a high wind is excellent exercise, as is hoisting its occupant on your shoulders. Which she loves, demonstrating her delight by bouncing up and down squealing and flapping her arms.
She is now marauding confidently from room to room, frequently following me into the kitchen to see what I'm up to (might it involve feeding her? you never know your luck!) her appearance heralded by excited snorts and pants and the gleeful slap! slap! of little gorilla paws on the lino.
Sunday, January 2
up, up and awayRebecca has developed a fascination for the washing machine, when it's running, at least. It's literally better than telly, in which she takes no interest whatsoever, despite my efforts to get her to be part of the under-fives zeitgeist by watching Balamory.
See Rebecca maraud! Maraud, Rebecca, maraud!
Her dad's solution to the problem of conveying both baby and laundry downstairs
The unbearable excitement of lunch
Saturday, January 1
follow the white rabbitCelebrated 2004 by cycling laps around the Milton Country Park at increasing speed until mudcaked and bumsore. Finish as you mean to go on. Or something. Later, an evening of conviviality and delicious pies chez Alison and James. And gift-giving, during which A & J presented Rebecca with a stuffed toy bunny rabbit that is, without exaggeration, as big as she is, and which, having yet to develop a sense of proportion, she promptly attempted to devour. My homemade presents of chocolate truffles and white chocolate fudge seemed to go down well too. (Although Rebecca didn't get any as we're keeping her off the refined sugar as long as poss.)
Was planning big finish with inaugural rant for 2005, but it sounds like the Bug's awake and wanting lunch (it's been a slow sorta morning chez Elder) so breaths will have to be baited. Welcome to 2005!
