Year of the Prawn

When documenting the passage of time, especially in regards to the growing process of children, it’s easy for details to start leaking out of your ears. I’m fairly sure that if I didn’t have pictures of the Prawn as a tiny blob, I would have a difficult time remembering that she did not spring from my womb fully formed, toddling, demanding cheese and shouting “geetar!” Have I forgotten enough to try to start the whole process again, complete with possible complications and disappointments? Possibly. Traitorous swine brain.

At any rate, our little crustacean has now been with us for a whole year. Both to celebrate her birthday and spend some time with their trans-Atlantic granddaughter, my parents flew in last Monday. From stories that have been passed down to me of my babyhood, I’m fairly certain that The Prawn is a far more charming child than I was. Luckily, this innate charm has completely won my parents over; I don’t believe there is any residual resentment that I haven’t yet had what’s coming to me in the baby karma stakes. I don’t think they’ll be disappointed forever, though; I imagine that the wheel of retribution is turning slowly but surely my way.

While we spent most of the week pleasantly sipping tea on the couch, reading and watching the Prawn discover new concepts like, “clock”, “duck” and “cow” (her cow impression, which is a strangled roar, is not to be missed) we decided that we should complete my parents' London Landmark tour by going to the Tower. The Tower is one of the more pricey attractions in the city’s tourist arsenal, but to my mind, well worth the expense for such a lot of history in one place.

Since we live 45 minutes outside of the city, the question is, To Drive or Not to Drive. Mayor of London, Ken Livingstone would much rather that we took the train, but Ken Livingstone is not in possession of a pre-toddler who would much rather be spelunking in carriage trash bin for Burger King remnants than sitting in her seat. Also, he’d need to lend me the 25 quid in fare, so he can politely sit and spin. Neither Mr. DD nor I object to the congestion charge (which is only 8 pounds) and neither of my parents were particularly keen to ride the Tube, so driving won hands down.

Our TomTom, which we rely on rather heavily when venturing city-wards, is obviously having some sort of elicit affair with the M1, which is not at all the way to get where we were going. While it has made our lives easier in a lot of respects, TomTom has yet to learn a rather elementary navigation lesson; that the shortest distance between two points might not necessarily be the FASTEST, especially in a city. For the second time in as many weeks, we resolved to next time ignore TomTom until we got to some part of the London that we recognized. Long story short, the 1 and a quarter hours journey actually took closer to 2.5 hours due to route diversions and roadworks. Lucky for us that we brought several pounds of Cheerios with which to distract the Prawn. (The US kind, without the sugar coating. If she ate as many of the British variety, we would have needed a sedative of some kind. As it was, we’ll still be hoovering those things out of the car for weeks.)

Upon our arrival at the Tower, we congratulated ourselves for bringing the new backpack-style Prawn transportation device instead of the traditional buggy, which works fine in the local shopping centre, but does not have shocks capable of withstanding 10th century cobbles. She seems quite content to let Mr. DD haul her around like a load of camping gear.

I quite like the Tower. It’s an extraordinary mish-mash of architectural styles resulting from it’s myriad of uses over the years, including prison, execution site, royal quarters and military station. It’s always quite something to come face to face with very old things, no matter how commercialized they’ve become. Apart from the several gift shops (which I have to say are tastefully incorporated into the scenery) the Tower has not yet needed to resort to Madame Tussaud type tactics to bring in visitors. The sheer weight of past events is sufficient to draw a crowd.

After the obligatory tour of the jewel house, the Prawn began to become restless, so we let her out of her pack to stretch her legs. The problem being, of course, that she doesn’t regularly use them yet, so after tiring of my attempts to help her navigate the cobblestones, she took off crawling towards the scaffolding site. Human nature dictates that we’re grimly intrigued by the gruesome. However, on the site of the scaffold where a good many nobles including Anne Boleyn and Lady Jane Grey lost their collective heads, an artist has attempted to create a dignified memorial in metal and glass. I think this disappointed some visitors, as they much RATHER would have had a Madame Tussaud type re-constructed scaffold complete with re-enactments on the 12, 3 and 5. But instead, the memorial squashes our morbid fascination and makes the viewer feel just a little bit guilty. This was not the case for the Prawn however, who was all like, “Whee! Heads!” as she gleefully scooted around the edge of the memorial as fast as humanly possible, staying just out of the reach of Mr. DD, who was dodging German high school students to get to her.

My mother’s favorite part of the day hands down was getting a picture of Wren with Moira Cameron, the first female Yeoman Warder in the regiment’s 523 year history. Right on, strangely dressed sister, thought the Prawn.

The Prawn’s birthday fell on Good Friday this year, despite being born on a Wednesday. This had me vaguely confused until I remember that we experienced Leap Year calendar tomfoolery just about a month ago. Both my mother and I (and now The Prawn) have often had birthdays on Easter weekend due to whatever bizarro solstice related system is used to determine when the holiday falls. It was convenient, however, when planning a party for a day that everyone had off. My mother and I spent the evening before making a small cupcake army in lieu of a traditional birthday confectionary; who can argue with a self contained cake that, in a pinch, you can shove in your mouth at one go? My father and Mr. DD helpfully did the manly chores which involved hanging bunting and scrubbing mildew off of the bathroom tiles that I’ve been trying to ignore for the last few months.

Everyone knows that birthday parties for very young children are pretty much an excuse for a lot of grown ups to get together, eat junk food and finish off a couple bottles of Pino Grigio. Occasionally, the birthday boy/girl is the only child present at said gathering and earns his or her keep by pulling amusing faces in exchange for Cheetos. However, there were in fact 5 other children of various ages and at varying stages of mobility present at the Prawn’s natal festivities, so there was quite a lot of “omigodwhathaveyougotalloveryourshirt?” going on. The mountain of food that I had purchased the day before and was having sinking feelings about the chances of it getting eaten pretty much all DID, which was a relief for both me and my refrigerator. A hugely pleasant time was had by all, despite the fairly major space restrictions. The Prawn’s birthday dress was covered in strawberry juice within the first hour. And there were remarkably few tears considering the critical mass of rampaging children and adults balancing plates of food on their laps. A roaring success.

My parents departed this morning. I’m always terribly sad to see them go, but I think the Prawn will be even more bereft to have lost her two constant companions who filled every spare moment of the day with learning, tickling and funny faces. I imagine that she’ll wake up tomorrow and be like, “YOU two again? What happened to the older models? THEY didn’t have to work on laptops, cook or do the laundry! I DEMAND THAT YOU SIT DOWN HERE AND THROW THAT BALL TO ME 250 TIMES IN A ROW! AND IF YOU DON’T, I’LL CLING TO YOUR LEG AND GO EEEEEEEEEAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH UNTIL YOU DO!” Such is the nature of grandparents.

Before I try to rescue my house from the disarray of the past week, I leave you with some gratuitous Prawn-related imagery.

Milestone

My dear little Prawnlet is a whole year old today.

Pictures of the mayhem that was her first birthday party to follow on Monday after the departure of the grandparents.

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.