This arrived a few days ago:
It’s supposedly a Baby Bjorn carrier, rated very highly. I decided it’s a questionable piece of bondage from some people with a twisted sense of humour. I was also considerably annoyed by the smug looking “mother and baby” on the cover of the box, modelling it so beautifully and so effortlessly. I think it was about three days before I decided to embrace the virgin pureness and breast enhancing/figure hugging straps. Have to admit, it’s actually pretty good, and Noah doesn’t seem to be at all bothered. Mind you, like he’s ever bothered about anything.
Needless to say, the Poopgate Scandal continues, and it seems to be spreading amongst close circles. After initiating a fabulous Code Brown at a friends house a few weeks ago (sorry K McG…), Noah decided it was time to let Nana know that behind that adorable cute face, hides a deep dark secret.
Having collected Nana from a friend’s house because she was ill, Noah and I took her home, where Noah had a feed and a nappy change. Followed by another almighty Code Brown. I wonder perhaps if I had not been so stupid as to say “Yes he’s been great lately, though he hasn’t filled his nappy in a while so I expect we’ll day with that in a day or two”, then he may not have taken that as his cue to commence the Old Man Grunting and that wonderful bubbling, gurgling sound as he expels everything with all his might into his nappy. It’s a sight to behold. Nana almost passed out.
I think maybe one day when I’m feeling particularly care free (and care less) I may just post a picture. However that does mean exposing my son’s nuts on the internet, and well, let’s face it, that’s just wrong.
My sympathies to C enduring her own Code Brown with Huddles. Try laughing, it always amuses me. But then I think I have an addiction to Poop.
By the way, he’s still piling on the pounds and is now back to the original growth curve when he was born. Yes, he’s 16lbs and on the 99.8th centile. I’m so proud. And back-broken.
My Old Friend is making a very comfortable appearance, rearing an ugly head at every given opportunity. Wouldn’t mind so much if I had the strength to fight back, but it’s amazing how quickly a person can beat themselves up at the most ridiculous things.
“Omg he threw up on me all day and omg omg his nappy is dirty again and omg omg omg I didn’t feed the cat and omg omg omg omg omg omg I forgot to wipe his face clean this morning BAD MOM BAD MOM BAD MOM”
Etc, etc.
Anyway (and this bit is the Proverbial Fan in case you’re wondering) today was just one of those days.
All set to waste a day spending obscene amounts of money shopping with the lovely “Wags”, when I get a phone call to pick up Nana. I think Noah and I had had enough time to approximately drink a diet coke (DIET! Hah.), eat B’s crumpet (thanks B, I never had crumpet before and yours was very nice…), munch on BabyB (omg those cheeks and that hair), and have a brief conversation with C about sports bras and almighty breasts (Seriously. H cups are just frightening things. They’re bigger than Noah’s head).
Nana had fainted from a stomach bug and needed collecting. Is it wrong that for a little while I was really pissed and wanted to go shopping? I felt bad, but hey. She got to see Noah and I know that made her happy. I’ll just have to go buy the world’s biggest tit-slings another time.
Finally got home, checked emails, put Noah in the Baby Torture Device (it’s surprising how fast it grows on you), and then all the power went out. For a whole freaking hour. No heating, no microwave, no cooker, no internet (GAH) nothing. And Noah had somehow soaked his way through his nappy, down his trousers and a sock. So he was really pleased.
And then, to add insult to injury, I had to give in and admit that I had dyed his clothes pink.
In another one of my “Half-Soaked Mommy” Blank-outs, I’d left his red hoodie in with his whites. Which are now bubblegum pink. He’s now as well dressed as any other girly out there. I’m not entirely sure what to do; they’re still sitting in the bath of bleach, being ignored by me.
He doesn’t care, of course, not since his passport arrived and he’s free to leave the country.
He also doesn’t seem remotely bothered that in an attempt to spruce up Winnie-the-Pooh, we gave him a far more interesting outfit. Or at least a sleeping bag.
In fact, it could be a small scale Baby Torture Device…
