A Very Quick Year

As it is desirous for any blogger to meet other bloggers, Prawn Cocktail has joined in the internet tomfoolery that is 5 Minutes for Mom's Ultimate Blog Party 2008. Check out the party action!

In the spirit of things, and since it's been almost 2 years since I started this blog, here's a quick run-down of all things Rockmama. I'm a 32 year old American ex-pat living in the greenbelt surrounding London. Although my long haired, rocker husband and I spent 7 years living on a traditional, English narrowboat on the Grand Union canal, we've now lived on dry land for a little over a year.

Although we now have a beautiful daughter about to turn one, our road to parenthood was not smooth. After 3 years of trying and suffering two miscarriages, we were beginning to wonder if it was all going to happen for us. Luckily, we manged to find a great and sympathetic doctor (the others usually dismissed my by saying, "Oh, it's very common, just try again." This usually led to me wanting to punch someone in the face.) who discovered that I had a progesterone deficiency. After 14 weeks of supplements in early pregnancy, I finally went on to have our daughter (whom is known as The Prawn) almost a year ago. She's wonderful, bizarre, hilarious and our new best friend.

While I work for a GPS specialist, talking to people on the phone using acronyms that I don't completely understand, my real love is metalwork. I make and sell silver and gemstone jewelry. Other great loves reading, snowboarding, music, tattoos, swimming and cooking.

To celebrate nearly a year of the Prawn's presence, I've put together a cheese-tastic slide show of some of her best moments. Bring on the Velveeta.

Love is a Many Prickled Thing

Most weeks, Mr. DD, his brother and our future sister-in-law and I try to get together for dinner or drinks at Chez Prawn after the bedtime of She Who Must Be Obeyed just to keep up with what’s going on and to demolish bottles of wine. I may start referring to these get-togethers as Evenings of Knowledge, because we will inevitably, in the course of our conversations, have to go to Wikipedia 3-4 times.

Last evening’s conversation turned to Mother’s Day and the fact that the American holiday is celebrated the second Sunday of May while the British one is tied into Lent. (the 4th Sunday after, apparently) According to the mighty Wiki, British Mother’s Day is actually tied to a Roman festival honouring Juno, mother of the gods. The US celebration is loosely based on the British one, although it was started after the American Civil War in order to rally woman to an anti-war stance.*

This is my first Mother’s Day. My induction last year fell on Mothering Sunday and I naively believed that being induced might result in, oh, I don’t know, AN ACTUAL BIRTH, so I was kind of looking forward to becoming a mother on Mother’s Day. This morning, by the time I woke up, my daughter was already down for her morning nap after having emptied the dishwasher, taken out the recycling, cleaned the kitchen and made me tea all while her father sat on his ass on the couch and scratched himself. Well, according to him, anyhow.

My favorite Mother’s Day story, which I might have told before, but can’t find in my archives anywhere, takes place the year I was about 5 or 6. During the annual Mother’s Day church service, all of the children in the congregation were invited to the front of the sanctuary to choose a colourful plant to take back to their mothers. Whoever did the purchasing of said plants must have had a momentary brain lapse, because in between the little impatiens and petunias, there was a single cactus.

I’ll give you two guesses as to who got the cactus.

I got an email from my mother this morning.

“I was just looking at Ms. Cactus yesterday and thinking about how lucky I was to have a daughter who, at the tender age of whatever, had the foresight to realize what a great choice this was. :) (But truly, I wonder what on earth made you choose a cactus over all the other colorful, flowerage available.)”**

Well, it might have seemed like a rather contrary choice at the time, but all those other kids can totally suck it. Because while those petunias and impatiens all met a quick, neglected death in someone’s kitchen window, my cactus (which was no bigger than an adult thumb) now looks like THIS. One wonders why the cactus industry (if there is such a thing) has never tried to capitalize on the symbolism. “Roses wither in days. Nothing says eternal love quite like something that is short, squat, spiky and hangs on despite the fact that you only water it once a year. Plus, the cats won’t eat it.™”

I hope that one day, the Prawn will give me a Mother’s Day cactus that I can look at as a reminder of her love for years to come, free from the threat of drought or being the salad course.

*The other two items that we looked up had to do with the word “nee” (inserted after a woman’s married name and before her maiden one.) and Jewish holidays. We run the conversational gamut on Evenings of Knowledge.

**I probably was kind of fascinated with the idea of a plant that could hurt people.

Result

So, apparently, anti-depressants don’t work.

According to the media, at any rate, who are all too happy to discredit SOMETHING as most of the leading presidential contenders have never slept with prostitutes. (except maybe McCain, but that was a corporate lobbyist, although it's a short step from there to whore in my opinion.) The front page of the Independent this morning just about made me mad enough to chuck the paper in the sink and turn the water on (A sure-fire way of killing insidious newsprint) but, as it was not my copy, I didn’t in case my father-in-law still wanted to read it. “Now that anti-depressants have been discredited…” it started.

Hold on, I thought, Anti-depressants have been discredited by WHOM exactly? By YOU, the media, who, as we all know, love nothing better than scaring us to death? By one study at a British University? The fucking cheek! To take something that’s given a lot of hope to millions of people who suffer with depression and dismiss it’s relevance outright is, at best, presumptuous and at worst, irresponsible.

The irony was, I had just scheduled an appointment with my GP to have a chat about getting in on the SSRI goodness not 20 minutes before reading the headline. I toyed with the idea of canceling, because I felt a bit stupid going in and asking for something that the media had, a day earlier, publicly declared to be no better than snake oil. But Mr. DD encouraged me to keep the appointment, if for no other reason than just to have a chat with my GP about it to find out what my options are.

I like my GP immensely. I would like him a lot more if he were easier to get in to see, but the unbelievable stupidity of the “get seen within 24 hours” system which requires you to get on the phone by 8 am exactly and frantically ring back over and over until you get through in the vain hope of actually being able to see YOUR doctor is the subject for another post entirely. I spent a fair amount of time with a really drippy lady GP who obviously just wanted me out of her office ASAP and didn’t listen to a word I said, so I switched over to Dr. Seuss, (Not his real name, but not too far off.) who, it’s become apparent, is the most over subscribed GP in the practice. This is because he’s actually GOOD and you leave his office feeling like you’ve been seen by a doctor rather than a surly medical student with a frat kegger to get to.

After explaining to her how I’d been feeling for the last 4 months or so, he gave me the standard “Are You Depressed?” questionnaire. In my humble opinion, the little quiz is worth precisely bupkis due to the fact that most people who are mildly or even moderately depressed often feel a bit silly answering the question, “Do you experience persistent feelings of doubt or self worth or feel that you have let down your family?” with the answer, “Yes, all the time”, because, quite frankly, it sounds a little melodramatic considering how you ACTUALLY feel, which is just kind of a low level of lethargy, difficulty in getting motivated and sort of general disconnectedness from everyday life. Dr. Seuss was quite sympathetic and wasn’t convinced by the effectiveness of the test either, but was required to complete it for paperwork’s sake.

I actually scored just below the recommended level for actual honest-to-god depression, which in itself was rather depressing. However, Dr. Seuss was still prepared to start me on a course of anti-depressants if I wanted, as it had been going on so long. After speaking a little further, I agreed to try 6 weeks of alternative therapy with St. John’s Wort, but after that time, if the situation was no better, he’d give me the good stuff.

I was satisfied with that, honestly. I took a course of SJW in college when I was suffering and it seems to make a small improvement, but with herbal remedies especially, you can never really be sure. So, knowing that I still have a lifeline if it doesn’t work made me happy enough to give it another try.

Just wanted to thank you ladies for all the support and good vibes.

Out Of Doors

Now that the days are beginning to feel vaguely spring-like on this side of the Atlantic, we thought it would be nice to introduce the Prawn to the Great Outdoors. Namely, the bit of it that exists just across the street from our flat on the village green. While the Prawn already has one spring and summer under her belt this will be the first outdoor friendly season that she will be mobile, so we thought we’d get a head start on Sunday due to really quite bizarrely mild temperatures.

We thought the playground might be a good place to start as the Prawn has shown a fondness for rough and tumble play. I had afternoon tea with my friend the Danish Muffin last week and saw that her little boy, Cone-ass the Barbarian, had one of those canvas tunnels that he enjoyed crawling through. The Prawn looked positively enthralled, but slightly reticent to join in due to the fact that Cone-ass is a year older and much more rambunctious that she is. (He was all like, “What the hell are you doing? Crawling? What’s THAT about? On your feet, soldier!” and kept trying to drag her around by her hands.) At any rate, I thought she’d enjoy a tunnel of her own, so I picked one up from Argos for about 10 quid. After an initial flat refusal to enter, putting the Sky remote at the opposite end had the desired effect. I swear that TV remotes act as crack for babies. They simply can’t get enough of them, no matter WHAT banquet of expensive playthings is laid out before them. She loves the tunnel now and comes charging through, laughing like a madthing if Mr. DD or I pokes our head through at the other end.

There’s something vaguely depressing about an empty playground, especially on a weekend afternoon. The combination of the rugby and the football saw to that. There were 4 urchins kicking around a football that had seen better days, but other than them, we had the place all to ourselves. However, we hit upon a snag almost instantly.

The Prawn hates playgrounds.

I imagine that this is a phase that will pass, cause dude, kids love playgrounds. I have many a fond memory of palms blistered from hours on the monkey bars or being sick during language arts because I spent all of recess being spun round and round on a tire swing. Good times. My guess is that we took Her Prawness slightly to close to naptime and were therefore assured the crankiest possible reaction. The swings, as you can see, produced the most definitive result. Even after both Mr. DD and I demonstrated that swings obviously rule by swinging on them ourselves, the Prawn was unconvinced and ratcheted up her dislike to LipCon 5, as you can see.

Now, I totally want to instill great virtuousness in my child and laughing at others pain is certainly not something I want to encourage, but it is difficult to stifle guffaws when a person the size of a wastebasket pulls a mug like this.

Things got no better when we decided to let her have an explore on her own. I suppose, for someone who’s never really put their full body weight on damp ground before, the experience might be less than pleasant. The Prawn steadfastly refused to move an inch on the dirt, raising her chubby little arms above her head in order to be liberated from her predicament.

Admitting defeat, we finally traipsed back inside, dreaming of warmer weather and a bi-pedal Prawn who will enjoy the outdoors. Maybe minus the mud.

Goofball

Just a dose of the cute.

Prawny B. Goode

At 10 months and 3 weeks, the Prawn has finally said her first definitive word.

Several weeks ago, Mr. DD was ready to call it for “Dada” and I had to admit, there was compelling evidence. The Prawn pointed at him and said, “Dada!” However, as the days went by, it was apparent that she was rather indiscriminate with the word, using it to describe not only her father, but her pacifier, BB King and the oven, so Mr. DD grudgingly agreed to take back his earlier, “official first word” call.

However, today, it has become much more obvious that she now has a word for a common household object.

Well, at least it’s common around OUR house. The fact that it’s her first word is not all that surprising.



"Gee-ta!"



"Tee-ta!"



"Tar-tar!"



I think Mr. DD is almost as pleased as he would have been with "Dada".

Sick and Tired of Sick and Tired

I’ve never been reluctant to talk about stuff on this blog. With a sympathetic readership there’s very little that you can’t talk about up to and including the very personal private personal functions of your very own personal private ladyplace. It’s a little harder, however, to go into the realm of feelings without sounding like a complete tool. Other people are quite adept at talking about feelings, but given the choice, I’d probably far rather make jokes about my period or something.

At any rate, my feelings have been bothering me in an itchy rash kind of a way lately. I guess it’s no secret that depression is pretty common among women my age and I’ve kind of struggled with bouts of it on and off since late high school. (Although back then, it was probably just more about the fact that this girl I was friends with totally wasn’t talking to me and my boyfriend was sneaking around behind my back and OMG, I TOTALLY CAN’T GET MY HAIR TO DO WHAT I WANT IT TO.)

I had the obligatory health visitor questionnaire 10 weeks after the Prawn was born. Was I a) happy all the time, b) happy most of the time, c) sad most of the time, d) sad all of the time or e) so sad I’m thinking about hurting myself or my baby. The lady who administered this rather drippy test smiled apologetically at me as she asked me to answer. “I think as long as it’s not e, you’re pretty much par for the course at this point,” she admitted. Strangely enough, when the Prawn was smaller and more stressful in terms of care, I felt just fine. Apart from the first 5 weeks when I was convinced that my life was over and could go from 0 to crazy in 0.2 seconds flat, and alarmingly, that’s how I’m starting to feel all over again.

My main symptom is the low level feeling in my gut that I’ve just been given terrible news. I’m pretty sure just about everyone knows this feeling, although I imagine that it’s different for everyone- The kind of sad that just kind of seeps into everything you do. I will cry at the drop of a hat. This is especially embarrassing in the gym while on the treadmill and an NSPCC ad (for those of you in the States, a large child abuse prevention charity.) will run on MTV or something and I have to yank my headphones out and look away. (By the way, what do you reckon they do to the children in those commercials to make them look as if someone has just brutally murdered a puppy in front of them?) Absolutely anything having to do with children suffering at all makes me totally nuts. That photo of the baby being tossed from the apartment building in Germany? I was a gibbering wreck in front of the television. Oxfam ad? NO THANK YOU. Seeing any more pictures of crying, malnourished babies will keep me under the bed for a week. I cried the other day while reading the Prawn a book. About a snail and a whale. Why? BECAUSE WHALES ARE ENDANGERED. The Prawn was all, “Pull yourself together, woman!”

The worst part about it is trying to be “on” for her when all I want to do is curl up in a ball on the floor. Of course, this compounds the existing depression with the feeling that I’m being a terrible mother, which is just the cherry on top of the whole shit sundae. I suppose I can thank my lucky stars that I have never considered hurting her or myself due to whatever chemical fuckwittery is occurring in my head. I just feel bad. All the time. Pure and simple. As stressful as life with the Prawn is sometimes, I really don’t feel like she’s the source of my problems. If anything, she’s become more of a joy to parent as she’s begun to be a sentient human being who knows where her nose is and enjoys stealing things from other children. She’s hilarious.

Mr. DD is awesome about it, but it’s hard for even him to understand what goes on in the mind of a depressed person. For anyone who’s never struggled with it, it must be terribly frustrating to watch someone you love feel bad and have them tell you that it’s not your fault, but there’s nothing you can really do to help. The one thing that he HAS been able to do is give me the freedom to go out every now and again. I’m going with my brother and sister in-law this evening to see “Sweeny Todd”, which I’ve been clawing at the door to see ever since I saw the first trailer. A story of murder and a broken family may not be the ideal choice to suit my present mood, but hopefully the fact that two of my favorite movie crush-boys are in it (Johnny Depp and Alan Rickman. Yes, really, Alan Rickman. Seriously, Sense and Sensibility, anyone?) will mean that I can enjoy my little tub of Ben and Jerry’s (carefully saved up for this week with WW points. Oh yes, did I mention I’m dieting as well?) and try to feel like a normal human being for the evening.

Thanks, internets, for being my sounding board.

Getting a Head Start

There is a reason that I don't go out of my way to go to the large Tesco Extra on the side of Aylesbury that's a pain in the ass to get to. And it is not, as it may seem, that it's a pain in the ass to get there, but rather that when I go, I come home with scads of useless crap that I didn't set out to buy.

The clothing is usually my downfall, either for myself or for the Prawn. I mean, who doesn't need another plain black shirt? For 5 quid? Or a super-frilly something to re-enforce a gender stereotype for my daughter? However, while perusing the racks yesterday, (which are likely straight out of a factory in Thailand who's workforce should be out at recess rather than operating sewing machines) I came across this abhorrent piece of fashion sputum in the Prawn's size.

Strangely enough, Tesco on-line does NOT have a photo of the offending item. I only found the picture of it due to the outrage of another blogger. In an age where scientists are finding the on-set of early puberty in girls as young as 8 being more and more common, do we REALLY need the body hate to start at 3-6 months?

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.

Dirty Laundry

Just a little bit of cute before the new year.

Exhibit A, Exhibit B

This picture pretty much sums up all the problems in my life right now.

Scenes From Christmas

Christmas Melt Down

Strangely enough, two years ago, on this day, I shouted at a teenage girl who ran up to me with a charity tin, squealing, “Give us money!”

Me: If you rattle that tin in my face again, you little slag, I swear to god I’ll smack you.

I don’t know what it is about December 20th, but it’s a day that tends to make me lose my grip a bit. Today, my tenuous grip on sanity was shaken further by a 9 month old who’s teething and fighting a cold at the same time. Everything I tried to do this morning was rebuffed with a barrage of what I can only imagine was baby cursing, so much so that I was tempted to wash her mouth out with soap. (I DON’T MAKE MY BABY EAT SOAP. No calls to child services, please.) Putting pants on became akin to being jabbed by sharp objects. Putting a coat on was obviously a fate worse than death. Being put on trial for war crimes at The Hague was infinitely preferable to being strapped into a car seat. And going round the shops? Don’t even ask.

The last few weeks have been something of a struggle. The Prawn, for lack of a better word, has been behaving like a jerk. I know it's because of the new teeth that are forcing their way through her gums as well as the lurghy that has taken up residence in her respiratory system. It seems terribly unfair that babies can't behave as WE do when we get sick- simply take to their beds and wake up only occasionally for sustenance. But no, they are afflicted with the jerk reflex which causes them to behave as if they have spent most of their short lives with a pack of wolverines. Not only that, but they infect US as well and through our own sickness, we are expected to be patient and understanding of their antics all while battling sleep deprivation, a sore throat and migraine.

I hate myself for sometimes wishing that she'd just disappear for a few hours or having to leave her in her crib, screaming so that I can do some screaming of my own into a convenient pillow. No mother should feel that way about her kid, I think, but I'm pretty sure that just about every one does at one point or another.

Motherhood is all about the guilt. Asking Santa for a happy baby for Christmas.

Playtime

The Prawn is just on the brink of sentience. Although she discovered vanity some time ago, (she gets unnaturally excited about her own reflection in the mirror. I sense a world of teenage image dramas in my future) she is just learning that there are many things in the world with which to interact and eat. So, obviously, this means it’s time for toys.

The Prawn’s favourite toys are as follows:

-Any laptop within reach.

-Any mobile phone within reach.

-Any electrical cord within reach.

-Any remote control in reach. (which usually results in us having to watch the shopping channel with subtitles that we can’t figure out how to turn off.)

-The strings on the hood of Daddy’s sweatshirt.

-Daddy’s guitars.

-The recycling.

-Crap she finds on the floor, no matter how well we’ve hoovered it.

If someone had told me that babies were the same at cats, (wanting to play with anything but the stuff you buy them) then we probably could have saved a lot of cash.

There are a few playthings, however, we’ve bought her that can hold her attention for more than 5 minutes.

Mozart Magic Cube, by Munchkin. A gift from my parents. This thing is pretty bitching, actually, despite our feelings about toys that require batteries. It has 8 works by the master of babysmarts himself programmed in and a choice of 5 instruments-harp, French horn, piano, flute, and violin- that are available on each side of the cube for individual or orchestral listening. Each side flashes to the beat of it’s instrument so it makes for a cool visual experience as well as audio. The Prawn digs kicking it around the room, turning on and off instruments. It’s the toy that is inevitably kicked by one of us while we’re trying to get the Prawn to sleep, setting off a cacophonic version of "Là Ci Darem la Mano" and triggering a desperate attempt to find which edge of the cube boasts the “off” switch.

Wooden Shape Sorter, by Mothercare. Mothercare has a small, but fairly decent range of own-brand infant toys that do not squeak, squawk, chatter or play stadium volume music. The Prawn just doesn’t need that shit. (Translation: we don’t need that shit) While visiting my folks, they dragged out and sterilized all of my baby toys and out of all of them, the Prawn tended to gravitate toward the shape sorter more than any other. (Save for the xylophone, but that’s only because it had a stick attached to it that was clearly perfect for poking an eye out with) Upon our return, I managed to find one that didn’t holler “GOOD JOB!” upon putting the shape in the correct slot to bring home for her. She’s spent a lot of time chewing on the pieces and banging the sorter itself on the floor, no doubt endearing herself further with our downstairs neighbours.

Black Labrador puppet, by Folkmanis. This is the first thing that she’s chosen herself. There’s a lovely children’s toyshop in the trendy downtown area where my parents live that sells imported wooden toys, fun games and other unique stuff. We held a number of things out for her to look at that were met with the withering indifference that only an 8 month old can muster. However, when we held out the Labrador puppet, she reached her arms up for it. Little surprise, as she is fascinated with The Rock Star’s family dog, Dougal, who is also a black Lab. So, we bought Mini Dougal home where she has proceeded to lie on him and bury her little face into his fur, giving her an outlet for her love of the real thing which would most likely be very dangerous as Dougal is a total nutter.

I think probably many people go slightly mad their child’s first Christmas, but I’m saving the bulk of my crazy for her first fully sentient holiday. She’ll be getting a tambourine from Santa this year and that’s about it.

Considering that everything she REALLY wants to play with is ours anyhow, perhaps I should just wrap up my car keys for a bit of extra magic.

A Christmas Story

It’s taken me almost a week to get my ass back into gear, but considering that I’ve been living with a jetlagged 8 month old for the last few days, I’m surprised I’m still standing.

So, it’s that time of year again. This Christmas is particularly exciting as I will have the opportunity, to actually, you know, decorate. While living on a boat has it’s advantages, especially if you like ducks, fish and manual toilet emptying, a rather large disadvantage is not having the space to swing a cat, let alone put up a Christmas tree. Mr. DD and I always tried to make do with a tiny plastic tree which was never large enough to accommodate our already vast collection of ornaments. (When we were married, my mother threw an “ornament” shower for us, so we’re all good on the hanging stuff front).

This year, while we finally have the space, we also have someone living with us who will want to get physically, spiritually and orally acquainted with said Christmas tree, so it’s going to be a little bit of a challenge to decorate like I’ve always wanted and still make sure that there is only a wisp of a chance that the Prawn will decide that Christmas lights are tasty and nutritious.

My father once wisely said that Christmas is a holiday that’s always tinged with melancholy due to the fact that it cannot be celebrated one Christmas at a time; every Christmas is a reminder of all the Christmases that have gone before.

I suppose I was around 15 or 16 when I had a sudden and unsettling realization that Christmas was never going to have the same kind of magic that it had for me as a child and it made me terribly sad for a number of holiday seasons. I’m not sure I even knew how to articulate how I was feeling, but I just knew that it “wasn’t like before.”

On my first Christmas home from college, we travelled up to Pennsylvania for the annual family Christmas get togethers. The Christmas Eve celebration (typically my favourite part of the whole holiday) was held at the house of my mother’s cousin, as it had been for years. (She’d taken over the party from HER mother, my grandmother’s sister) It was actually snowing, making the woods where her house was achingly picturesque. I’d left something in the car, so I’d crunched back down the driveway to get it. On the way back, my foot shot out from under me and I ended up flat on my back in the driveway. As I lay there, looking up at the falling snow and hoping that I wasn’t suffering from a concussion, I suddenly hear the faint sound of a choir in the valley below singing “Silent Night.”

It was a strange and happy epiphany I had at that moment; I suddenly made peace with sense of loss from Christmases past and knew that although that feeling of wonder that I’d experienced as a child was gone, it would be replaced with a warm, more familial feeling as I grew older. I’d look forward to it for different reasons. I’d celebrate it in different ways. The melacholy that had afflicted me for years evaporated, leaving behind the knowledge that it would leave behind only a happy, nostalgic ache, once every 25th of December.

So, lying in the driveway, snow slowing soaking through the back of my coat, I smiled.

This year, I've found that some of that sense of wonder has returned. It's my job to make Christmas happen for my daughter. (Even though this year, she will be more interested in eating Christmas than experiencing it.) All of the beautiful things that I remember from my childhood can come to life again for her, as well as new things that Mr. DD and I will create for ourselves.

I can't tell you how excited I am about that.

Not Enlightened

Should my daughter ever choose a spiritual path, I'll give you two guesses as to which way she probably WON'T be going.

Cute Update

Just a quick update from this side of the pond; Thanksgiving was lovely and full of opportunities for the Prawn to interact with cousins various. The other bit of cute in this picture is The Tadpole, one of our goddaughters. Matching outfits courtesy of The Tadpole's parents. (The Prawn's godparents)

Taking Flight

So, we're off. Wish us luck.

The doctor issued us a prescription for Piraton, which I believe is an anti-histimine, to give to her in a VERY small dose after watching the Prawn attempting to fling herself from my grasp in his office. I'm not keen on giving it to her, but after a serious attack of cranky this afternoon, I'm not sure what I'll do on a 777 if she chooses to do it again. (Look for an escape hatch of some sort, I imagine.)

At any rate, we're off to the New World!

The Cranky

Okay, so remember when I said about 3 or 4 months ago that that the Prawn's teeth were coming in? Well, I was pretty wrong at that point. I was hoping to attribute her cranky behavior to teeth coming in because I didn't want to believe she was just behaving like that for the hell of it. However, now the teeth really ARE coming in and it's time for me once again face the fact that there are occasions that, while I love her, sometimes I don't like her very much.

There are moments when she is almost unbearably sweet. Peekaboo is her favorite game of late and it's amazing to listen to her laugh with delight. She's also recently gotten the hang of waving. And sticking out her tongue. All very cute and lovely and I adore her. But then we try to put her to bed.

Up until now, sleeping hasn't really been so much of a problem. She'd drift off quickly after being deposited in her cot. But now it's all about the screaming.

My theory is that it's all part of the new clinginess that also involves screaming when one of us walks out of the room for a minute, even if we're not out of eyeshot. She's not been a fretful or nervous baby by any means up until now, so these new screaming fits at bedtime are a bit of a new thing for us.

We are definitely of the Controlled Crying school. There is no way that we want this behavior to continue and DEFINITELY not to extend into the middle of the night, like it did last night. (I've got bags 2 miles long under my eyes) We leave her to it for 5 minutes before going back in to re-insert the dummy, kiss her and walk back out again. We leave it slightly longer the next time. Luckily, she's never really gone beyond crying for 2o minutes. Yes, I know that we are lucky.

The reason it is easier to use the Controlled Crying method is that she's developed a new cry which sounds exactly like a pouty child throwing a tantrum. This is the bedtime cry. No real tears, just forced crying. It's funny, but it's kind of been the first warning that cognisance is on it's way- she's already learning how to play the system. "I shout, Mummy and Daddy come back and then I can stare at them innocently while chucking my dummy down the inaccessible side of the cot and bashing the bars with my feet."

At any rate, times they are a-changin. In a week's time, we will be across the Atlantic, visiting my parents in Maryland. Before we get there, however, we have to get on a plane for 7 hours and while checking her into the hold seems an attractive option, it's not strictly legal, so we went ahead and bought her a seat. Am I going to be a holistic Mummy and try to keep my child entertained for the best part of a day in a confined space, or am I going to put Medised into her bottle, have a glass of red wine and fall asleep?

Take a guess.

Reasons Why The Prawn Should Be Watched At All Times

Everyone told me that this would happen someday. I laughed, thinking that neither I or Mr. DD would ever be silly enough to let it happen, but happen it did.

The Prawn has eaten poo.

I am pleased to say that I was not at home when this rather disgusting snack occurred. I was, however, in touch with Mr. DD on MSN. Suddenly a message pops up.

Mr. DD: OMG, OMG, OMG

Me: What?

Mr. DD: OMG, IT'S SO DISGUSTING I DON'T EVEN WANT TO TELL YOU.

Me: What??

Mr. DD: I THINK I'M GOING TO BE SICK.

Me: WHAT??????

Mr. DD: The Prawn just ate her own poo.

Me: WTF?!! How did that happen???

Mr. DD: I changed her and SERIOUSLY, I turned my back for a second and when I turned around, she's all face down in the nappy going NOM NOM NOM.

Me: ........

Mr. DD: Seriously, I thought I was gonna barf.

Me: YOU were going to barf? What about HER???

Mr. DD: I cleaned her up. She's happy as larry.

Me: OMG, that is so heinous.

Mr. DD: I know.

Me: Can you give her a breath mint or something before I come home?

Daylight Stupid Time

To be honest, I've never really given Daylight Savings Time much thought. It's just always been, "Oh better change the clock so I don't end up looking like a big dork showing up early or late for work."

But you know what? Fuck Daylight Savings Time. Fuck it right in the ear. Has Daylight Savings Time ever had a cranky Prawn start shouting at it at 5 instead of 6 in the morning? NO IT HAS NOT. (To be fair, it is Mr. DD who gets out of bed in the morning to deal with the Prawn, but I know he's not loving it either.)

So now it's a question of how we can wrestle her back into a sleep pattern for civilized people. My best guess is that this will involve rather a lot of shouting from a 7 1/2 month old who's wondering why the hell she's still not in bed at 9 pm even though she is being repeated run over by the Sleep Truck. The Sleep Truck is more appropriate for the Prawn than the Sandman as she'll be all, "AAAAAaaaaa, NANG NANG NANG, AAAaaa, NANGzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz" rather than gently drifting off to sleep.

Meh.

All the News That's Fit To Print

While I don't usually resort to "list" posts, I have to admit that life is getting in the way a little. So here's the latest from Prawn Central.

-Me and the Prawn popped over to our local Olan Mills studio yesterday to record, for posterity, the image of her in her Halloween costume, which will no doubt be dragged out someday at her wedding. Or her first date. Even the emo kid behind the camera (who no doubt, in his spare time, takes moody black and white shots of roadkill and develops them in his own darkroom while listening to The Cure) was amused by my little lobster. The Prawn, however, was not so much in a mood to pose in ways best befitting her costume. It is now all about the tummy for her (a complete 180 from her early babyhood) and to hell with this sitting shit. Emo boy managed to get a few good shots that I ordered 8x10's of and was told that I could pick them up in 28 days.

I'm not sure what parallel universe Olan Mills is operating in that it takes them 28 days to print a photo when I can print one in about 40 seconds.

-So, we've kind of stopped trying to dress the Prawn. At some point in the last few weeks, clothes have become poisionous and to be avoided at all costs by way of extreme body contortions and loud shouting. This goes for nappy changing as well. Handy, as colder weather is most definitely here. It's gotten to the point where I think, "Who is it really going to hurt if she goes out with most of a bowl of sweet potato and carrot down her front?"

-We now have two distinct sounds for pleasure/interest and displeasure/frustration. The happy noise is largely, "deeg, deeg deeg!" and the unhappy noise is mostly "NANG, NANG, NANG!" Strangely, my mother told me that she remembered NANG NANG NANG quite clearly, so perhaps it's a genetic thing.

-In preparation for her trip to a weekend with Mr. DD's hairy rocker buddies, we've purchased the ear protectors that you can see in the above picture. She looks tragically cute and doesn't seem to particularly mind them, which is a mercy, because last year, I came home from this gathering with ringing in my ears that persisted for nearly 2 days.

-Definitely starting to enjoy this whole motherhood gig more now that it's apparent that we have a sentient creature on our hands who has preferences (Mummy's homemade food over jars. Yay!) and moods. (Good or bad, mainly. And boy there's a big difference.) The days when I feel overwhelmed or upset are fewer and far between and most of the time I just can't believe my luck at having this happy, healthy little creature in my life.

Fall Shenanigans

Just a bit of Prawny goodness.



My father in law finally got rid of a car that has been sitting in his garage for almost 40 years. This was no small task as the thing weighs about a ton.






The Prawn and the lovely leaves that grow up my in-law's beautiful house.



Sunday morning in the Tree Cathedral.



Prawn and Daddy.



Prawn and Mummy.

Twelve Bar Blues

Just a little movie of the Prawn rocking out to her Daddy's noise.

Toys From the Dark Side

It was inevitable, really.

While I’ve touched on my feelings about the state of children’s playthings today, it never really hit home until a truly diabolical toy reared its ugly head in our daughter’s toy chest.

Last week, I ordered a second high chair and playpen (aka Baby Jail) for use at Mr. DD's parent’s home from one of many fairly anonymous internet baby retail sites that litter the web that all operate under one principle; there’s good money to be made from people who have no idea what they’re doing. When these items arrived, it appeared that we’d picked up a stray from someone else’s order because along with the Baby Jail and the high chair, there also appeared an excersaucer. I had considered buying one of these things for the Prawn, but had always slightly feared the amount of space that one of these things would take up in our apartment which is already filled to bursting with baby gear.

I considered returning the item. Since my Father In Law had paid for the purchase, I wanted to be sure that his credit card hadn’t been charged for something we didn’t order in the first place. But once we discovered that it hadn’t, I was inclined to keep it. Otherwise, I just knew I was going to get stuck with a courier charge to send the damn thing back where it came from, so I sucked up my vague moral compunctions and brought the damn thing home where it started racking up points against it right from the getgo.

First of all, it is in the shape of a pink sports car which is so icky that I can’t even begin to describe it. But, noted my inner voice, you didn’t actually pay for this, so it’s probably slightly ungrateful to bitch that it makes your daughter look like a very small Malibu Barbie home for spring break. Fair enough, inner voice.

Secondly, I’m not 100% sure that it wasn’t put together by little slave children somewhere. But, piped up my inner voice again, you didn’t actually PAY for this, so none of your money has gone to factories in China and Taiwan that make 10 year olds sew soccer balls with their teeth. Good point, inner voice. No money of mine to the slave trade.

Thirdly, and this was the deal breaker….it makes noise. At this point, my inner voice had little to say other than, Will you shut that fucking thing up already?

Mr. DD and I made a pact early on in parenthood that we would avoid toys that made unnecessarily irritating electronic noises. In a world with Mozart and crickets, it is a wonder to me that grating midi music was ever invented. We had been to too many homes with a plethora of these obnoxious playthings and have always been determined never to let these instruments of Satan into the Prawn’s life. (Okay, I accidentally bought that set of stacking rings that not only make noise, but revolve as well, but thankfully, the music is of good quality and fairly innocuous.)

In this excersaucer’s case, it was the “dashboard” of the chav-tastic pink sports car that was the offender. Three benign looking buttons transformed our living room into a hellish reverberating chamber for the most nerve plucking midi horror at the most ridiculous volume that we could have imagined.

“Erm, why don’t you give that back to me a sec?” said Mr. DD, snatching the dashboard from under the gleeful hands of the Prawn and heading for the sideboard to find a screwdriver. I personally was all for smashing the offending piece of kit, but thankfully, Mr. DD has a basic knowledge of electronics and with a judicious wire yank, disabled the noise making device, leaving only the flashing lights and the rather more organic clicking sounds made by the “steering wheel” and the “gearshift”.

As I write the Prawn is enthusiastically gumming her new toy and smiling at me as if to say, “Don’t worry, Mummy. I won’t let the crass materialism that this pink sports wagon represents corrupt my malleable mind. Thanks to your wise instruction, I shall grow to be both virtuous and non-materialistic, dedicating my time to charity and my fellow man.”

She’s yanking your chain, says my inner voice.

I know, I reply.

Mummy Group

So the Prawn and I have recently entered the tender realm of the Mummy Group.

Meeting a huge group of new people is always a bit daunting. The lure of the Mummy Group, of course, is that you all have one thing in common, so at the very least, even if you turn out to be chalk and cheese, you can always talk about, well, poop. There's always the danger of running into someone dangerously unstable or weirdly competitive in one of these estrogen fests, but so far, so good.

It's sort of that first day at a new school feeling for me everytime I go, although I've been attending for about 3 weeks now. Everyone there obviously knows eachother or is related to one another, so just plonking the Prawn down on the mats, taking a deep breath and making small talk is not the easiest thing in the world for me. The other mums aren't unfriendly or anything, but given a choice between talking to someone with a shared history (childbirth classes, family ties, etc) and me, I often end up sitting and smiling, twiddling my thumb while the Prawn bangs seven shades of merry hell out of a xylophone. My job is to make sure she doesn't get carried away and hit the 2 month old sitting next to her over the head.

It's good to go to these groups, however, if for nothing else, than for a bit of baby comparison. The group I frequent is for under 1's, so there's a fair amount of age range. There are a good few 1 and 3 month olds as well as a generous helping of 8 month olds, so the Prawn is pretty much the only one in her age range. However, I've come to think that perhaps she might be a little ahead of the growth curve since she is both taller (she's got a daddy who's 6'2") and heavier than several children who have just celebrated their 1st birthdays. A future career in the WNBA beckons.

Most of the women in the group seem nice and normal, although I have to admit to knowing none of their names, despite the fact that I have been introduced to some of them up to three times. Their babies, on the other hand, I know by heart. A lot of conversations are started with, "Hey...Adelia's mum? How did you and Alexander's mum meet? Did you go to the parenting classes with Kimberly's mum?" Ludicrous.

At and rate, I have been forced to confront the fact that I am, in fact, pretty shy. Although I was a theatre major in college and wanted to believe that I had an outgoing, performance personality, I think I knew deep down that rooms with loads of people I didn't know in them made me want to hide under the sofa. For anyone who's ever taken the Meyers/Briggs personality test (one that actually works, btw) I USED to be an ENFP, but having taken it fairly recently, have become an INFP. (the E for Extrovert and I for Introvert) Perhaps I've changed or perhaps I'm just a little more honest.

On other Prawn related matters, I've been doing some shopping. My favorite purchase thus far has been "M is for Metal" which is a Rock alphabet book that I ordered from Meg's neck of the woods. Due to the Post Office lunacy in our parts, I imagine this is stuck in a sorting office somewhere and I'm just about chewing my arm off to see it. I also just broke down and bought the Prawn a pair of rock and roll Robeez that will hopefully keep her from finding new and interesting ways out of her socks. In the summer, this obviously wasn't a problem, but in winter, I'd prefer to keep her feet covered if at all possible. She's only just discovered that she's capable of manipulating objects in her world fairly adeptly and uses her new found knowledge to make short work of footwear.

You heard it here, folks. All the news worth telling.

Grub

So, we're still chugging along here with teh solidz.

It's trial and error, really. When someone can't really tell you if they're enjoying something or not, you'll settle for them not spitting it out. We have tried, care of Mush, cucumber and avacado (a fairly enthusiastic reception) and chicken and vegetable soup with the addition of potatoes instead of pasta. (Mainly for Mr. DD's and my benefit as we had it for dinner as well. It enjoyed a mixed reception with the Prawn, who's still on the fence when it comes to meat.)

Although I taste the food I make her, not being hugely strong of stomach, (yes, some diapers still make me gag) I have never actually tried any of the Prawn's store bought organic food. (We have some on hand for moments when, quite frankly, I can't be arsed to shove something in the blender due to excessive Prawn shoutage.) Mr. DD was trying, unsuccessfuly, to feed her an Ella's Organic sachet the other day (broccoli, pea and pear) which was mixed with baby rice.

"Look, Prawny! Yum yum! This is really...BLAAAARGH!" he said, sticking a small spoonful in his mouth and nearly retching in the process.

"Um, okay, You don't have to eat this anymore. It tastes like socks." he concluded to the Prawn.

I Can Has Foodz?

I’ve been doing a lot of laundry this week.

Putting something in your mouth and chewing is something we largely take for granted until we have to teach someone else to do it. Especially someone who, as of yet, has no teeth and has subsisted for 6 months of life on an entirely liquid diet. (Quite frankly, the Prawn can remain toothless for as long as she wants. The minute they come through, Mr. DD and I are going to have to start brushing them and I can only imagine that this process will be only slightly easier than trying to tango with an octopus.)

So, we’ve started on solids.

There is quite literally a bewildering array of advice in terms of weaning floating around. When you should start. What you SHOULD give. What you SHOULDN’T give. How much salt is too much? How much sugar is too much? Do you mash, mush or puree? I myself have been given conflicting advice by two midwives working AT THE SAME SURGERY. In light of this obvious lack of organization among health professionals, I have taken my own path which is called, “Feed My Daughter Things That Don’t Make Her Vomit Or Bored Enough to Simply Smear In Her Hair”. It seems to be working out okay. My full color recipe book of the same title will be in stores in time for Christmas.

We are pretty much still at the textured goo stage. In a fit of supermommy ingenuity, I prepared an actual meal for the Prawn several nights ago; the same meal that her father and I were having, which included salmon, mashed potatoes and peas. This was after I was tremendously pleased with myself; not only had I prepared a tasty, nutritious, low salt meal for my daughter, I had made enough for two MORE meals for her which I promptly stuck in the freezer.

Of course, it made the Prawn gag. Try as we might, shovelling ejected comestibles back into her gaping maw, we could not get her to eat until we gave up and went back to the organic puree that we’d been starting her out on. (Which, by the way, looks god awful, but she seems to think that a broccoli, pea and pear combo is manna from heaven.) So, to the health visitor who so confidently proclaimed that babies don’t NEED food to be pureed, even at the beginning, I say please kiss my ass. YOU feed her. I am investing in a hand blender asap and the Prawn WILL eat her food in liquid-ish form for a bit. In fact, next week, I'm going to give some recipes from Mush a whirl.

It could certainly be worse. I could be feeding her crisps. I could be putting Coke in her bottle. (No shit. One of the midwives I talked to early on told me she’d run into someone who was doing this) I could be I could be Britney Spears. Eating mushy food for a bit will not be the worst thing to ever happen to the Prawn.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with a stain treater and three bibs covered in day old Weetabix.

Baking on the Edge

My mother is an extraordinary baker of cakes. Although it has been rather a long time that she had to make one in the shape of a large doll or flower garden, in the heyday of my childhood birthday parties, her cakes were not only tasty, but works of art. I remember hanging out in the kitchen while she used her bewildering array of cake decorating supplies- little silver nozzles attached to bags that spewed forth colourful icing, most of which I was allowed to lick when she was finished. (Then she’d spend the rest of the day trying to peel me off the ceiling depending on which food coloring she’d used.)

Every one of her culinary sweet things was an unqualified success aside from the unfortunate batch of cupcakes that she prepared for my 4th grade class that ended up tasting exactly like Rubber Cement because we glued little ears and whiskers onto the cake wrappers. Whoopsie. Luckily, this was in the days before frequent, petty lawsuits. Mom now sticks to more adult friendly cakes that include copious amounts of rum and raspberry cordial and less industrial adhesives.

The Prawn is now officially half a year old. I remembered seeing a photo of a ½ birthday cake that my mother made for me smeared all over my face and thought I’d like to do something similar. (Make a cake, not smear it on my face.) In preparation, I bought my first icing bag and nozzles at John Lewis, thinking that everyone including the cashier who rung me up could probably see that my first attempt was likely to be a bit of a hash.

“I’m going to bake you a cake, girlie,” I told the Prawn.

“I don’t doubt it, Mummy,” she seemed to say, “but the day will likely end with more icing on you than on your chocolate sponge.”

In the meantime, between the purchase of ingredients and decorating implements, my brother in law and his lovely girlfriend went and got themselves engaged. So it was pretty obvious that one cake was not going to cut it.

Betty Crocker is my cake goddess and her mixes always produce cakes of extraordinary moist tastiness, so the process of turning one of those babies out wasn’t too difficult. My only regret is that my tongue is not adequately shaped to get all the batter out of the spokes of the mixer. It is a feat of self control that I waited until after switching it off to begin the licking process.

The icing was another matter. My only frames of reference were dim and fuzzy memories of haunting the kitchen while my mother worked. I remembered the white icing bags, the nozzles, the food coloring…but not exactly how to use them. Without being excruciatingly boring, I will suffice to say that I now have 2/3rds of a can of salmon colored frosting left over and a shirt that’s going to need some stain treatment before it goes in the wash.

At any rate, you can see the results. My BIL and his now fiance returned from their holiday (they spent a week at Mr. DD's uncle's villa also) last night (We call them Duff and Trumpet. It's a long story) and we celebrated their impending union by demolishing a bottle of champagne, all of the engagement cake and part of the Prawn’s birthday cake.

The Prawn, being too cranky to remain vertical and conscious for the bulk of the celebration, will get her token frosting-smeared moment this afternoon with lunch for the benefit of posterity.

I hope to become more proficient at the art of cake decoration before she asks for a Taj Mahal themed birthday party.

Happy 6 Months, Prawn

So the Prawn is 6 months old today.

She has celebrated by eating solid food, rolling over, drinking water from the tap and throwing a pretty extreme temper tantrum. A good birthday in anyone's book.

Prawns Gone Wild

So we're back from sunnier climes. Portugal, to be exact. We were surprised to discover, upon our return, that Autumn had happened in our absence, so now it's all about trying to scrounge up some winter threads for the Prawn.

But anyway, we had a fantastic time. I may have posted something about the place where we stayed last year- Mr. DD's uncle owns a monster villa high in the hills above Faro where we stayed again, this time with some friends and their one year old son. The last time I was there, I was suffering from morning sickness, so I had a vague fear that I might feel kind of queesy from the smell of the place, but luckily, it was all good. We had a very pleasant week of beaches, pools, rum, wine and relaxing once the kids were in bed. The Prawn coped admirably with her first airplane trip and made doe eyes at everyone in the vacinity, making herself a load of new friends and cheek pinchers.

Here are pictures, as promised.



Her first trip into the pool was not an unqualified success. A long day on a plane and tiredness probably contributed to the screaming frenzy that occurred. But the next day, after a bit of kicking her legs over the side, she had a MUCH better experience. I believe we might have an Olympic breaststroke champion in our midst.



Water baby!



Mr. DD, as a small child, once fell asleep face down in his dinner. It looks like that's where she got it from.



Dad and Prawn at the beach.



More beach/Prawn action. As we've never travelled with children before, it was only natural that we were going to forget some things. Like the 6 sunhats that I bought her specifically for this trip. A muslin ended up serving as head protection gear.



The grounds of the villa are beautifully tended and boast an amazing display of native flora and fauna.



First encounter with the sea.



Pinching a bit of protective head gear from her playmate, Jonas.



Wearing Daddy's shirt.

Holiday

Rockmama is off to sunnier (hopefully) climes for a week. I shall not be far from broadband, but I'm probably going to spend most of the week trying to keep the Prawn from falling in the pool or drinking daddy's rum, so I may check in midweek. Will hopefully have some uber cute Prawn pics to upload upon our return.

Can someone pause the web until I get back?

Good Thoughts Needed

Everyone please go give Sara some love.

An Easy Day

The week before a vacation, you get a bit of a case of senioritis. It's hard to get much done due to constant daydreams about how good the sun is going to feel on your oily, naked body. Or in my case, my flabby, white and mostly covered body with those stretch marks that are stubbornly sticking around. Mmmm, sexy. Luckily, the ever lovely Ms. Prufrock has provided me with a perfect excuse for hassle-free blogging. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

7 Facts/Interesting/Freak-like Things About Rockmama

1. I am also in the "hate to be surprised" club. Not in a "Hey, I bought you a diamond ring for our anniversary" kind of way, but more in a "don't fucking sneak up behind me because you won't see my ass for dust" way. I have been known to have scared people who've surprised me more than I myownself was actually scared due to all the screaming. When I was in college, I spent my summers painting properties owned by the college- often large and empty houses with large cellars. This always made me kind of jittery, so I usually just popped in my Walkman and tried to forget about my irrational fears. One day, I was painting the ceiling in one such house when my supervisor walked in unbeknownst to me and you can imagine that after he caught up with me about a block away, there was some laughing done on his part.

2. I talk to myself ALL THE TIME. It's really bloody embarrassing. I'll have imaginary conversations with people, make up little snippets of dialogue for characters in the movies in my head, or just find myself vocalizing my thoughts. Since having the Prawn, I've had to be more careful due to the presence of the baby monitor. There have been several occasions on which I've been like, "Was I just talking out loud? Did Mr. DD just hear me having a conversation between Lord Winterbottom and his young ward, Genevieve?" I worry about me sometimes.

3. I got cautioned for soliciting when I was about 15. I was waiting for my dad to pick me up outside a laundromat when a cop rolled by and told me to "move along" because he didn't want any girls of "my kind" on his beat. Uh, ok. All the hookers I'VE ever seen wear old overalls and Birkenstocks.

4. Before I get on a plane, I always plant a kiss on my hand and then press it to the fuselage as I walk through the door. It's just one of those things. I've been doing it for as long as I can remember and I know if I don't, the plane will obviously go down in flames. Even Mr. DD has begun to rely on my pre-flight ritual. "Don't forget to do the thing," he says as we walk down the jetway.

5. If I could eat one food absolutely guilt free without gaining a pound from it for the rest of my life, it would be pizza. I know a lot of people would probably say this. Sadly, what with all the baby belly still sloshing around, I don't get it very often. Tonight, we are having salmon fillets, mushroom cous cous and broccoli. I would pretty much give a minor limb for a large pepperoni from Papa Johns.

6. I love flowers and gardens, but have no talent with them whatsoever. My mother is amazing with plants, Mr. DD's mother (before the dementia) was amazing with plants, but both of us are of the "brown thumb" persuasion. Actually, that sounds kind of nasty, so lets just say that we kill stuff. The only reason that our garden looks nice right now is because my mother spent a day working on it when she came to visit.

7. I was a theatre major in college. Yeah, I know. However, I am hugely proud of the fact that I managed to ad-lib in rhyming verse once during a performance of Moliere's The Imaginary Cuckhold. The beautifully painted flat that had the town painted on it toppled over and I turned to the actor playing my husband and said, "Oh my goodness Sganerelle (Gonerell)/ Look at that; our house just fell." I got a near standing ovation in the middle of the play.