Following weeks of Rukai sleeping through a full twelve hours at night, the one night I go to bed über late he awakens after eight. I arise after my own scant four hours and lo and behold he is a non-stop action man, like GI Joe on Red Bull and Laffy Taffy. Like Bear Grylls at the top of a cliff with a buffalo carcass draped over his shoulder and ready to rappel. The usual nap times fade into no more than fantasy, like the shat-in sleepsuits I've washed fourteen thousand times. I am on the run all day.
Where did I put that wine?
'Oh you are SO lucky! February is the perfect time to have a baby. You will be able to go out and about all summer.'
This is what they said. What they could not predict is that we'd have the worst June since records began and once we did get out, I'd have one of those kids who cannot handle big wind just yet and squirms around like a greased eel when I take him outside. Then he lines up the 'air raid siren' shriek and fires away, clearing a path for 200 feet in every direction, felling trees, de-feathering pigeons. I turn around and race back inside, lest the neighbors think I am torturing him. I can only hope he grows out of it before it gets cold again.
Oh wait, that may be tomorrow. It IS England after all.
And to hell with curry, it is WIND that surely is Britain's favorite food. I say food because you really cannot help swallowing the debris that is constantly flying around in it. So while lucky bubba gets packed up in his 'baby Ferrari' with the swizzy rain cover and enjoys a debris-free, mellow ride, I end up covered in small bits of bark, takeaway menus and week old copies of Metro.
But as you do, we have to go out sometimes. Not really because we need to be anywhere but mostly because going out is the only way to get him to nap. I tell you, that big spend on a swish pram was the best thing we did. In fact, I may see if we can special order an adult sized one. I'll hop in that sucker and get T to take me around this weekend cos I could sure use a nap of my own.
The magic formula has turned 'le shit' the most remarkable shade of green. Time to upgrade the wardrobe again since that will be disastrous if scattered across all those yellow clothes. But then too, maybe it would turn into camoflauge. Wait, not a good idea, particularly in THIS house. I haven't bought the Lo-jack yet.
Why is it that just when you've taken him out of the bath, applied spackle...er...cream, lovingly dressed and prepped for a cuddle, that a full day's worth of baby constipation decides it's time to make an appearance? Followed by the most beaming, delightful grin imaginable from up the other end.
I'm pretty convinced he's laughing at me, I'm sure of it. I must locate the baby phone where he's receiving the texted 'play book' from his pals. They're in it together. It's a plot. It's got to be.
Somebody call the SAS, I think I'm going to need commando training for this.