Call me Coco!

My daughter is now 10 weeks old and is no longer content to be merely cooed over and gazed at with exhausted adoration. She wants entertainment and she wants it NOW.

I feel like an unrehearsed candidate on our own private talent show - Has Mummy got Talent? - as I wheel out my props each day and try my hardest to distract, cajole and amuse.

LOOK Iris, I'm a bird/monkey/snorty non-descript animal!

LOOK Iris, I'm an addition to your playmat you didn't know was there, up HERE, up HERE, look at my funny face!!

LOOK Iris, who's that pretty, pretty girl over there? (Cue mirror) It's you, yes it is, it IS, no over THERE...no don't cry, oh dear.

LOOK Iris, here's DOTTY the lady bird, crackle crackle, jingle jingle...isn't she colourful, isn't she FUN!! No? oh dear.

Sometimes Iris humours me with a beautiful beaming smile and I think, "yay, I've made it, I'm FUNNY!!". Then other times - in fact probably the majority of the time - she is the Simon Cowell of babies and just looks wearily away.

I've developed a whole new respect for those annoyingly young and bubbly CBBC presenters. I especially admire in retrospect the fairy that turned up to entertain the toddlers at my niece's third birthday party last year - she may have been rather large and manly for the tutu look, but she kept the children amused for ages.

I wonder if there's an NVQ in nursery rhymes, lullabies and toy usage that I could sign up for. That's another thing, the only songs I seem to know the words to are Christmas carols. Tonight for instance was Good King Wenceslas - a little aseasonal, but made a welcome change from humming the theme tune to Dallas, or the countless other made-up tunes we seem to come up with.

The strange thing is, Iris seems just as amused at me struggling with her nappy at 5am, as she does when I'm in full clown mode several hours and a coffee later. But then, maybe she's laughing AT me, not WITH me...

Ah well, a laugh's a laugh, and I'm discovering that, despite my new mum angst, having fun is actually quite fun.

Weight a minute..

God I'm slow. It's taken me 8 weeks and 3 days to work out that the cake-eating breast-feeding weight loss phenomenon is actually an urban myth spread by NCT devotees to encourage vain new mums to feed au naturel! Or so I reckon.

There was I, assiduously devoting myself to post-natal cake and chocolate eating, and waiting for my extra weight to miraculously vanish. I was ready. My jeans were ready. My fingers poised over my old dress size on my next online order. But no, I have remained at stubbornly the same weight for the past 3 weeks.

Actually, last week I did lose 2 lbs, although to be honest this was mainly due to missing meals while playing foot chauffeur to my daughter. The bored anorexic demons inside my head leaped for joy at this promising start ("yay, miss more meals, miss more meals", they urged...), however my sensible self knew this couldn't last, and I was reunited with the missing lbs yesterday morning.

Hmm. So, on to the next phenomenon then. I took my new MBT trainers on their first outing last Friday (for the uninitiated Masai Barefoot Technology, or as I like to think of it, [new] Mum's Bottom Trimmers). Pacing round Dulwich Park with a slightly smug bounce, I felt sure I was on the road to muscle recovery. Unfortunately my bounce wained somewhere between the ice cream van and the pond, as I limped to a bench with a fine pair of blisters (and yes, ok, a Lemon Sparkle).

I haven't felt this over-nourished (I'm resisting the 'F' word) since I was recovering from glandular fever at 16 and self-medicated with carob peanuts. A little over-zealously.

Right, time to dust off the gym ball, swap the cupcakes for ricecakes and get a bit more realistic about my body prospects. Yep, any time now. Very very soon.

Er, Minstrel anyone?

I've started so I'll ....

I knew there was something I should have mentioned at my six week check-up yesterday. I think I have baby-stupor.

I haven't actually had time to google the condition, but then that's part of the problem. My mind seems to be several steps behind my actions (or is it the other way round?). Anyway, as I reach for the laptop in a moment of snuffly calm, I instantly forget what it was I earnestly planned to research/write/send.

Um, ah yes, the parasol for the buggy, now I'm sure I ordered that more than 14 working days ago; no that's right, my finances, must check them very soon, as soon as I have googled this very important issue which I just can't quite remember....

Somehow I always end up on Top Shop online, as a comfort default, hoping that the 'new in' page will jog my memory.

Nice jacket! Oh yes, my blog, must...hang on, what colour is that top? ooh perfect.

Or maybe it's not 'baby-stupor', maybe it's a new condition linked to amnesia - a post-natal case of 'jamais-vu' absent mindedness. Or perhaps early Alzheimer's.

Write a list, you cry. Well yes, good point, however I seem to have started several, and keep finding the wrong one for the moment. The other day I purposefully pulled out my list in the middle of Sainsbury's and came to a bit of a standstill.

Thank you cards - must write before people forget what we're thanking them for, and in fact, who we are.
Clean toilets
Return emails
Cut Iris's nails..again
Write shopping list

Turning up at the surgery yesterday, I tried to remind myself of the various symptoms and medical idiosyncrasies I had saved up for the occasion:

eggs
tissues
bread
WINE
CHOCOLATE

On the plus side (for some future anthropological study that I'll forget to take part in) I do now understand the success of daytime TV (10am, strangely drawn to Jeremy Kyle's rough charm; 11am, Fern and Philip, not so bad after all, quite nice really....ah, at last, a question I know the answer to, albeit a multiple choice one; 1pm, lunchtime news, bit taxing; 1.40pm, hoorah! Neighbours, my favourite..).

Oh dear, I have officially self dumbed-down. Must try my hardest to retrieve some of my previous mental substance. Will add that to a new list, along with fizzy water and nappy sacks.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, www.topsh......

Baby Bootcamp

Whilst Iris was putting me through my paces this morning, as she does every morning, it occurred to me that the only other place where you could expect such harsh training conditions might be on joining the armed forces.

I've never seen myself as a potential Sandhurst cadet, and on the basis of my progress so far, that is probably just as well.

Although I'd like to think I react well to constructive criticism, under the fire of screamed and incoherent orders I seem to be a sorry 'yes' woman, in danger of turning into a quivering wreck as I struggle to keep up.

Pick me up, NO NOT LIKE THAT; put me DOWN, no over THERE, stupid!

FEEEED me; Enough! can't you see I'm full??!

Change me, haha now change me again while I wee on you.

WAKE UP LAZY, time for night manoeuvres - NOOOOH, leave me alone, CANT YOU SEE I'm trying to SLEEP?!

OK, 1 minute to get ready and make the bed; nope too late time for ME again!

Hold it RIGHT there or I'll unleash my weaponry on you.....

And it's no mean arsenal either; projectile vomit (ok it's only milk but pooled in your bra? not good), piercing screams at eardrum level, sleep deprivation, favouritism (bestowed then quickly withdrawn!) toxic bottom bombs; not to mention the more subtle but scary ones like holding her breath, turning puce and impersonating a gargoyle for no apparent reason, and trying to convince the neighbours that we actually run a small torture camp in the back of the house.

I did manage a small rebellion yesterday though - on the premise of filling up her top and tail bowl I snuck off and spent 5 minutes straightening my hair and eating chocolate while shouting soothing words of reassurance across the landing (water's nearly hot, coming sweetheart...).

I can see what she's doing. She's trying to break me so she can rebuild me into the kind of person she'd like to see representing her as a mother. Tough job but I've signed up now and desertion is not an option.

All hail Iris!

My beautiful baby girl Iris is 3 weeks old today - she insisted on hanging on a week extra to make her grand appearance on Friday 13th, heralded by a suitable amount of horror film-style pain and gore (ok, I exaggerate, although I can only assume the beauty of childbirth referred to by various supermums must allude to the relief of it finally being over!).

Amazing how fast time whizzes by in a blur of poo, sleep deprivation and bad tv - I feel like a newborn party-goer, tip-toeing home each morning at dawn smelling like baby milk instead of too many cocktails, and boosting myself into each new day with a strong peppermint tea instead of a double espresso/redbull.

Seems like a lifetime ago since my last post, and those bored last days on the sofa - an Iris atheist then, I still worshipped at the alter of Desperate Housewives box sets and Top Shop options - ah the young naive me! Now I have been fully baptised into my new faith of All Things Iris.

And I am suitably in awe. Just this lunchtime a package arrived from baby Top Shop, addressed to her, with no card or sender details. I can only assume she has learnt to log on and order online, and am immensely impressed both by her taste in dresses and digital dexterity.

All hail, Iris.

Are we nearly there yet???

Yesterday I woke up full of the joys of spring (albeit at an ungodly hour), this morning however I just woke up feeling bored.

Everything bored me, from the prospect of getting up, to staying in bed, to visiting the bathroom for the umpteenth time to making tea. Even coming downstairs was boring, making a banana smoothie incredibly dull, watching 3 episodes of Desperate Housewives a drag.

In fact all the things I looked forward to doing on maternity leave had suddenly lost their appeal. Could it be that old adage, too much of a good thing..? Or is it my hormones preparing me for the refreshing change of splitting in two to release a new human into this (boring) world??

What I really wanted was to go on an exotic holiday, a really long run, a skydive, or throw myself into a bumper car and hit everyone on the circuit REALLY hard. But the reality is that I'm stuck in a bit of a vacuum of not knowing, watching my baby have seemingly much more fun than me on the inside, while on the outside I want to sit in its pram and throw out all the toys.

Sort of like having to wear sensible orthopaedic shoes when you really want to wear Manolo's..

Perhaps this is the last opportunity for my baby to hold me hostage, while I lamely bleat from the backseat (well, sofa), "Bump, are we there yet, are we nearly there yet Bump??".

I choose...pineapple

Perusing the options of ways in which to bring on labour, I'm struck by the fact that they seem to fall into two categories. Raunchy vs mundane.

1. (Hot?) sex and/or nipple tweaking;

2. Floor cleaning (the old fashioned way, no magimop solutions here) and/or hoovering;

I find it hard to believe the same person came up with both lists -more likely a helpful husband the first and his equally helpful mother the second. (Or perhaps that's unfair - this is the 21st century after all - more likely a frustrated wife and mother the first, and an OCD metrosexual husband the second..)

Oh and not forgetting the curry (better combined with the more raunchy option list 1) and pineapple (on sticks??) which tucks neatly into the more mundane option list 2) (on account of its astringent qualities I'm thinking).

Mind you, perhaps these options are more interchangeable than I first thought; take the floor cleaning for example - who's to say it wasn't the same person after all, helpfully providing some saucy role play to get things going? Remove the clothes and a prolonged and vigorous session on all fours may well fit better in the first option list. Equally the curry could then be eaten off the floor afterwards as a sort of post-all fours edible cigarette.

Which leaves nipple tweaking and hoovering - hmm. Well in our house my husband is the hooverer (or should that be carpet-manager?), so I would probably just have a token metre squared to 'pretend' hoover over and end up with a bald spot. Surely though it's not actually the hoovering that helps - all that noise would more likely than not just scare poor baby back in than entice it out - it must be more to do with the rocking motion, which could actually be done anywhere.

It's a nice day, I could go into the garden perhaps and rock back and forward for twenty minutes with optional arm stretch (or nipple tweak?). On the plus side, fresh air, sunshine, birdsong; on the down side neighbours presuming:

a) heavily pregnant new neighbour has developed nasty mental illness;
b) heavily pregnant new neighbour practices previously unseen Eastern exercise routine;
c) heavily pregnant new neighbour has foot stuck and needs urgent assistance (and is obviously comforting herself with a little nipple tweaking).

No, this all seems fraught with unsavoury possibilities and the need for copious amounts of Gaviscon. And it is Easter. I think instead I will stick to a nice stroll in the park and a (pineapple-flavoured) ice lolly. You never know, the sound of the ice-cream van alone may well be enough to encourage Bump to hurry out into the world..