Why We Haven't Sold Her to Gypsies During Teething

The Daddy

The Prawn has been listening to music pretty much constantly since she grew ears at about 18 weeks gestation. In fact, at around that time, she attended her first concert at which she was privileged to listen to the blues stylings of the one and only Mr. Joe Bonamassa.

The Rock Star often puts on concert videos in the morning for background noise while he works. (Or, attempts to work with someone in the room who would also very much like to be using his laptop, but for vastly different purposes.) Yesterday, while he was watching Eric Claptons 2007 Crossroads Festival video, the Prawn awoke from her nap.

As he usually does, The Rock Star went to fetch her and jigged her around the living room in time to the music, which at the moment, was being provided by BB King, most likely making up silly lyrics.

"Who's your daddy?" The Rock Star asked, rhetorically.

The Prawn, without hesitation, pointed straight at BB King and went, "DADA!"

Great. Now we have to explain the difference between "YOUR Daddy" and "THE Daddy."

10 Months Young

The Prawn, modeling the latest in baby shredder gear, ready to hit the slopes and all of those sick kickers. These kids. I don't know.

We've actually had to cancel the Prawn's first introduction to snow due to the UK government deciding that two people with a combined income of under 40k a year are just making FAR TO MUCH CASH for their liking and dropping a 5 grand tax bill on us out of the blue. It's my understanding that we have accountants that we pay part of that just under 40k a year to to make sure that WE KNOW IF WE'RE ABOUT TO HAVE TO TAKE OUT A LOAN TO PAY A TAX BILL, but I might be wrong about that. At any rate, our long anticipated boarding holiday, the idea of which sustained me through the Prawn's newborn days and many other shouty moments is most firmly off the table. As is pretty much everything else that we'd planned on doing this year, so it's a bit of a kick in the face of a January.

But the Prawn sustains us and grows more sentient by the day. Parenting has become easier as of late due to the fact that she often amuse herself for the best part of an hour noisily whacking a pot with a spoon. Spoons have become a favorite of hers recently; we made the life changing discovery that she will eat ANYTHING as long as you let her hold a spoon other than the one you're feeding her with. This has made for a much happier breakfast, lunch and dinnertime relationship with Mummy and Daddy and far less mashed potato on the walls.

We've been wondering recently when the day will come that we must cease telling her how cute she is for fear she turn into a heinous bitch in later life. We are undone by her flippy curls over her ears. By her endless stream of chatter. By the way she crawls so fast, she "trips". By her 1000 watt smile. At some point, though, she'll figure out that these things are true and begin a campaign of manipulation that only a small, flippy haired, blue eyed girl-child can carry off.

Little bugger.

Heartbreaking

Please go give Alexa some much needed love.

Knocked Up

Before you even ask, NO, I am not knocked up again. But is it me, or is everyone else?

I’m not sure if this is just because I’ve recently developed a large tumour in my brain that compels me to seek out gossip (because, obviously, there’s no other rational explanation for my shameful secret) or if it’s because the press has developed an irrational fixation on pregnant celebrities, but it seems that at any one time, there seems to be some frantic celebrity baby watch going on that will continue at fever pitch until some nosy bastard snaps the first photo of the little blob in public, at which point everyone loses interest.

It seems strange to me that women in the public eye who get pregnant are the source of such endless fascination as (I’ve been told) it’s actually pretty common among members of the female species. I suppose the state of pregnancy is always slightly unusual to the casual observer due to the really quite alarming physical characteristics of the condition, namely, the enormous, animated belly poking out in front. Although other conditions, including gross obesity, also have this characteristic, pregnancy is different. It’s a condition that’s treated reverently and with a certain degree of respect. Therefore, when an A-lister gets into a family way, it is though the light of heaven shines straight out of her ladyplace.

The recent must-have item in Hollywood seems to be an unplanned pregnancy with a boyfriend who spends most of his time running a nightclub paid for with your money and playing Xbox. Obviously chic. Condoms? SO yesterday. And One can’t possibly be expected to remember to take EVERY SINGLE LITTLE PILL in that wheel thingy when you have 15 trips to Starbucks to make in one day.

Press releases from publicists could almost be fill-in-the-blank: “ _________is expecting her first child with boyfriend, Cheaty McWorthless. The couple are thrilled and delighted”. Of course, from just about any photo you care to dredge up, it’s patently obvious that __________ is anything BUT thrilled and delighted, because in fact, __________ was a day away from canning Cheaty McWorthless’s ass when the dreaded plus sign appeared in the little window of the pee-pee stick. Solo pregnancy in show business guarantees headlines in the Enquirer. But pregnancy with a seemingly doting partner gets you People, US, Glamour, Vanity Fair, and a shitload of free baby swag from every trendy specialist boutique. So obviously, Cheaty gets to stay on, being a loathsome sponge until the baby shows up, at which point she is free to sell the story; “I Left Him for the Sake of My Baby” garnering massive public support and securing a guest spot on Oprah.

Then of course, there is the all important matter of a cool name, because god forbid you do something so prosaic as name the child after your grandmother who loved you dearly and baked you things, although you can be forgiven if your grandmother was called Edna or Fanny. (IF YOU HAVE A GRANDMOTHER CALLED EDNA OR FANNY, THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT BY THE WAY. I HAD A GREAT AUNT EDNA WHO WAS A LOVELY, LOVELY WOMAN.) I have to admit to falling victim to the peculiar name bug when looking for names for The Prawn. I don’t mind telling you that some of the casualties of the girl’s name list were Kestrel, Lirael and Lyra. (for you literary buffs) But naming an A-list baby seems to be a task that causes famous parents to take leave of their senses and bestow their offspring with monikers that will no doubt make up an entire chapter entitled “How My Parents Fucked Me Up” in their future autobiographies. While Apple is a lovely name for a fruit, a computer and a small, photogenic girl, it is not necessarily a name that will ever look right on a credit card or eventual social security check. Indiana is a fabulous name for a state or an archaeologist, but unless he’s willing to wield a bullwhip in the school yard, no so much for a little boy. (Although I have a sneaking suspicion that in a state of hormone induced madness, it might have been one of the names that I suggested to the Rock Star if the Prawn had been born in possession of a winkle.)

The part of pregnancy that the public rarely ever sees is the downside, which involves miscarriage or infertility. Pregnancy announcements are made and then there is a deafening silence if something should happen to go wrong. In addition to the insanity that surround celebrity pregnancies, it would be comforting once in a while if someone who regularly found their face on the cover of magazines might come out and say, “yeah, that happened to me too” rather than slinking away to hide (although this is probably a more natural reaction) so that other women struggling with the same problems could feel slightly more normal and know that not all pregnancies lead to a) endless lunches at the Ivy or b) an actual honest to god baby. Although it is not entirely a surprise that women in the public eye who have had trouble conceiving don't want to spill their guts in a national glossy. Someone like Nicole Kidman, who had a rather public miscarriage around the time that her marriage ended, must now be utterly shitting herself and being forced to do it in front of every long lens in the business when she's probably doing the same thing that all of us have done; freaking out and checking for blood on the toilet paper.

So we have yet another 6 or 7 months or so before the latest round of unwed celebrity mothers are fit to pop. Let’s hope they’ll use the time wisely. Count their blessings. And get rid of Cheaty’s X-box.

Late

The holiday season kind of got on top of me this year. I feel like I should have phoned the police.

For any of you participating in Pru's card swap- I JUST GOT THE CARDS IN THE MAIL TODAY. That's how much I suck. My mother has been known not to get hers in the post until the end of January, so I am at least beating genetics at this point, although not by much.

The Prawn is poorly, you see. I have discovered in the last few days that a) baby snot should be recycled as an industrial grade lubricant b) that there is no good way of taking the temperature of someone who has not yet reached the age of reason and c) that I never thought that I'd complain because she stopped fighting me when I tried to change her clothes or that she slept in until 8 am.

I can at least be grateful that (knock wood) she does not seem to have the virus which causes explosions in both the north and the south, if you catch my drift. As much as I would love to seal her in a plastic bubble until this nasty little Rotovirus disappears, I think I will have to settle for not taking her out in public for a while. I have issues with vomit, you see. While newborn vomit is mostly milk, the Prawn has now aquired adult style yak, which unfortunately also makes me want to heave. All that time worrying about diapers and it never occurred to me that I might have to clean up chunder. Ack.

On that pleasant note, I bid you adieu. I have a husband at home who requires Crunchy Nut Cornflakes, stat.