Nappy Napalm

"You're in for a big surprise this morning, mummy", said her father with a twinkle in his eye as I entered the bedroom bearing coffee.

"I was going to change her myself but then I realised it was everywhere and I am going to be late for work," he added.

My daughter lay on her changing mat gurgling happily and kicking her legs, one of which had a sticky yellow substance oozing down it.

The explosion was slowly spreading across the back of her white nightie and there were spatters on the delicate wool blanket she had been wrapped up in, a family heirloom.

She looked extremely pleased with herself.

Now, I know unpleasant bodily fluids are a fact of bringing up baby, and I am not averse to getting my hands dirty.

Yesterday morning's nuclear nappy was not really such a disaster. It was quite convenient actually, as I just shoved it all in the washing machine and got her clean and dressed.

It's the timing of her other 'random' splat attacks I object to. I say 'random', but they never happen when we have plenty of time and clean clothes to hand.

And my suspicions that my daughter is waging warfare against me when it comes to her bowel movements are further aroused by the outfits she chooses to decimate.

Her nappies never leak toxic stains on a plain old hand-me-down babygrow while we're hanging out at home with nothing to do. Well, very rarely.

But should I go to the effort of dressing her up in a matching ensemble, perhaps that she is wearing for the first time, that's when the s***splosion is sure to hit.

More likely the outfit is a gift from someone we are going to meet. She is looking smart, especially for the occasion, and about two minutes before we are about to leave the house the sirens sound. She is soiled and sodden and must be stripped down and quickly changed into the nearest dowdy old all-in-one I can find.

I have finally learned there is no point saving clothes 'for best', as not only will she grow out of them but they are always the ones she saves her 'best' efforts for as well.

And she always looks so pleased with herself.

Was it really too much to plan for her to wear a little woollen dress with bunnies on and matching tights at Easter? An hour after getting her dressed the answer was yes. Even the baby bouncer took a hit.

And it's no good being on the alert. It might sound like I'm kidding myself, but this stuff don't stink.

I know it will all change once she's on solids, but at the moment it's not easy to distinguish between the smell of her wet nappies and something much worse.

Her wind on the other hand is a noxious gas.

So when I do get her all dolled up with somewhere to go and am suddenly hit by a waft of what smells like old cheese and cabbages, I quickly whip open her nappy, only to find it empty.

Then I drop my guard and boom!

I must have tempted fate. I have just broken off from writing to check her nappy and found a tsunami of oomska gushing up and out of the front and all over her tummy!

She just giggled and sucked her toes smugly while I tried to ease her vest over her head without smearing the muck across her face.

And another good outfit hits the soak overnight bucket.

Food Glorious Food

I miss eating.

Since I became a mother I still consume nutrients several times a day, but I can't remember the last time I was able to sit down and enjoy a hot meal.

My daughter seems to have been born with a sixth sense. She can't see ghosts, but she is able to tell exactly when I am feeling hungry and have dared to think I might just grab myself a quick bite to eat. Then, no matter how short a time she has been happily playing or peacefully napping on her own, she demands my full and immediate attention.

And so whatever food I have managed to prepare must become cold and soggy and disappointing while I tend to her needs.

Or I can opt for shovelling scolding hot, poorly prepared dishes into my mouth at an increasing speed while her wailing becomes increasingly fraught, spluttering, "Please just let Mummy eat something, if I don't eat, I won't make enough milk for you."

The latter scenario ends in discomfort for us both as she sobs and suckles resentfully on my breast, while I try to ignore my indigestion.

There is a third option. Eating one-handed at the same time as nursing, with a plate precariously balanced on my baby.

Experience has proved this method to be the best. As long as I remember to pick all the crumbs off my daughter before we go out in public.

And no matter how hot a wash I put the my breastfeeding pillow cover on, I can't seem to get out the unsightly chocolate hobnob stains...

On the few occasions I have dined out I have become menu blind. I see only food that can be forked single handedly, or better still consumed with my fingers.

I recently enjoyed a burrito on a lunch out with friends, managing to feed my daughter at the same time so she didn't bawl the house down, and was feeling quite pleased at how I was managing to have my burrito and eat it. At the end of the meal I looked down to see my baby, whose head I had draped in a napkin, was showered with little bits of rice that had dropped out of the bottom.

When I was pregnant I would spend hours fantasising about the enormous surf and turf feast of forbidden foods I was going to have - rare steak, blue cheese and seafood, all washed down with a glass of red wine.

Needless to say I am yet to have truly indulged. It would just be a waste.

Meanwhile, busy with moving house and using up jars and tins of odd food from the back of the cupboard, I even worried that by not getting my full five a day, I was doing my daughter some sort of disservice on the nutrition front.

"Oh don't worry," a friend cheerily informed me. "I'm pretty sure your body strips out all the vitamins she needs and puts them into the breastmilk, so it's only you who loses out."

So I could literally be malnourished, as well as unsatisfied, while my baby chomps on regardless.

But I am starting to have my revenge.

She has become interested in food and is now fascinated in anything that anyone puts in their mouth.

Wave a banana in her face and her eyes become as big as saucers, her mouth a gaping vat of drool and she pumps her fists in excitement.

And thus a window of time has been opened to me.

"Do you want to watch Mummy eat a sandwich?", I ask as I tiptoe around the kitchen, lest the sound of clinking cutlery alert her to the fact I am planning to feed myself.

Then, just as I am about to eat, I strap her into her baby bouncer and sit in front of her while I savour a bowl of warm pasta and she enjoys the show.

I relish taunting her with a forkful of spaghetti dripping with bolognese.

"Mmmmm, yummy. You can try this yourself one day soon," I tell her as her eyes pop out of her head. "It tastes SOOO good."

And, Oh! It does. It really does.

Trouble Sleeping

I have a confession to make.

It is very hard for me to reveal this, and I ask you, please, not to judge me.

My baby is a good sleeper.

I am not one of those smug parents who brag about how she has slept through the night since she was six weeks old, or goes on about how much energy I have had since giving birth.

Make no mistake, I still feel pretty tired. Looking after a baby is hard work, draining even. But I do average six to eight hours sleep a night.

And I feel guilty.

We met up with some friends recently for the first time since my daughter was born, parents to two young children themselves.

"You don't look tired enough!", they complained.

My baby has been known to sleep through the night, sometimes several times a week. 

If she does wake it is usually just once around 4am. Her whimpers of complaint and shuffles in the cot, which is still right at the end of our bed, will in turn rouse me from my slumber and I will roll over and haul myself out of bed.

I pick her up and sit in the comfy chair I have padded with pillows, wrapping myself in a thick baggy cardigan and use a support pillow to feed her, and I often nod back off before she does. (Please don't tell the health visitor!)

After about an hour she is ready to go back down and I return to bed until she gives us her gurgling alarm call just before 7am.

Some may say I put her to bed too late - about 8.30pm or 9pm. But our compact life in a studio flat has made establishing a bedtime routine that works for all a little more complicated. And she often doesn't sleep that much in the day.

But until now I have kept my daughter's sleep patterns close to my chest.

The other parents I speak to all seem to relish sharing their stories of being woken every hour throughout the night. Or wax lyrical on the torment of not being able to get their baby to go back down in the very early hours.

They brandish their dark circles like badges of honour, and indulge in their yawns, exclaiming, "I could just go to sleep right here, right now!", while everyone else groans in understanding.

When some fool dares to pipe up about how well rested they are feeling thanks to their little darling's perfect routine, dagger stares are flashed and teeth are gnashed.

And so I have learned to nod along in empathy with the sleep deprived.

I would never dare admit the truth about how many hours of REM I clock up.

Further still, if I am ever I am quizzed on my baby's nighttime habits, I immediately become apologetic. And my vague description is probably closer to a little white lie than it is the truth.

"I'm very lucky," I say quietly and guiltily. "She only wakes up a couple of times a night."

And then I feel I must compensate before I lose these people's trust and companionship entirely.

"But she doesn't sleep at all during the day", I add more assertively. "So I can't get anything done around the house," I moan, rolling my eyes.

"And I put her to bed far too late." Now I'm in full swing.

"I'm always waking her up watching unsuitable shows like The People Vs OJ Simpson and then I have to resettle her all over again, so she's probably exhausted, poor thing."

And so I keep my terrible secret to myself.

But she is only five months old, and she is just starting to teeth. In fact last night she woke up three times. And she hasn't slept through for a whole week.

So perhaps the Sandman has had enough of me bending the truth.

And then I can claim official membership to the Sleep Deprivation Society without feeling like a fraud.

Mad Woman In Residence

Oh dear. We told everyone at Stay and Play we are moving house and they had a leaving party for us!

It was lovely, people brought cake, they made us a laminated picture montage of all the activities we'd done, they even signed a card.

But now our move has been delayed a week and I feel like we can't go back.

What would they think if we turned up again?!

Maybe they were relieved to see the back of us, what with me gabbling non-stop about not having done any packing and her spilling forth a tsunami of dribble all over the playmats and toys, with not a tooth to show for it.

Or they might think I'm some mad woman who makes up stories about moving house just to get attention.

They say two of the most stressful things you can do are have a baby and move house, and going out to different groups are part of what has been keeping me sane.

Ever since she arrived on the scene I have begun to feel slightly unhinged.

I have taken on the role of narrator in the crazy little pantomime that is our daily life.

Walking down the street, around the supermarket or in the disabled loo with baby changing facilities, I describe my each and every action to my daughter, all in a high-pitched and over enthusiastic voice. Sometimes even in song.

I point out the sights; "That building used to be owned by The Masons before they sold it to be turned into luxury flats. Masons look like regular men but they have funny handshakes and take part in strange rituals." Vital information for a four-and-a-half-month-old.

Or I discuss my personal agenda with her; "You must remind Mummy to fetch her new glasses from Specsavers and buy some milk, okay?!"; "Do you think Daddy would like pasta for supper? Or do you think he'll be fed up of it by now?"

And of course most often I use our one-way conversations to excuse myself to the people around us; "Don't cry darling, we've only got three more stops before the bus gets home and then you can have some food. It really isn't my fault we got stuck in traffic and I don't know why you're so hungry - I only just fed and changed you before we got on. I'd love to pick you up and cuddle you to keep you quiet but this bus driver seems to have some sort of death wish on corners and it would be very dangerous."

The latter begins in an attempt at a calm and soothing voice, becoming increasingly frantic and hysterical as we get stuck at yet another red light and she invokes the primal scream.

My reputation as the mad woman who talks to herself is probably sealed by the fact I now seem to find it impossible to stand still, and begin rocking back and forth whenever she starts griping, even though she is in the pram. I am pretty sure I have even found myself swaying from side to side in queues when she is perfectly happy.

This constant chatter with a person who can't talk back means I am immediately grateful every time any adult engages me in conversation.

But why, when you have a small child who can't speak, do people address every question to your baby?

"Hello, you're a sweetie, aren't you? How old are you?"

Seeing as I have already lost most of my social faculties you'd think I might snap back, "She is four months old, she can't talk."

But instead I dutifully enter into a bizarre, third person, sing-song conversation on behalf of my daughter.

And now we have officially 'left' Stay and Play I can't even have the same old chats about sleep patterns and weaning and remarking how much everyone's baby has grown in just one week.

We will have to spend the next two weeks sitting in the park drinking free Waitrose coffee and diving into a bush every time we see a buggy we recognise.

That should make my status as the local mad woman official.

The Liebster Award

I was recently nominated for the Liebster Award by generous Claire at The Pramshed. I had only been blogging for a month and I am still working out how it all works so I was very flattered, thank you Claire.

I had never heard of the award but Claire explained it all in her blog post.

It has taken me a little while to take my turn, what with juggling the iPad and a nursing,  wriggling four-month-old, at the same time as moving house. But I have finally managed it.

There are a few simple rules to follow:

1. Thank the person who nominated you and post a link to their blog in your post.
2. Show the award on your blog, or in your post.
3. Answer the 11 questions asked by the person who nominated you.
4. Write 11 random facts about yourself.
5. Nominate 5 – 11 bloggers that you feel deserve the award.
6. Create a list of new questions for your nominees to answer.
7. Once your blog is published, let your nominees know that they have been nominated and link them to your post for more details.

So here are my answers to Claire's questions:

When did you start blogging and why?

I started blogging when my daughter was three months old. I wanted to do something creative while I was on maternity leave and share some of the funny things that had happened to me since I became a mother.

What aspirations do you have for your blog?
I hope people read my blog and it makes them laugh. When I return to work I can show it to potential employers and say, "This is what I have been doing with my time off... As well as bringing up a baby."

Tell us about your perfect holiday?

My perfect holiday would be at the house in Ireland where we went every summer when I was a child. Reading books, playing board games with my family and taking my daughter swimming in the lake.

Describe yourself in 3 words?

Clumsy, spirited, nostalgic.

What 3 items would you take to a desert island?

Flint, an axe, and a notebook.

What bloggers inspire you?

I do genuinely admire  The Pramshed for its stylish professionalism, combined with honesty. I take inspiration from ThisMumsLife who has managed to create such a successful and engaging blog and still maintain her anonymity. I am inspired by PinkPearBear's  energy and enthusiasm, Chiswick_mum  as a fellow London blogger and SingleMumSpeaks for her wit.

What do you enjoy doing in your spare time, apart from blogging?

Watching films, going to proper pubs, walking around London, playing Scrabble. I can't wait until my daughter is old enough to go to the park and soft play centres, but I am sure I will soon discover why many parents dread these places.

What is your favourite chocolate bar?

A red Bounty.

What do you see yourself doing in 5 years time?

Being a working mother, possibly of more than one, hopefully with a home I feel proud to entertain in.

What is the best thing you have ever done?

I hate to be so trite, but it has to be becoming a parent.

Finally, what would your last meal be?

My mother's homemade lasagne.

These are 11 more things about me:

I write for a living.

I am the eldest of five children, which makes me loud and competitive.

I appreciate the music of the Spice Girls and Bob Dylan in equal measure.

I am Welsh and support Wales at rugby.

I have epilepsy, but it doesn't stop me doing anything except driving.

My favourite book is The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery.

I have met Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, but not at the same time.

My signature dish is risotto.

I have a birthmark in the shape of the British Isles on my right cheek.

If I could only eat one thing for the rest of my life I would choose avocados.

I love swimming outdoors.

Now I nominate:

@thelyricalmummy

@DHDaddyBlog

@BeautifullyMarked22

@SchoolrunmumThe

@mummyrules_uk

And my questions for these fab bloggers are:

1. What made you decide to become a blogger?

2. What are your aims for your blog?

3. Where and when do you most often find yourself writing your posts?

4. What was your New Year's Resolution for 2016 and how is it going?

5. Name your three favourite blogs and your reasons why

6. If you had a whole day all to yourself what would you choose to do?

7. What word do you use for the TV remote control?

8. What do you cook if you're having a dinner party?

9. As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?

10. What do you say when you answer the phone to cold callers?

11. What are the top three items on your weekly shopping list?

Thank you again Claire for nominating me.

Nursery Whines

Town Mouse Moves To Suburbia

When we decided we were going to start a family, we also had to accept that it was time to move on from our studio in the City of London.

Ten years ago, when we arrived at the tiny rental flat in the middle of a spectacular thunder storm, carrying only dreams and expectations of life in the Big Smoke, it seemed the perfect roosting place.

We only had a few bags of clothes each and a room with a view, a futon and little else was all we wanted or required. And we loved it.

Almost a decade on, as I sit cross legged on the floor eating a bowl of pasta off my lap at the same time as trying to entertain my daughter in her baby bouncer, squashed up against a travel cot, I do wonder how we lasted this long.

No, that's not true. Looking out at Centre Point in the distance and knowing the whole of London is quite literally on my doorstep, I can see exactly why we are still here.

But D Day has arrived. After a year of scouring the suburbs for a nest big enough for three, followed by almost six months of waiting on tender hooks for the sale to go through, we are about to leave our home.

In the final weeks of my pregnancy, after things didn't quite go to the original plan, I lay awake panicking about how we could possibly cope bringing up a baby in our city pad.

But needs must, and after almost five months of raising my child an urban chick, I now feel fearful of leaving.

We have made so many new friends in the last few months. Okay, I don't know half the mother's names, only their babies', and it would now be far too rude to ask now, but our children have grown up together all their lives!

If we want to pop to a swimming pool, or a children's centre or a baby cinema, an art gallery or even a garden, we have so many to choose from.

Far from feeling trapped in our tiny room, as a new mother in the city I have felt so free.

Of course, compact living is not all convenient.

Trekking to the laundrette, as we have no room for a washing machine, has always been a drag. But staggering with two IKEA bags weighed down with dirty washing while pushing a pram would not be out of place in the Tough Mudder Obstacle course.

When we were young free spirits, inviting people round to a dinner of take away sushi on the floor seemed cool. But as we have grown older, our lack of a table has just made entertaining an embarrassing impossibility.

And I know many people share their bedroom with a young baby, but sharing our entire living space 24/7 means any time we decide to indulge in reading or watching television after 'lights out' only results in sleepless nights for all.

Yet we have muddled through thus far, all the while telling people we were crossing our fingers we could move to our new home soon.

But now that we finally have the green light, I don't feel so revved up.

How will we fair in the slow, easy going life of the leafy suburbs? Will we make new friends? Will we really make the journey back to the city regularly?

At least I can't worry that our new life will be boring. The number of rooms I have to keep clean and tidy just quadrupled. And I'm not doing a very good job at just one!

Pro Pram Rally Driver

I wouldn't have much time for video games if I wanted to play them these days.

In between feeding, changing and entertaining my daughter, I find barely enough moments spare to cook an edible evening meal and just about keep the flat from becoming unsanitary.

But if I was a gamer, I think my appetite for such thrills would be satiated by negotiating the streets and transport systems of London with my pram.

As a non-driver I had very little previous experience of steering, parking and three point turns. But after a crash course (sometimes literally) I feel I have earned Pro status.

Wheeling along London's pavements is very similar to how I imagine off-road driving to be. Potholes, bumps and haphazard inclines cause my pram to bounce around in all directions, as I try to dodge obstacles, puddles and people.

One road we have to use regularly features a series of bollards which are placed closer and closer to the wall as you progress, like an optical illusion, requiring real focus to traverse the pavement without colliding with at least one along the way.

Crossing roads can be a real challenge, with road-works meaning the designated crossing areas have been moved to where the pavement does not lower to meet the road. So we are forced to tip and tumble off sheer drops, before making a mad dash to haul the vehicle up the opposite curb before the lights turn green and the river of traffic pours forth once again.

Cyclists, with their sheer ignorance of red lights and tendency to whizz silently out from behind lorries and buses, are often far more dangerous a bullet to dodge than motor vehicles.

But buses can be pretty frustrating video game bosses in themselves.

I always knew Sadism must be one of the main qualities required to become a bus driver, because so many enjoy the sport of waiting at a stop when they see you running towards it, only to pull away at the last minute. But it seems they also love stopping on a Pelican Crossing just as the light turns green, ensuring you have no time to wheel a pram all the way around them and get to the other side in time.

And thank goodness for the old analogy of buses all coming at once. Because once you have a baby in your life, you wait for about a year, and then the first few buses that arrive at your stop are already filled up with buggies.

But you have to be patient and rely on the bus routes to the next level in this game. Cheats and shortcuts involving the tube are few and far between.

It's only once you are on wheels you realise how few tube stations have what Transport For London refer to as "Step Free Access". Which basically means they have managed to install some lifts.

Now, carrying your pram down a few steps is a pain, but it can be done.

However, the prospect of getting onto a steep escalator that seems to descend forever into the bowels of hell is terrifying just to consider, let along put into practice.

On a recent day trip I made it to my destination having balanced the pram at an angle in front of me as I teetered up an escalator. It was only when I reached the top, my heart in my mouth, it dawned on me that to go home I was going to have to go back down.

I spent the entire day feeling sick as I envisioned myself and my daughter lying smashed at the bottom underneath a tangled mass of straps and bent metal.

When it finally came to my return I approached the man attending the barriers and tears pricked my eyes as I appealed to him for help.

Now I have read about, and even experienced firsthand, my share of stony-faced, unhelpful TfL staff. But fortunately here was a rare exception.

The kind and generous gentleman explained that Health and Safety forbid him from handling a buggy with a baby in it, but if I carried my daughter he would take the pram. And he stood in front of us on the perilous escalator so I felt less doomed to tumble into the depths.

We won't be going on escalators again.

But when it comes to a daily round of wheeling the short journey home from the shop with a coffee in one hand, juggling the key and pushing the door open with my hip as we swivel inside, I believe I currently hold the top score.