Sunday, 13 November 2011

Grace three years ten months, Daisy 17 months, Bliss six weeks

So Bliss is six weeks old, already. When Grace was a newborn I was desperate for her to get to the next stage, sit up, crawl, walk, talk. What an idiot I was. I wish Bliss had an "off" switch so I could just keep her just as she is, tiny, sweet smelling, immobile, mute. It's great.

The stage in between Bliss and Grace, otherwise known as Daisy is no easy one. We FINALLY got a word out of her... wait for it........ Woof woof. She is delighted with it and uses it in response to any question:
Me: Daisy, would you like some milk
Daisy: Woof woof woof
Me: Is that a yes?
Daisy: Woof woof woof
Me: Or a no?
Daisy: Woof woof
Me: Daisy, what noise does a doggy make
Daisy: Woof woof woof
Me: Daisy, what noise does a cow make
Daisy: Woof woof
and so on.....

She still snatches, bites, runs off mid nappy change and puts our phones in the bin, but she has learnt sign language for please and thank you. She clings to my leg, pats her mouth and points to the biscuit jar. Alot. Food is a great source of comfort for our Daisyface. No matter how bad the bump, bruise or tantrum, a biscuit always makes it better.

Bliss is heading the same way. She was 12lb by four weeks, bursting out her 0-3 month clothes already. I can just imagine Grace making snide comments like "Food is not love" to them on her way out (to a disco to do her single ladies dance) as they sit at home scoffing on a friday night.

Grace is not really interested in eating. She would quite happily live on cups of tea and the dried pulses she makes pictures out of at nursery. Last week when I collected her the teacher told me "I could not get her to eat any of her roll, but she did make a lovely picture with it instead."

Grace has discovered the hilarity that is calling everyone a poo poo head. Each time is just as funny as the first (for her). On the rare occasions she is not telling me I am a plopper whooper woo, she wants me to put on Beyonce's "Put a ring on it" and do the single ladies dance.

For those of you who have not seen it, it's rather energetic. Don't get me wrong. I am delighted Grace is showing signs of wanting to be an independent woman (hopefully she will leave home nice and early) but this is not the kind of dance you want to be doing at 5.3oam, or whilst breastfeeding for example. I have to explain this to Grace alot. She likes asking LOTS of questions like:

Mummy, how did you fit the house in the car when you bought it?
Mummy, do I have wheels in my head?
Mummy, do you wish you had married a cowboy instead of daddy?
Mummy, why has the girl got a ribbon? (whilst listening to ACDC's Girls got rhythm)

People keep telling me how well I look. They tell me I am glowing. It's not glow. It's sweat.

I went back to the gym a couple of weeks ago to start shifting my baby weight, not knowing Brighton football team now use the hot tub after training sessions.

Imagine my embarrassment when I had to wobble past them in all my flabby, pale, hairy glory. How could I slip the fact I had just had a baby into conversation? In the end I settled for asking one of them, whilst in the steam room, if they had the time (so I could go on to explain that I had to go and collect my four week old baby from the creche soon. Clever eh? Not really. You can't see your hand in front of your face in a steam room, let alone the time on a small watch. No one was wearing one. I could not see their faces but I know they were all thinking "Silly fat tart, trying to flirt with us" )

Now we have three girls it makes more sense to buy communal toys for Christmas. It should stop them arguing over whose is whose. Harder said than done though, when Grace's favourite toy is a Polly pocket, Daisy's is a Thunderbird doll we found at a car boot sale that says " FAB, we're on our way" "Thunderbird one, return to base". (Apparently FAB means fully advised and briefed) and Bliss' favourite toy is my nipple. That would make a very odd barbie doll indeed, certainly not one I have ever seen for sale.

Having three children is a bit like that game, whackamole. One pops up and you have to bop it on the head before the next one does the same. Of course, we don't bop our kids on the head, but we do constantly race to get one fed/changed/dressed before one of the others starts stripping off.

Night time is hardest. When all three are finally asleep we are so scared of waking them up we daren't do ANYTHING. James even tells me off for typing too loudly in case it raises one of our princesses' from their slumber and interrupts our precious hour of not being called a poo poo head or not answering questions like "Why did a bear come to the party?" (Grace recently went to her friend Jake's party at a Brewster's pub (named and shamed Fleur) and at the end a manky old bear turned up to cuddle everyone. Grace hated him and has been going on about it ever since. It was almost as bad as when her nanny showed her a dead hedgehog and said "See Grace. This is why you always have to look before crossing the road." Grace was like a poor comedienne. She kept asking "Why did the hedgehog cross the road" but she didn't have a punchline).

We manage to stay up for about one hour longer than our kids. It's just so tiring this parenting lark. I should lend my kids out to an insomniac. A day of looking after my girls and you could fall asleep on a clothes line. James claims that's about the width of bed he gets to sleep in anyway. He's back in the marital bed now. I got used to him being upstairs with his precious 24 DVDs. He still goes on about them. I'll be talking about something (normally how tired I am, how naughty Daisy has been, how much I don't want Bliss to get any bigger or how fat I feel) and he will say "It's a bit like when Jack Bauer".. and then goes on to describe a situation that is NOTHING like what I was just talking about. I don't even know who he is.

Anyway. I need to keep him well away from me. I only have to share the same spoon as James and I fall pregnant - and baby number four is most definitely NOT on my list to Santa! #

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