Tuesday, May 31
wubwubwubwubwubRebecca's latest feat of derring-do: place a muslin over your face and run about at full tilt, giggling, until you collide with something unyielding, like a door frame. Richochet, rebound, repeat. (Or not, if you have any sense.) Alternatively, scream loudly for a quarter of an hour while your parents decide whether it would be wise to seek medical advice.
Monday, May 30
get over itAttention males under 40 and some misguided females: the ability to carry on protracted conversations using inverted syntax and in what you fondly imagine to be a devastating mimicry of the Yoda voice (Fozzie bear with Alzheimer's, in other words) does not make you into a savage Wildean wit. On the contrary, it marks you out as a Mouth Breather, and a person to be avoided - at any cost - at parties.
And no, I'm not planning on seeing Episode III, for I refuse to waste six quid and an entire evening of my rapidly dwindling lifespan on a movie about which the best that can be said is that 'it's not as crap as the first two'.
(Yes indeedy, there are reasons why this blog doesn't have a comments function.)
Sunday, May 29
may miscellanyJust to prove what busy Elders we've been lately, I've added another batch of snaps to the photos page.And it's very late so I'm going to bed. No wonder I have to have the entire pot of coffee in the morning.
Friday, May 27
unphotographableOn a bright warm day last week, Becca, standing next to the bedroom window, spent several minutes trying to grab the dustmotes in a shaft of sunlight.
Her lastest word is 'Yeh!' Would you like another apricot, Becca?' 'Yeh!' 'Shall we take you to playgroup this morning, Becca?' 'Yeh! Yeh!' Sometimes it's as though she understands every word I say.
'Yeh!' also has other uses - when she's eaten all her sultanas, she points to the packet on the counter and exclaims 'Yeh! Yeh!'
Have worked out how to make an extra fifteen mins for blogging - let Becca give herself her morning bottle sitting in her playpen while I try to type loudly enough to drown out the strains of Roly Mo.
Thursday, May 26
no pictures and no conversationNot content with the embarrassment of riches on offer from Arbury Court Library, nor with the huge quantities of classic children's lit on her own shelves, Rebecca has taken to plundering ours. At around seven thirty every morning a flurry of paperbacks hits the Elder family landing while Daddy takes a shower and Mummy, in precaffeination morning-denial, groans 'Becca nooooo, leave those alone please' from beneath a pile of pillows. Having pulled all the books off the middle shelf, Rebecca brings them one by one into the parental bedroom and dumps them on the floor in a pile. Crossing her ankles in a ladylike fashion, she then settles down to the task of riffling systematically through each volume, page by page, front cover to back and then back to front. A frown steals across her face: no shiny textiles, no fur, no mirrors, no flaps to lift to discover the teddy bear or duckies hiding underneath? These books are rubbish! Better try the other shelf.
Oooh, breakfast!
Wednesday, May 25
by the waters of babylonHave sorted out daily priorities as part of ongoing endeavour to Get (Even More) Stuff Done. A vain endeavour as it turns out, and I am now going to have to prioritise my priorities. Or figure out what part of her psyche Margaret Thatcher had to have cauterised in order to do without sleep.
Tuesday, May 24
slice of heavenI've put pictures of our Cornish trip up on the photos page - enjoy!
Friday, May 20
decline and fallBefore having Rebecca I used to regard with distaste those parents who, in order to check whether their infants' nappies needed changing, would hoist the kid towards their face and give its arse a theatrical sniff. Of course within days of having Rebecca I began doing it too, as I soon realised that sniffing your kid's arse, while arguably a dubious practice, is preferable to carrying out an unneccesary nappy changes. In any case, I assured myself, it's different with your own kids. Except that when wee Isla came to stay the other I caught myself doing it with her too. Ooops.
J took me to see the new Hitchhiker's movie last night. Great fun, but then I'm a fan of adaptations that riff on, rather than slavishly reproducing, the original material (if a text with so many different incarnations can be said to have one true original version). In a similar way, I think you could argue that the Alien movies represent their directors' variations on/developments of a theme, rather than a narrative sequence.
Right, enough critical twaddle - must go buy organic chocolate chips so I can segue into Good (Eco)Housewife Mode.
Thursday, May 19
'mmmm...kay...' of the day #2In Tesco the other day, turning back from the bananas, I found Rebecca exchanging grins with a middle-aged bloke. 'You making friends there, Becca?' I said, which is what I always say when she's being sociable, by way of meaning 'Yes, it's OK to be friendly with my child and no, I won't bring legal proceedings.' Usually people take this in the spirit in which it's intended, but not this guy: 'I wouldn't go THAT far' he protested, before scuttling off towards the root vegetables. Not sure if this is merely Extreme Englishness, or just weirdness.
At yesterday's Rhyme Time there was much useful chat about the importance of instigating daily Quiet Play/Nap Times so that Mummy can take time out. The more experienced the mother, the more adamant she was concerning the necessity of such breaks, and apparently I should not feel guilty in any way at bunging Becca in her playpen for half an hour or so while I pursue quiet Mummy's-wellbeing-enhancing activities (i.e. those which do not involve scrubbing the toilet.)
Actually when they got to the part about not feeling guilty I felt like bursting into tears and falling gratefully into their arms, but managed to restrain myself.
Right, must go - those bananas won't buy themselves and then deliver themselves willingly to my fruit bowl. Worse luck.
Wednesday, May 18
'mmmmm...kay...' of the dayFizzy water gives you bags under your eyes, according to one of the childcare workers at the parent and toddler group I went to yesterday. All the bubbles, you see. Mmmmmm ....kay....(?)
Tuesday, May 17
none of the aboveThis morning I took Rebecca to a parents and toddlers group at one of the local community centres. Interesting bunch: many of the mums were missing most of their teeth, and one point the play area was cleared because someone's kid had picked up, and possibly ingested, a tablet he'd found on the floor. Maybe I'd better join the local NCT, but I'm afraid their groups will be comprised entirely of Mill Road Muesli Belters bleating about Attachment Parenting and bloody La Leche and lecturing me about Real Nappies (as opposed to the Fake ones we use.) Not used to searching for the middle ground, which is probably why I'm having trouble finding it.
Monday, May 16
plain sightSick of continually rubbing smeary little pawprints off my glasses, or having them snatched off my face and occasionally flung across the room, I've decided to give contacts another go. Forgotten side-effect is that today I could enjoy the feel of rain on my face.
Friday, May 13
see mummy multitaskRebecca's crawling days now seem a distant memory as the past few weeks have seen a transition from tightrope totter to reckless sprint. All very gratifying for your average obsessional parent, but the downside of this increased mobility soon made itself felt during our holiday: lacking a changing table, we changed her nappy and dressed her on the floor of the bedroom, but unfortunately this made it easier for her to get up and run away. Frequently throughout the week, cries of 'Becca! Noooooo!!!!' heralded the appearance of small bare-assed person pegging it gleefully out of the bedroom and across to the front door.
Wednesday, May 11
one night in ipswichYesterday Rebecca had her first haircut. It's been a long time coming: she was bald as a billiard ball until about 9 months and it still doesn't entirely cover her little skull. However my hairdresser noticed that it was getting in her eyes, and offered to trim a bit off the front before she did mine. The whole prodecure took about two minutes - Rebecca was rather bemused and kept turning her head just as Amy was poised to snip - but there were no catastrophes, and I now have a wisp of wheat-coloured hair twisted into suspicious-looking foil package and awaiting repository in the Rebecca Reliquary*. When it was all over, she obligingly passed out in her pushchair next to me so I could get my hair cut, drink instant coffee and indulge in inane chitchat uninterrupted.
Still coming down from Monday's excitement: a surprise night out to see I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue being recorded in Ipswich. This would have been on my Things To Do Before Leaving Blighty list if I'd thought it even remotely likely to be fulfilled. Going into the theatre was like walking into a Middle England convention: tweed jackets and Wedgewood brooches as far as the eye could stretch. Hilarious night - Humph grumping, Tim B-T corpsing girlishly and Jeremy Hardie's jibes at the Countryside Alliance drawing menacing growls from one side of the auditorium. When they did One Song To The Tune Of Another my joy was complete. The lovely Samantha, however, proved rather insubstantial.
*No, I didn't keep her umbilical cord stump: for it was after all, as one of the midwives at the Rosie so aptly put it, 'a piece of gangrenous flesh'.
Tuesday, May 10
parentheticallyHoliday reading: Ian McEwan, Enduring Love (1997). Capsule spoiler: well-known science writer and theoretical physicist manqué Joe Rose wouldn't be so paranoid if certain people weren't out to get him!
As ever running to stand still. Last night was fabulous but I don't have time to write why.
Monday, May 9
another manic mondayFeet have barely brushed against floor since Saturday's return from our holiday in Cornwall, about which more when I get time to edit out the dull bits. ('Ate another pastie, decided to follow it up with just a splotch of clotted cream and a few scones, &c') Once back in Cambridge we entertained Alison and James, Alex and Martin to dinner, although as the cupboards were bare we had to delegate the task of feeding them to the local Chinese takeaway. Evening turned into a second round of birthday festivities, with presents and a birthday carrot cake that Alex had made from a bona fide NZ recipe.
Sunday saw the traditional post-holiday cleaning and laundry frenzy, in preparation for the arrival of Rebecca's friend Isla had come to spend the night, and whose mother we were anxious to convince that we are responsible carers who don't usually live like pigs. Isla arrived as arranged at 6pm, and after a few brief but stormy fits of jealousy as babies were picked up and fussed by the wrong parents, Mary departed for clubland (not a very big part of Cambridge) and Jack and I launched into a production line of feeding, changing, bathing, storytime, bottling, bedtime, mucking out the kitchen, followed by the nightly ritual of Hunt The Corkscrew. Happily, both babies passed out at the same time and slept through without a murmur: when Jack went in to them this morning they were standing up in their cots grinning like monkeys and jabbering to each other. (Isla: So, what time do they usually serve breakfast round here?) Jack having departed for work after breakfast, I managed two bottles, bums, pairs of dungarees and sets of teeth on my own rather more easily than I expected. All in all, a successful 18 hours or so: I only got bitten once (on the shoulder), the bathroom floor only got peed on once, and I have now had a taste of what it would be like to have twins. Knackering, frankly.
