May 2008 Archives

I clean the house on a Thursday. My inlaws come to take Mollie for the afternoon and then I set to with my cleaning bucket.

I'd like to say I do it with a good grace but that would be a lie. As I sweep my broom/ hoover/ duster through the house, I, well, sulk is the only word for it.

Stupid housework, sweep sweep; Don't see why I have to do it, dust dust; Used to have a career, hoover hoover. And so on. By the time I've finished, I've worked myself up into a complete rage.

Here's the weird thing. Fed up of coming home to a banshee who yells at him for leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor, spitting toothpaste round the sink and other such domestic crimes, my husband has offered to pay for a cleaner.

Did you hear about the toddler from Liverpool who survived falling into the family swimming pool because she had taken swimming lessons since she was eight weeks old?

Well, guess what! The toddler's teacher Cathy Wright has now moved to Brum and runs swimming classes in Sutton Coldfield with husband Jon.

I found all this out on Saturday as Mollie enjoyed her first Water Babies session under Jon's expert tutelage (Cathy - being nine months pregnant - was otherwise engaged).

It's the bank holiday weekend, it can only mean one thing. Rain. And lots of it!

In case you missed the forecast, here's how the next five days are looking in sunny Brum:

Today: Heavy rain

Tomorrow: Heavy rain

I had my hair cut yesterday - my first trip to a salon since Mollie was born. It's a very trendy cut with layers and a fringe and what I believe the hairdressing profession call 'texture'.

But there's no denying the inescapable truth: I've had a bob, the official haircut of motherhood.

Even if they don't actually go through with it, all mums will at some point think, 'Hmm, bob, now there's a style that could save me time.' Short enough that it doesn't take all morning to dry yet long enough to tie into a ponytail. Perfect!

I worry that my daugher is becoming high maintenance. Take night-time. To get her to sleep at night we must adhere to the following routine with absolutely no deviations.

At 18:45 precisely, Miss Mollie takes her bath. The water should come to just over her belly with exactly three squirts of Baby Bathtime Bubble Bath.

Bath is followed by a massage on the changing mat in her room. Lights must be dim and Mollie insists on Johnson's Aloe Vera Baby Oil. No other brand will do.

At 19:05 Mollie enjoys her final feed of the day, lights now off completely.

I have a date, a mum date! The text came late Thursday evening when I was sitting round the kitchen table eating my fifth slice of chocolate cake that day. Beep! "Hey Vicky, fancy meeting for lunch next Thur/ Fri? x"

OMG. It's her! It's her! It's my favourite mum from mums group. Giddy with excitement I rushed into the living room to show hubby the text.

"That mum I like's invited me for lunch," I squealed. "Look! What shall I write back? Shall I text back straightaway or leave it a few minutes? I don't want to look too keen."

Wow, I think I'm converted.

On Tuesday I went to Nappucino* - a coffee morning dedicated to the brilliance of real nappies - and suddenly I'm seeing them in a whole new light.

For a start, real nappies no longer mean you need an A-level in origami to fold up the terry towelling and fix it with a pin. They come ready folded!

My baby girl is wearing a curious combination of a flowery vest that is slightly too big for her over a pair of tights. Nothing else.

She is in her swing chair and, worst of all, she is watching the snooker.

It can only mean one thing: Daddy's in charge.

"I don't want her watching TV."

"But she likes it, look," said Mr F, cracking open a beer and reclining on the sofa.

Annoyingly, Mollie seems to be having the best time ever, eyes widening with excitement every time Ronnie pots the black.

But it feels wrong.

Is TV bad for babies? Help me out here, I need ammo!