Pubes & Pugilism

Germ Report: the hacking coughs, roaring sneezes and soaring temperatures have died down. Harry still has impressive slugs of snot emerging whenever the moment is as socially inconvenient as he can manage, but by and large the Hairy Farmer Family health quotient has risen substantially. I think we will live.

Speaking of hairy, I went to see Sex & the City Friday night with a bunch of girlie friends from baby group. Yes, I know that anyone who is anyone has seen the thing weeks ago; we’re a bit bucolic around here and don’t get out much. The shot of Miranda’s pubic tufts was rendered doubly hideous by the fact that I knew damn well that I was in an identical condition, bar the perky shade of ginger. And for an identical reason!

Trooping outside at the end, I voiced my ‘OMG, feeling rather guilty about the sex thing’ consternation, whereupon all of my companions promptly piped up agreement in six part harmony. And given that we collectively represented two c-sections, four vaginals and an IVF gestational surrogate in delivery terms, the reason could hardly have been lingering post-birth-rippage ouchie. Chaps in our corner of Warwickshire simply don’t seem to be getting much of late. Not but what, I think a couple of them may have got a wee bit more that night: we all scuttled home with purposeful expressions. One girl’s parting shot was that she was going home to ‘put out’, which made me giggle, God bless her.

I did get round to wielding the tweezers around the wifey-unmentionables yesterday afternoon, but a combination of a transatlantic phone call ending and half a bottle of lovely Beringer fizzy rosé meant that I only managed 50% of the job. In fact, the unaccustomed wine was knocking me so deliciously sideways that I began to trap skin rather than hair between the blades after a while, resulting in my looking even more like an oven-ready chicken than normal. Then John decided that he had talked to his naturalised American twin brother for long enough, and decided to come and investigate the muffled (chin tucked deep between boobs, grappling with awkwardly protruding belly) swearing upstairs. He found a semi-naked drunken wife sprawled on the bed, and was quick to take advantage of the situation; I pointed out the lack of symmetry, but he reckoned he’d struggle on. 

I still haven’t got round to correcting my pubic disparity, but haven’t actually developed a tendency to walk in circles just yet soI reckon I’ve got away with it. Although, the ante is upped slightly as we are taking Harry swimming again on Saturday; I would have topiarised things this evening whilst John was safely at a meeting 15 miles away, but I was so disheartened by the fact that I was wearing Harry’s dinner following his grumpy refusal to partake, that I have slumped in the office instead, beaten. I should probably put a sticky note on the fridge before I totally forget and embarrass myself, although a dayglo Post-It reading ‘Pluck Pubes’ could potentially generate more public pubic peril than the guilty stragglers themselves.

Harry has been hard work lately. A top teefy emerged late last week and the other one looks ready to follow. He scorns Bonjela. He emphatically ejects Calpol and Nurofen. Nappy change time has become a wriggling, kicking, twisting, screaming battle which John and I are starting to lose. Bad, when you’re on someone else’s pristine carpet with a small change mat and a shitty bottom. He had some signs of his first ever nappy rash, so some bare-bottom time was decreed. Hubby was instructed to keep him centred on the green mat, which needed a wash anyway. He interpreted this as ‘vaguely within a foot or so of the green mat’. Of course, the inevitable happened.


And whenever I feed the young blighter he ends up yowling and refusing most of his main course, although he can generally baby-bird yummy yoghurt quick enough. He’s developed a particularly boxer-like habit of holding his fists in front of his mouth in order to bop the spoon away. Our attempts at a fast delivery with a last-minute swerve have been met with right jabs and left hooks, southpaw-fashion. Given that he’s quite a small baby still, I’m desperate to augur nutrients into him foie-gras-style, but he rewards my efforts with either amateur dramatics or a cold stare. Sigh.


You think he’s messy? You should have seen me.

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