Category Archives: Baby

Posts about, or including, my baby daughter.

Hello, New World

More non-blogging. This post is brought to you by the WordPress app for Android. I like the interface so far. Looks like I can add pics an stuff, too, but I won’t. That is what Flickr is for.

Well, Jesus Christ, we’re back in Tory Britain, something which fills me with an unknowable dread. Ok, sure, we have no clue how the Con-Dem-Nation will work out, and having a hobbled Conservative govt is obviously better than having one blue in tooth and claw, running amok etc etc metaphor goes here. I am, therefore, worried but optimistic.

Today I joined the Labour Party. I hope to Christ that I don’t regret that in a few years. But I felt I should. Tribally Labour and all that.

Oh, ok, biggest thing of this is that my daughter, like me, will grow up under a Tory government. At least, initially she will. Nice to have something in common.

Doesn’t look good, does it?

Man, talk about a delay.  Sorry.  And it’s not going to get better now.  This is not a proper post.

First thing.. my god.  A baby with a cold is no fun.  No fun for her, of course, but eeesh.  It started on Friday night with copious vomiting, continued with a sleep-shattered Saturday, then Sunday, and tonight looks no different.  Maybe a bit different.

So I’m standing  there on Sunday night, holding the baby, and she discovers that if you push your finger far enough into your mouth, you throw up.   Not a lot, but enough to make me change out of my nice warm dressing gown and pyjama top.  I find clothes, I make do.  Laundry, all is laundry, so this is really making do.

So I’m standing there, later on Sunday night, holding the baby, and she’s been crying for an hour and a half, inconsolable, she can’t breathe, she can’t sleep, she’s been swallowing air and mucous for ages.  And then it happens, the sick.  Like a fire hydrant in my arms, a gush of vomit onto my chest.  I don’t know what to do, but luckily she does.  She pukes again, then once more, for good measure.  Figuring my clothes can’t get worse, I hold her to me and whisper comforting things while – aside – bawling “Get a bucket!!” to her mother.  A bucket is not needed, she’s done, spent.  Shivering in the cold, we both end up without clothes and in need of a clean-up.

I find more clothes.  God knows where they come from.  God sent them, Buddha took pity on me, gave me a thin T-shirt on a cold night when I’m going to be out of bed every hour.

Oh, and she started nursery, properly started it, the next day.  Shall we all give a cheery thumbs-up?

Palaver.

Dunno if you noticed, but it was Mothers’ Day last week.  What did we do?  Well, stuff, but one of the big things (it being anise’s first Mothers’ Day) was the card, with a handprint from E in it.  On Friday night I got in and my sister-in-law was there so I thought “Right, now or never, grab the baby and some paint, s-i-l can distract the wife..”

I rushed upstairs, got the baby down to her nappy, slapped her hand in the paint, slapped it on the card.  Only, that was the plan.  My dear sweet daughter, of course, had other ideas.  Smear on card.  Damn.  Press again.  Slightly better, can make out fingers now… Third time’s the charm!  Oh, that’s less good than the second.  Oh, well, she isn’t going to magically co-operate, she is a baby, dammit.  Just wash the paint off and we can move on.  You have the wipes?

Wipes.  Ha!

The wipes fail almost perfectly to remove the paint.  Shit shit shit, there’s so much PAINT here.  Well, luckily the bath was clean and clear so I run the taps.  In order to do this I have to let go of E’s hand for, like, a second.  Big mistake.  Slap, slap, scratch, she is now covered in paint.  Blue on her tummy, blue on her legs, blue on her face – under her red hair she looks like a tiny Boudicca.  Eek..  Okay, into the tub.  Take off your shirt!  Don’t want that to get paint on it (this is *FORESHADOWING*)!  Pull off shirt, throw it across the room.  Okay, right, she’s in the bath.

Lalala… a moment of relative calm.  I wipe at the blue with a sponge and feel that I have re-gained control.  Then I need to dry her off.  Oh, balls, the towel is over there.  Could reach it if I let go of baby… but baby is slippery and *in the bath*, don’t want to let her go.  Shit, shit, shit, again, what now?  Grab phone, call sister in law.  No answer!  But she is right downstairs!  Take plunge, call wife.  Sister in law answers!  Success!  “Urgent assistance required.  Come alone!”.  Worried that I sound sinister, just don’t want surprise spoiling.

Sister in law arrives and thankfully takes charge.  Hands over towel, tells me baby is still blue.  What?  Still blue.  Looks fine to me, yes, but you’re colourblind.  Heeelp!  So sister in law washes baby (who is still a bit blue next day).

Suddenly realise I am shirtless in room with a person who isn’t my wife.  Feel extremely self-conscious (in panic didn’t care, do now).  Recover shirt.  Lid of paint adhering to sleeve.  Waaah!  Lucky it wasn’t my posh shirt, just next to the *ruined* shirt (which is only a casual sort of thing, so not to worry too much).  Throw on dressing gown.

Look calm and composed and take baby back downstairs.  “Nothing happened.  Nothing happened, there was no crisis and everything is fine.”  Wife not convinced.

Oh, well, she liked the card…