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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10 Responses

  1. Wait. Wait just one moment. Tweezers? Are you mad? Or is this a normal womanly thing I am supposed to be doing as well?

  2. I’m with Alexa–tweezers? Seems inhumane. How long does it take to pluck?

    It is odd how babies, poopy diapers and spit-up can reduce the female sex drive.

  3. I’ll third the tweezers? Sweet jesus you must be relatively hairless – it would take me ages!

  4. I have been known to tweezer anything that shows outside my (fairly demure) swim-suit. Shaving THERE leaves me with a rash not entirely unlike a severe burn. And burning is a slightly dramatic way of removing stubble… (Can’t be having with removal of anything WITHIN the demure swimsuit. To be very honest, I find pubic eradication… creepy. I’m 33, not 13).

    I once tweezered my underarms. Never ever again. Took ALL afternoon and the crick I got in my neck nearly paralysed me for a week.

    I love Harry’s slightly peeved expression in the carpet-whoops photos. ‘What? What is the PROBLEM already? Can’t a guy get a little fresh-air-time?’

    Husbands, in my limited experience, tend NOT to get any when they’ve let infants escape from mats to wee on carpets.

    My cousin JA was premature and teeny and spent the first few years of his life driving his mother to the verge of a nervous breakdown about food refusal. He is now six foot three. This too shall pass.

  5. LOL! Tweezers???? Never in a million years! Veet hair removal cream for sensitive skin(NB) does the job! Plucking pubes!!! Would not dream of it!!

  6. I also was left with “how peculiarly British that must be” on the tweezers. But right on that you can accomplish it!

    Your babe is too cute–particularly the look on his face at being caught with the pee. His first date will love that photo!

  7. Ohhhh. I’m shuddering at what awaits me when I can SEE the Honeymoon Zone again after childbirth.

    At the moment ignorance is bliss….and I can’t reach to do anything about it anyway,

    J

  8. You’ve got me beat – I still haven’t seen SATC…

    Tweezers sound terrifying!

  9. Hiya

    This stuff is well worth a try:
    nappy rash or try http://www.buttpaste.co.uk if the other one doesn’t work.

    We got a free sachet and it’s worked brilliantly, great writing btw, you have a real way with words 🙂

  10. Hey, yeah, what is with the nappy changing wars? Botany goes mental when I try to change her at the moment- a screaming, writhing, wiggling monster. It would be easier to put roller skates on my dog than get her changed some days. And same at mealtime-a couple of bites before she goes ballistic, swatting and howling. Developmental thing, you think? I hope it calms down soon.

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