Tutti Frutti

Another floret of broccoli my love? Some mashed potato? What, another carrot? Baby giggles and a warm glow of pride as Iris bravely treads into the world of solid food fill my daydream.

A violent retch brings me back to the real world; thank goodness I opted for the plastic cover with my little girl's highchair.

Well this wasn't in the Government's guidelines - I waited until nearly 6 months, I breastfed, I bought Annabel Karmel and some overpriced gourmet ice-cube containers - my daughter however, is following her own set of rules, and unfortunately I can't quite make out what they are. Something about being a fruitarian and wanting to breastfeed forever.

So much for being a good cook - having been cajoled by hubby into a state of slightly smug complacency about my abilities in the kitchen, I was unprepared for the brutal honesty of a baby's unblemished palate.

Steamed vegetables, lovingly moulied - blaaaar, ick, sssppuggh - mixed with a little home-made fruit puree - eeeuuugghhh, retch. Desperation strikes; petit filou? sssplatt. Hipp Organic, Plum? Lick, lick, moment for thought - ssthhhwpp.

Iris has decided that Innocent smoothies are quite nice, yoghurt is ok, but vegetables and cereals are bad bad bad. Bibs make her cry and spoons have this strange effect of making her clench her mouth shut and adopt an owl-like turn of the head.

In my more tired moments, I do wonder whether Iris has inherited an 'am I fat?' gene from me, or has chewed one too many copies of Grazia in the bathroom and is aspiring early to the size zero phenomenon.

In my more sane moments however I am hoping that this is just the first 'phase' (of no doubt many) she will pass through on her way to healthy adulthood.

Right, just off to whisper 'food is good, food is good' to her while she sleeps....

Nappy chatter

Little did I realise the fascination that bowel movements would hold for me at this stage of my life.

Posh leather handbags, yes; manicures and pedicures, of course; the perennial appeal of Top Shop, oh yes, but poo?

This has particularly come to light in the last couple of weeks as my daughter has begun to discover the joys of her first fruit purees.

Iris' change in routine has now become a regular topic of conversation between my husband and me, particularly as we cuddle her writhing little self at night as her tummy tries to work out what on earth butternut squash is doing in amongst her regular tipple of breastmilk.

However I think I may have taken this mutual interest a step too far. Upon the arrival of a particularly challenging movement this morning, I felt compelled to share the news with hubby. Not fair, after all, for him to miss out through being at work!

Snapping off my marigolds, I rushed to the phone.

"Helloooo, it's me. So, the poo arrived! My god it was everywhere, I've had to strip the room and wipe down everything, you should have seen it..."

Keen not to miss out any details, I only noticed the silence on the other end once I'd finished.

"Er, are you still there? where are you?"

"Actually I'm just about to buy my lunch"

"Oh, sorry. Well, just don't go for any sticky looking dahl, ha ha. Oh...you have?"

Poor hubby - I forgot that life in my new mum bubble isn't always as scintillating to those in the real world as it is to me.

Thank goodness for the other new mums I'm about to meet up with - nothing like a good chat about bodily fluids over tea and a cupcake!

Me and my girl

I'm not sure if it's the change of season, or the approaching half year milestone that Iris will reach in less than a month now, but I have been feeling rather reflective of late.

As I look back at the last 5 months it really seems that we're a world away from those first apprehensive weeks of parenthood, with its gush of hormones and first ravages of sleeplessness.

Firmly out of the newborn and young baby stage, Iris now seems to me like a proper little person, morphing more into herself every day. I feel like I'm witnessing a da Vinci process, with my milk working as the metaphorical chisel, chipping away at her pre-formed self.

And it really is such an amazing process with new expressions, noises and movements emerging every day.

I think what I find most incredible is the shift from the pure, unconditional love and need of a mother and baby, to a more mutual emotional balance borne of actually knowing one another. I suppose this is a round-about way of saying that it feels like a relationship now, but one that is more rewarding and touching than I could ever have imagined.

And while we have been keeping each other busy recently - a week in Norfolk, baby cinema, trips to town and visits with Iris' many cousins, not to mention a heavy cold (Iris) and renewed sleeplessness (me) - the best moments have really been when we have just been hanging out together.

Just the simplest of things have become invaluable - a smile, a giggle, a cuddle - I don't think I can describe how happy it makes me, and how privileged I feel to be nurturing this new person.

Me and my girl, my girl and me - sigh. Right, I'll now climb off my chocolate box and give my rose-tinted sunnies a rest!

Iris' big day out

Having avoided public transport and the hubbub of London for the past 4 months, the time had finally come last Friday for Iris to discover the world outside East Dulwich.

Slightly dazed from a night of sleeplessness spent foreseeing the many beartraps awaiting us, I got us ready.

New dress for Iris, new top for Mummy - check;
New 'about town' buggy for Iris - check;
New, more urban, changing bag for Mummy - check;

This was turning out to be an expensive adventure.

Our first date with the real world was at the Ritzy in Brixton for a nice soothing knit flicks session. As it happened, the Bourne Ultimatum at full volume may not have been the best choice. On the plus side, I actually got there on time; it was so loud the babies' wailing was reduced to a pitiful mime; hubby was VERY jealous.

On the downside, no breakfast and crucial cinematic moments missed due to wiping Iris' biggest poo ever off her, me and the seat (err, second row middle-ish in case you're wondering, and sorry if you didn't read this in time!).

Soothing session over, we attempted a trial run on the escalators at the Department store over the road, in search of a much deserved caffeine fix. Important lesson in not travelling up escalators backwards learnt, and also that Iris isn't keen on Cafe Nero.

At this point I'm feeling like the woman from the Sure ad, only without the Sure. My promise to visit hubby's work place in Euston now feels like a mad hormonal gesture. Nonetheless, my NCT pals see me onto the underground lift and we're off again. Having learnt not to travel UP the escalators backwards, I try out my luck going down. I now know anything backwards is definitely a bad idea. Several vertiginous and sweaty minutes later we're on the tube and off to Euston.

And actually it's not that bad - once familiar stations flash by while Iris snoozes and I try and remember what it was like to be carefree.

Before long we are at my husband's work reception. By now Iris and I are somewhat dishevelled, smelly, overtired and hungry. But we made it, and that makes me strangely proud. Our urban debut now over, my husband beams as he introduces our daughter to his workmates, and I realise what a privilege it is to be her mother and his wife.

Ode to a shoe

Gleaming silver, sharp and high
you carried my weary limbs
in fine form, detracting even from my eye,
red and shrunken as it then was.

Resplendent shoe, how I love you...

Every girl's best friend, I was
lucky to call you mine, and shirk
awhile the dirty nappies and weight
of motherhood angst.

Resplendent shoe, how I love you...

Job done, you now reside back
in your cardboard home,
awaiting your next calling
to bring instant glamour and joy.

Resplendent shoe, how I love you...

[Sorry, couldn't resist a quick dip at the altar of my lovely new silver stilettos, and prose just didn't seem lyrical enough - sigh - right, as you were...]

L'Ennui, la nausée and quelques bêtes noires...

Having recently returned from our first holiday 'en famille', I feel compelled to add a little continentalism, if not existentialism, into my post.

We were supporting the planet (and supposedly our sanity) by spending a week away in the UK; deep in the cotswolds to be more precise. Very beautiful it was too. And wet. And rather chilly actually. Oh, and WET - did I mention that?!

Actually with hindsight we were very lucky to have had electricity, water and dry clothes/furniture for the week. At the time though, we overlooked this 'luck', and instead felt a little miffed at missing out on the cloudless skies and balmy nights of southern Europe.

Iris also felt a little put out it seemed, and decided to revert to her newborn feeding status. I like to think it was due to a growth spurt, however I have a sneaky feeling she may have inherited her mum's urban leanings and was comfort eating.

On the plus side we thoroughly muddied our new walking shoes ambling through some damp but glorious Gloucestershire countryside, introduced Iris to livestock (I have a whole new affinity with dairy cattle), enjoyed some lovely roaring log fires and exchanged 'good mornings' with Jilly Cooper (not best known for her existentialism admittedly).

On the downside the week culminated with me suffering exhaustion, hubby suffering from cabin fever and us all smelling of sick as poor Iris succombed to a rural tummy bug.

And the bêtes noires? Well aside from my new maternal neuroses, they manifested themselves as an army of slugs, marshalling the kitchen and living room at night (rather slimy underfoot as I found out on one of my nocturnal milk rounds, eeeuugh).

Oh how we will laugh, one day, while sipping cocktails in some sultry exotic destination....

We are not alone..

After (another) day of being held hostage in my own home by a) Parcel Force and b) the weather, I discovered that I had unwittingly been hosting a small party in the living room.

A very small party for very small furry guests. MICE.

Conscious of the need to remain calm and practical, and defy the stereotypical female reaction for the sake of my young daughter (never too early to learn etc etc), I yanked her off my breast, hopped over the sofa in one surprisingly athletic leap, and raced upstairs.

It's all a bit of a blur, but I seem to remember that one of us was squealing loudly, the other weeping hungrily. Or was it the other way round? Anyway, from the safety of the first floor, I called my husband. So far, so stereotypical.

Selfishly not answering his mobile while cycling home in the hail, I decided to assume the worst. We were under attack, the threat level had suddenly risen to critical, and all social events planned at home would have to be cancelled for the foreseeable future. I broke the bad news to my NCT ladies in a slightly hysterical email.

'Tomorrow's tea cancelled due to rodent infestation.'

My rather wet husband returned home to see me banging on the first floor window and mouthing 'M O U S E' while pointing jaggedly at the ground. In retrospect I think I may have looked slightly mad; he was certainly relieved to find I hadn't in fact developed an unforeseen medical complaint, and was in fact bravely protecting our baby from enemy invaders.

Needless to say, hubby felt I may have over-reacted. He has promised to buy poison in his lunch break today, and has reassured me that I really have nothing to fear. I put on a brave face and promised to be more rational. Which is why I am writing this from the barstool in the kitchen and am meeting my NCT ladies in Cafe Nero later.