I realised yesterday that I’d still not received Gabriele’s appointment for his 8wk immunisations, and thinking that it had been lost in the post as we live in a new build house I gave the doctor a call to check. Apparently the health board is running behind this year so it was a good job I called as they’ve booked Gabriele in for his injections first thing tomorrow. I’m welcoming it and dreading it all at the same time, I want him to be safe and healthy but the thought of anyone hurting my baby turns me into a lioness and I get an overwhelming urge to tear off their heads and growl. It’s one of the worst things us mothers have to do when we hold our babies for injections, operations or examinations because you know that they’re going to hurt your baby but it must be done for the greater good; much like cleaning the bathroom and loo!
Millie has been going ga-ga over her new school uniform which she’d wear everyday if she could because it’s such a novelty at the moment to have a ‘big school uniform’ although come September, just like every child, I suspect she will live to resent it, along with the earlier mornings and longer days. Poor little chicken, it’s tough being four and a half!
Lately Gabriele has been a cheeky monkey and I’m starting to question if he’s possibly doing it on purpose now and is conscious of his ability to thwart my attempts of having a daily routine. Every time I get in the shower I put him in his baby bouncer surrounded by toys, facing the bathroom rack with all sorts of bottles and tubs that he strangely likes looking at and like something out of Mission Impossible I jump into the shower with my utility belt of shampoo, shower gel, sponge and a razor. Before the water from the shower even hits my hair I’m already exfoliating my leg with one hand and shaving my armpit with the other. Last week I somehow managed to wash myself in shampoo and bubble bathed my hair as it seems the second I step foot in the bath something triggers in Gabriele and his bottom lip starts to quiver.
I can’t stand hearing my children cry, not through control or for peace and quiet, but because I believe a part of my heart has been wired up by aliens for every whimper or wince from my young to take my breath away, send my blood cold and make my heart race; and I’ve always been that way. Never in a million years would I be able to leave my children crying, it would simply destroy me and it’s physically impossible to stop me running to them even if I were to be strapped up in a straight jacket, it’s ingrained in me but it’s not a bad thing because they mean the world to me and I’d never want to see them suffer in any way.
Somehow Gabriele always manages to send out his Mummy call minutes if not seconds after I step in the shower, and it’s a blind rush for me to wash, shave, rinse and dry myself so that I can pick him up as quickly as possible. Most times I miss patches of hair on my shins, I’ve forgotten to shave one whole armpit and left a lump of slimy conditioner greased to the side of my head before. I’ve had shampoo in my eyes and almost skidded over in the bath like a fat naked figure skater whilst trying to climb out with the towel one time. And I’m genuinely surprised that I haven’t yet accidentally shaved my head by mistake or shampooed my lady garden. And his fire-engine screams turn into a little coo and a sigh as soon as I have him in my arms again, with cold hair dripping down my back and legs hairier than before I got in the shower. But boy oh boy doesn’t it make a difference to feel fresh and clean, even if I no longer remember what day it is or how to speak English anymore.
Recently I’ve been able to fit back into my size eight jeggings (leggings that look like jeans) and it’s lovely to feel almost normal weight wise as I refused to buy a size up in clothes for fear it’d allow me to continue to eat junk and carry excess weight more comfortably. I love my jeggings but it’s so strange getting used to the high waistband again as they finish just above my belly button and for the past year I’ve been used to rolling my trousers, joggers or legging down under my bump. But as I no longer have a bump my bottoms can now finish wherever they please. My stomach feels like it’s been meat tenderised and I’m pretty sure I could stuff a whole hand into my skin and grip hold of a kidney or two if I wanted to. I haven’t been doing sit ups at all since I first started, I’ve just been too tired and can’t be bothered to be perfectly honest, so my stomach and muscles are pretty lame right now to say the least. So when my jeggings finish so high up and squeeze into the bouncy castle that used to be my waist it really hoists in my organs and makes me suddenly desperate to run to the toilet with very little warning.
There’s something both necessary and wrong about holding a baby in your arms whilst using the toilet, firstly because despite the legend girls do not produce rose petal scented offerings to the God of the pan, and secondly whenever I hold Gabriele he always looks into my eyes and copies my facial expression. So perching on the toilet after a ten second emergency sprint and straining and screwing up your face with a miniature person on your lap looking up at you with big blue eyes mimicking your expression is a little off putting, but in a funny way I’d love to take a photo because it’s such a special and unique moment that I know I won’t get away with for much longer! I can see it being a great conversational piece in the future at family occasions such as his 21st, introductory girlfriend meeting dinner and wedding day. And a small part of me would love to frame it and put it on my desk.
Aside from the bathroom tactics that Gabriele seems to deliberately employ, he’s also been giving me a run for my money at bedtime recently, just as I thought he was getting better and I started to feel almost human he goes and keeps me up for the last two nights running and now I am a bumbling twitching wreck. My speech is similar to that of a two year old, the dark circles under my eyes now hang lower than my breasts without a bra, and my skin and hair feel dry and dull with my throat and mouth hot and dehydrated. So it seems I’ve taken one step forward and an Olympic sprint back.
I’m desperate for a day trip out with the family and have been looking up theme parks and sealife centres near to us. But it seems to take a family of four (with babies going free) out for an afternoon you’d be hard pushed to have change left in your pocket from £200. Add to that the chore of driving for several hours to get there and back again on little or no sleep and I’m seriously weighing it up against going abroad. With only one problem, Millie’s passport has expired and Gabriele doesn’t have one. It’s ridiculous that there are so little things to do in England for families and that it is far cheaper, easier and consists of travelling for the same amount of time to go abroad for ten times as long for less money.
Somebody please open a family friendly, pocket friends, weather friendly haven for me! x x x