Come Back Baby

I can’t deny it for much longer – Zulu isn’t a little baby anymore.

Yes, he’s moving through lots of milestones that help parents realise their little ones are growing up – he’s eating “solids”, learned to roll, sit and commando crawl, cutting fangs teeth – all the normal developmental stuff.

I can handle all that – and I’m totally not in denial. Shush.

No, the hardest thing I’ve found so far was after a feed yesterday. Zulu looked around the room, turned himself over and slid off my lap before commando crawling off to play.

That was the moment my heart simultaneously broke in two and burst with pride. I’m no longer his entire universe – although I selfishly hope I remain the centre for a bit longer. He’s now interested in exploring and playing and doing things – specifically little boy things just like his brothers.

I now have two little boys wanting to interact with the world on their own terms and assert their independence. I’m sure they’ll be best of enemies and worst of friends. Or something like that. Here’s where the real fun starts!

Thankfully, we get to the end of the day and my babies are back. I don’t mind if I don’t sleep through when that means I get to spend time with my babies just being babies. Zulu is potentially our last, so who knows if I’ll experience this again?

Grow up, my babies – just not too quickly.

Toy Tuesday: hide and seek?

It’s a little late, sorry!

While we’re house sitting we have access to a different bunch of toys. It turns out they’re far better behaved than ours, but I still managed to catch some moments of toys behaving oddly.

So it turns out dinosaurs everywhere are troublemakers. I caught this one sneaking into the bathroom. He was trying to be discreet, but I suspect blending into white tiles wasn’t Stegosaurus’s strong point. What I’m trying to work out is why he was trying to get there.

My current theory is that he was playing hide and seek with Ranna-T. I don’t think he was winning.

While we’re on the topic of bathrooms…


It’s a dump truck. On the toilet.

There’s really not a lot more to say, really.

This last one is sort of cheating.

Alpha handed me this small toy gun today. We haven’t ever discussed guns, and to the best of our knowledge, he had no idea about them. I had no idea what to say, so I just waited to see what he was going to do.

“You play my trumpet, mummy?”

I’m counting this as a parenting win – my toddler knows what trumpets are, and doesn’t know about guns. Of course I played the trumpet for him.

Good medicine

We had a medical emergency today.

Thankfully, we just happened to be seeing our doctor at the time, so we were able to receive prompt treatment.

We’d just finished and were about to leave when Alpha suddenly screamed “STOP!!” and burst into tears.

As any concerned parent would, I flew to my son’s aid. It took a few moments to get him to calm down before he spoke.

“My need see doctor.”

This is where being a nurse is a help and a hindrance. While any number of ailments from viral meningitis to pathological fractures raced irrationally through my brain, I calmly asked him what was wrong. In between sobs, he delivered the worst possible news.

“My tail rotor is broken!!”

Amazingly, it turns out that our GP is the leading expert in toddler-helicopter illnesses and injuries and was able to assess the damage immediately.

After a thorough examination, he informed us that with rest, Alpha’s tail rotor will be fine.

Crisis over, we left; reassured and exceedingly grateful for our fabulous GP and his superior care.

Perfection Pending

I hate baths

Tonight’s post is brought to you by a greedy little baby who drank too quickly and covered mummy in puke…and an awesome husband who took the baby and sent mummy off to have a bath.

I have a confession to make. But you’ve probably already guessed it based on the title. Hmm. Should have thought that through a little more. Anyway.

I hate baths.

Not for the kids. I love bath time for the boys – they have a blast and it means freedom bedtime is imminent.

No, this is for me. Hate is possibly too strong a word – I just really don’t get them. I love the idea of them. I know that they’re supposed to be the height of luxury and relaxation, but they don’t seem to agree with me.

First, there’s the issue of comfort. I can never get bath pillows to work properly, leaving me with two options – a hot tap between my shoulders, or swapping ends and sitting with a plug under my bum. Quite frankly, neither of those appeal to me. I usually wind up sitting bolt upright down the deeper end near the taps.

Cue relaxation.


Any second now.

Oh, wait. There are more hurdles to getting really comfortable. I’ve always understood the aim of a relaxational (that’s totally a word) bath to be sinking in up to your chin and enjoying almost total submersion in hot water. Sounds like bliss…

My legs are the length of our tub. I can’t get all of my body into the water at once. I can sink in up to my ears to ensure a deliciously warm back and leave my legs freezing (a logistical challenge with no bath pillow), or I can sit (once again) bolt upright and shivering from the waist up while my legs are toasty. I usually opt (again) for sitting up and pour a cup of water over my back periodically.

Soooo…am I relaxing now?

Then there’s the matter of what to do. I don’t bring books or i-things into the bathroom because I don’t trust myself…so I just sort of sit there. Staring at the water and my hairy legs. For a brief moment I consider shaving them. Then I remember it’s nearly winter and I’m kidding myself if I think I’ll wear anything other than jeans.

Sure, I could just enjoy not doing anything. I understand the appeal of being alone with your thoughts, but quite frankly, sitting in a half-icy, half-toasty condition isn’t conducive to peaceful reflection or meditation.

Have I been in here long enough to justify the amount of water I’ve used?

There’s only one cool thing about baths.

Kids’ bath toys are cool. If I have a bath, I can play with them to my heart’s content and I don’t have to share.

Eventually, though, the water gets cold and I move to a half-icy, half-icy state. That’s even less comfortable, so I manoeuvre my way out of the tub. My feet are all wrinkled and prune-y. I wrap myself in a towel and then glance back at the bath.

I realise I haven’t yet pulled the plug.

Now I’m really in a pickle. Do I pull the plug and risk waking the kids, or leave the water in until morning and brave it then?

I choose the former, but try and mask the sound with the bath mat. I fail miserably. An unholy noise like a kraken realising it’s Monday morning erupts and I hold my breath, waiting for a cry.

Blissfully, none is heard.

But, honestly, that’s too close for comfort. I once again resolve to forego baths in favour of slightly longer showers until I forget the reality again and get sucked into the bath bliss myth.

Am I the only one who dislikes baths?