Still Alive But Trapped Under Something Small And Screaming

Yeh, good one. Blog about how you dont get to do anything that resembles your old life and all you are is a wiper of bums and noses and then not be able to do ANYTHING other that wiping bums and noses for three whole weeks.

Perhaps I should blog about how all I am is a lady of leisure with wads of cash.

So, you know, there's no time for tales of dering-do right now, because something much more important has come up.

The Spud has today reached the grand old age of six months. SIX MONTHS!!!! At exactly this time six months ago I was about to have the epidural inserted, having given up all hope of dilating all on my very own like a big girl, and it was still 13 hours to go before he was pulled out of my twat with the Salad Tongs From Hell.

Right now the Bestest Baby Ever can sit unaided, manipulate two objects at once, play independantly with his toys, babble incessantly but most importantly says "Mamma". He loves solid foods, adores avocado and should probably never again be given beetroot unless I particularly want all objects stained purple as it goes in or his butt stained black as it comes out.

In the first few weeks of his life, I kept wondering when my life was going to get back to normal. Oh the naivete! Now I know better: that this is the new normality. I cant wear dresses or flimsy tops that allow no access to boobs. I cant stay up past 9.30 or stay in bed past 6am. I cant eat all the cheese I want without there Being Consequences. I cant go to the movies without some major organising. I cant shop for new clothes because every time I go near Target he starts screaming. Dinner has to be eaten quickly or or god knows Someone will start crying and it will go cold. Long showers without worrying whats going on in the living room dont exist. The washing AND the dishes have to be done everyday because there is no time to stand at the sink for an hour catching up with every piece of cutlery we own. I consider where to go out for lunch based upon how baby-friendly their facilities are. I dont care if my clothes are covered in baby puke. I dont care that every decision I make has to take into account a small nuggety type person, and I dont care that I cant do all those things previously mentioned.

Right now he is sitting on the floor on his playmat looking at me and saying "Mamamamama" and smiling. Oh, okay, now he's straining. And now he's stinky.

Its normality. And I love it.