From Tummy To Toes

Ahh, the miracles of locomotion. Back when the Hungry Mouth was a mere six months old, learning to sit up, I wondered when she’d ever learn to roll over, even as I positioned her sitting on our bed, waving feebly, surrounded by pillow buffers. (Nowadays, she simply snatches such offending obstructions out of her path as she gallops towards the light switches, squeaking determinedly.)

But she did it eventually. First one way, and then, as the books say, the other. Was that left to right, or tummy to back? ‘Tummy time’ suddenly became a lot more fun, as she wiggled hopefully on our smooth floors, all too often sending herself speeding backwards…sometimes underneath a table and alarmingly out of sight. Cleverly, she managed to get into sitting position from her tummy. But would she ever gather those tubby knees under her hips and crawl?

But she did it. Once her tummy and leg muscles were strong enough and coordinated enough, she rose to all fours and progressed proudly — forwards. Playtime became so much less frustrating, home so full of places to explore. Muslin Mummy could no longer vanish with that tantalising ‘Mummy’s back in a moment’ to complete a tiny task in another room. Instead, an anxious scurrying, shuffling sound would indicate the approach of my tiny four-footed tot, hurrying as fast as she could after me, chirping with happiness and relief as I came into view. I’d leap to the floor and crawl welcomingly towards her till she slid underneath me for a hug.

Next, pulling-up and cruising. She did it all herself. One day she simply got a good grip of something and tugged herself up. Everything became a handle, and a much taller tot can reach many more shelves, and things on shelves, and things in things on shelves… Here’s where to apply the Muslin Mummy out-of-reach rule. Can it hurt her? Can she hurt it (do I care)? If yes, move it up a shelf.

Next, getting up to her feet to stand alone, wobbling and clapping herself, squeaking with pride, demanding applause 75 times a day. Practising holding something while getting up…a prune, perchance. Blankie, of course. Bumping back down with a nappy-padded thump. Gliding up and down in seamless squats to make an unfit Muslin Mummy’s thighs creak in sympathy.

And that brings us to the toddling stage. The enthusiastic springy leaps holding our hands gave us the idea. So we bought her a wooden pushalong trolley full of toy bricks. She took one look at it, grabbed its handle and set off. She picks up a fair pace until it tonks against a piece of furniture. Then she cruises around it, climbs in, and sits hopefully on the bricks, awaiting rescue or…a ride!

I expect she’ll walk next. Sigh. Run. Climb trees. Swim. Trike. Bike. Car keys…

One

Well, this event happened a few weeks back now, of course. But turning one is such a milestone for a baby (and her parents) that even when she was only 11 months old, we sort of thought of her as already being one…And now that she’s speeding on into those awkwardly named ages — awww, what a cute little smiler, how old is he? SHE’s 13 and a half months — we still think of her as being one. We remember what we were like a year ago, proud parents of such a tiny, new tot. And we smile fondly at her now, thinking how much more adorably interactive she is now. (Even if she still hasn’t grown enough hair to overcome what I hereby dub the Bystander Gender Bias.)

So to mark the occasion, a personalised website named after her birthdate, like Sienna Miller’s? Or, a Birthday Party?

My mum back in sunny South Africa said that the rule of thumb for how many guests a child ought to have at her birthday party is the same as her age. Turning one? One guest. Suck it and see (as indeed, the Hungry Mouth does, at every available opportunity). Well, this did not seem feasible to us. And yet, in hindsight, perchance ‘twas wise advice.

Obviously all the rellies had to be invited. Some had not yet met her, in fact. Quite a few people right there, and no other children. Pub lunch for all, and hence late nap for the Hungry Mouth, but on the whole, apart from not getting to eat our own lunches, all went OK. Tick.

Our antenatal group consists of six new families. That’s six one-year-olds and twelve parents. Aaack. Late afternoon playdate with baby-friendly snacks and parent-friendly bubbly. Entire floor covered with wriggling babies, squeaking with excitement. And their toys. And their discarded snacks. All went well till normal teatime and bathtime came and went (blame bubbly!) and our brand-new one-year-old went into meltdown, causing eventual departure of all guests and their happy, chortling babies. Sniffly scoops of soothing porridge in the bath…Tick?

Friends with children. Ahhh, mostly not having invited us to their one-year-olds’ parties, either because we were unbabied at the time, or because they followed my mum’s golden rule, or heck, maybe we aren’t that close after all. Skipped ’em.

Friends without children. In general, not incredibly interested in the Hungry Mouth’s amazing milestone. And why should they be? Invited ’em round for girly, bubbly Afternoon Tea and gave dad the Hungry Mouth to play with. Does that count as a birthday party?

Godparents. Turned up (bearing gifts) in the course of a normal visit. Good on them. Tick-tock.

All these events did generate lots of exciting new toys and clothes, but on the whole, not entirely sure if exhaustion was worth it. Turning two? Two guests – Mum and Dad…

Fat Face Frenzy

So, I have been back at work three days a week since the middle of March, and end of April is when I get my P60, thus enabling me to calculate what our much reduced family income now is, and hence, whether we can ever eat Waitrose cheesecake again with a clear conscience. That means, since it’s now the middle of May, that not only should I get around to that forthwith, but also, that I should clearly treat myself to a Muslin Mummy Makeover before I work it all out and realise we can’t afford it.

Well, when I say makeover, I really just mean some new clothes. Ain’t gonna start wearing actual make-up anytime soon. So, Fat Face sends me a 20% off online voucher, and a catalogue of vibrant, outdoorsy types looking carefree in exotic, sunny locations — and Fat Face’s summer range, natch. Embarrassing to relate, I place this on the pile of worthy reading beside the loo, and carefully peruse it for signs of garb suitable for my mumsy, unoutdoorsy, non-exotic lifestyle, but that will yet convey to me some hint and flavour of such excursions as surfing in Cuba or mountain trekking in Tibet.

I am surely overdue for a new bikini! And an African bead pattern seems meant for me! Maybe halter necks are good for suntans and my new topheavier shape (yes, still breastfeeding the Thirsty Mouth)…Plus, that same topheavy look is causing shirts from my previous life’s wardrobe to seem strangely short in front, exposing midriff in a way that I feel is less than delightful in an office environment. And an office environment is exactly where, Monday to Wednesday, I can sport such shirts, unequipped as they are with those handy flaps for breastfeeding. So, I clearly require a longer sort of top. Embroidered slouchy long tee!

And finally…though it did not adorn the alluring pages of the catalogue, I unaccountably spy the perfect skirt. Flatteringly cut above the knee, wide for brisk walking, pockets galore, general funky look, neutral go-with-lots colour!

It’s clear that I can’t be giving up legwaxing anytime soon either. I certainly hope there are some pennies earmarked personal adornment left over from mortgage, bills, food and nursery fees. It’s not like I’m shopshopshoppin’ at Sienna Miller's store, now is it?