Assorted Thoughts

I am currently ranked 117th on the Lolcats NomNomNom4Fud game. I am equal parts shamed and proud. Hubby and I are both terrible suckers for annoying little blatblatblat games.

I keep dissolving into tears over the horror that is this. Harry was born the day Baby Peter died, and noticeably resembles him. There’s a special place in hell for this bunch.

Did I tell you that the last remaining hen disappeared last weekend? 

This batch of chicks are nervy little buggers, and are fast becoming a pain; I thought Harry would be fascinated by them but he’s hardly bothered at all. (Although, I very nearly died of teh cute when I saw him stretching his empty spoon through the bars, offering them imaginary food and making encouraging munchy noises to them.) They have started to jump out of the box, although they have – thus far – been sensible enough to jump straight back in the warm.

chicks2

If they stray outside the bars only God can save them from A) the Toddler (aquila non capit muscas, and all that, but if one starts running about his playroom I can’t very well see Harry passing up a chance to… interact), and B) the Spaniel, who always exhibits an unhealthily keen interest in poultry.

thelwell dog poultry

The only thing pissing me off more than WordPress at the moment is our actual PC. It’s not responding properly to keyboard or mouse input (I sound restrained, but I’ve been beating the keyboard like a coked-up hip-hop star this evening) and it seems moribund – again. I think I shall start calling it Lazarus. It has more chance of long term survival than our laptop, however, which is currently dismantled on top of a bookcase

laptop

with zero (zilch, nada) hope of resurrection, and I can’t afford another one.

Which should bring me neatly onto the whole Going Back To Work Because We Are Flat Stony Broke topic, but I don’t have the energy for that one just now. It… isn’t going well.

Harry’s one word: ‘Geese’ is getting much more reliable. He says it about 150 times – at least – a day to practise, triumphantly. He has other words – which are not words. ‘ISS! ISS!’ I suspect is a bastardised ‘this!’ and means ‘Do something NOW with whatever I am pointing at. Open it/Give it here/Turn it on.’ A funny little Akkhh! sound in the throat is occasionally meaning No. He won’t shake or nod his head, and still refuses to make eye contact to denote a choice, glaring instead at the desired object with combustible intensity. He has a try at saying ‘teeth’, too. In fact, he’s big on sibilants, full-stop. He’s not given to sticking his tongue out at all – I’ve checked for tongue-tie any number of times – but he now seems to think that all words must begin with his tongue stuck quarter of an inch through his teeth. When he is trying particularly hard to attempt a word, I can see his tongue rolling into all sorts of contorted shapes. The speech therapist is allegedly coming Tuesday, and not a day too soon. I am feeling alone.

I found Harry trying to feed a Shaun the Sheep DVD – his favouritefavouritefavourite thing ever – into the slot, with a fair degree of success, despite the fact it was still closed. I was, oddly, delighted by his multimedia progress.

Harry is stoically coping with the fact that his lip is, essentially, pierced. He is my tiny brave soldier who has had to suffer far more than his fair share of mouth-trauma, and I have no words to tell you how much I am in love with him and his infinitely awesome cuddly-kisses. But not his tantrums. Not loving the ‘trums at all.

Earlier this week, I discovered hazlenuts where hazlenuts had no right to be. My focus pulled back and I realised the little terror had been climbing on top of his cooker.

cooker ladder

It’s cool. It’s not like there’s a glass door nearby he could smash straight through or anything.

Today an aeroplane flew overhead and Harry pointed at his cheek (should be his ear, but he abbreviates!) and then pointed upwards to tell me what he heard. I did the arms-wide universal aeroplane impression, which he copied. A minute or so later, Me Too! came onto CBeebies – a program with a sweeping CGI bird’s eye view of a city for opening credits. As soon as he saw it, he whipped his arms out into an aeroplane impression – and made a brrm brrm car /truck /tractor noise. 

How the buggery bollocks did he know that’s what a city looks like – from an aeroplane? I’m hugely impressed. But also very puzzled.

I keep starting to cry when I hear the Timmy Time theme. Because Timmy leaves the farm (sniff) and goes out into the world (lip trembles). You see, I have been making brave noises about booking Harry into nursery when he is 2 – the nursery, that is attached to the pre-school, that is attached to the primary school he will almost certainly attend. So, when he does start, he’ll be there continuously until age 11. And his birthday is only 74 days away.

That is all.

 

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My name is Ann

For those of you who were sucking your teeth and wondering when karma was going to turn round and bite me on the bum (I was one of them)… you didn’t have a long wait. Except Karma evidently has lousy aim, and hit an innocent bystander instead. Twice.

Firstly, she tripped Harry up as he climbed up onto our bed this morning, which wouldn’t have been so bad except he was, foolishly, holding his toothbrush between his teeth as he did so. There were copious tears and even a little blood, although he typically refused to let me look in his mouth, pushing me firmly away after his crying had ended. He probably thought I was attracting the lightning.

He wasn’t wrong. I came downstairs with a now-cheerful-again little follower, and left him, as usual, on the lowest landing, two steps above the ground. If you stay to watch his descent he showboats shamelessly; left to himself he is a reliable descender of stairs. He does, however, occasionally find the swinging properties of the open stairgate too much to resist.

Well, karma missed me again, the stupid bitch. I had got as far as the tumble dryer and was ferreting for my gym kit – a prime opportunity to electrocute or wallop me completely passed over – when there was a heavy thump, a roar, a chin graze and an alarming amount of blood in his mouth. Pretty soon the screams were at fever pitch and the blood had spread itself about my shoulders and industrial sports bra – thinly, but a lonnnng way.

Poor, unhappy boy. He’s cried himself to sleep in my arms, and is now lay on the sofa in uneasy rest, sporting a lip like a bratwurst. I daren’t wipe any more blood off in case I hurt him. I’m dreading him waking up, too, because misery is inevitable. He’s gonna be scary-mean.

poorly boy

My sad little man. He’s obviously thumped his chin hard, and sent his top teeth sinking deep into his lower lip.

bust lip

*readers recoil squealing in horror*

As if ramming a toothbrush half way to tummy-land AND having itchy eczema around his mouth weren’t enough for one morning. Karma can bite me. Accurately, please.

I am off to perch nervously on the sofa and see if I can load (‘insert’ sounds so… descriptive…) a paracetamol suppository without him waking. He shouldn’t have to suffer for his mother’s sins, poor lad.

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

Today, the fires of my personality are dampened. In fact, I’ve seen pissed-on barbeques show more spark than what looked out of the mirror this morning. There was a 30th birthday party next door last night; as it was Harry’s godmother, we felt it best to exclude him completely from the proceedings and enjoy ourselves without him.  I probably judged the wine and champagne vaguely right, but slipped up badly with the whisky – in that, I actually drank some.

John & I staggered down the hill at midnight like an ambulatory A-frame, and proceeded to talk unmitigated shit to his parents, whom we had left on guard over a snoring Harry. Given that my dear old FIL probably dozed in front of our TV (as opposed to his own) for the entire evening, I did go to bed worrying vaguely about having a guard to guard the guard in future.

You can clearly tell we are getting older. Harry, after busting our chops with yet another 5.30am wake-up, went down for a nap at 10.30am… and by 10.35am John & I had given in to our nap-envy and were also back in bed, snoring blamelessly. I did manage to redeem myself by dragging a skirt and boots on and staggering out into Stratford to wine & dine again with friends this evening, but I was ineffectually smothering yawns the entire time, despite excellent company.

I am, my friends, Past It.

However, I have recently lived a vicariously wild life via http://www.textsfromlastnight.com/

I urge you to partake!

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