Baby Brain

Anyone who has read about pregnancy will have heard of the phenomenon that is ‘baby brain’. It’s a condition that apparently leads the radiant mother-to-be to make some pretty spectacular errors in thought or action, such as:

• Standing in front of the glass cupboard for a good five minutes, at a total loss as to why you’re there.
• Spotting bicycle storage units next to the bus station and asking why the hell they’d build such small toilets.
• Lackadaisically stroking a cat that has been sat on your knee for a good five minutes before realising that the cat was shut in the back room last time you checked.

Growing a parasite in the womb apparently saps spatial memory and during the time Splodge is draining the life out of its host, more priceless moments await you – the girl’s are now logged as e.g. ‘Baby Brain 314: Being unable to work out why your head is so hot. Half an hour later, you scratch your head and find that you are wearing a beanie’.

Taking the piss is (as I see it) a prerogative in return for the raging hormones that can lead to being yelled at for breathing too loudly, chewing excessively, and occasionally just being alive and in the same room. See, I’m taking the piss now but I’ll pay for it later…but not before I launch the roflcopter!

Mistakes, I’ve Made a Few

We had an amazing debate last night.

As we watched a program about the ethics of eating veal, we discussed vegetarianism and from there we get on to the choices kids make. I said that I’d ask why Splodge had made a certain decision and what he/she had based the decision on. I said that I’d be compelled to point out anything in their process that was ‘wrong’ or ‘incorrect’.

The girl turns to me and asks me to quantify that. I tried, but every explanation I tried came off as me having control issues. Funny that you never realise what traits you have. As she later pointed out, I do tend to live with my head in the clouds and am totally consumed with everything and anything that pops into my head – when I tell people my fiancée knows me better than I know myself, I’m not being twee.

The conclusion I came to is that now more than ever, I realise how adults can project themselves onto their kids. It shook me up a little and left me laying there in bed trying to figure out if I could really get to know myself and avoid passing on the usual hangups offspring are often lumbered with.

– “You control what you can and set some boundaries and rules, but you can’t determine their path for them. You can’t yell at them not to touch the radiator because it’s hot: they have to find out for themselves to learn.”

– “But…”

– “Their path is their path. You can only hope that they make the right decisions and don’t fall in with the wrong kids. You have to be there when they fuck up and hope that they don’t fuck up too spectacularly.”

This, ladies and gentlemen, is another reason why I’m so in awe of my woman. She has such a balanced and laissez-faire approach compared to that of my constant state of flux and need to express and create – I lose sleep over things that I cant’ control. It made so much sense that I couldn’t help but gaze at her in wonder (which is no doubt either really creepy or irritating…possibly both).

I don’t want our baby to have the control issues I do. Time to ask myself who I am and take a fair few leaves from my girl’s book, and right at this moment, as I sit here typing after a 14-hour day that shows no sign of ending any time soon, I’d happily tear out my liver for a pisshead’s transplant to be at home with her, rubbing her back and suddenly finding the money to take her away for the weekend.

I Feel Your Presence…

Like a miniature Darth Vader, Splodge ghosts around the womb as we try our best to catch him on the Doppler. Oh, he’s just as elusive as ever and perhaps fears that we wish to halt his evil march upon the world, but yet again his heartbeat was clocked loud and clear – the force is strong in this one.

Heh, I can’t wait to crack really weak jokes about the slew of nappies that head across to the dark side…

Can you get tiny Darth Vader outfits? I should probably Google that before typing, but Google has kind of taken the fun out of asking stupid questions. Shocker, I’ve digressed as per usual…

Splodge has wreaked havoc with the girl this week, which in turn has left her feeling pretty crappy, something that hasn’t been helped by me asking my usual large quota of stupid questions and the oversized puppy bounding around our tiny house. In the deep, dark hours in the middle of one night this past seven days, there was a threat made to stab the next person who disturbed her sleep. Both the dog and I instinctively fell silent and did our best to return to slumber in whatever position we were in at the time.

The dilemma of choosing a pushchair is becoming increasingly difficult. We’re chewing over two very funky options and deciding which one is worth the enormous price tags attached to each. I’m a man who will pay what something is worth but I hate anything that’s all style over substance (hence my music collection is filled with albums by some right scruffy sods) so we’re not rushing into anything before we’ve had a play around with both.

I wonder if we’ll get thrown out for asking if the pushchairs come with optional towbars that attach to the back of the car?

It’s A Boy!

Worry not, her highness has not given birth to a puppy (although when people ask us what we’re having, she’s given to answering “Well, we’re hoping for a kitten or a puppy, but as long as it’s healthy I don’t mind”). No, we have become surrogate parents for an Alaskan Malamute named Bear who is so big we could set a banquet on his back…it wouldn’t stay there for long, mind, but it’s more than possible. He’s nine months old and amazingly has more growing to do. Note the puddles of water surrounding Bear: they follow him everywhere. Bloody thing takes some walking, too.

My wonderful wife-to-be has taken to putting him in his place and reinforcing her role as alpha of our pack, so the poor bugger is subjected to the same corrections that all other males in the house are. She refers to me as being large, hairy and stubborn too, and with the leaps and bounds she’s made with my training, the dog will be able to drop his towels in the laundry basket and put his own bowl in the dishwasher by Christmas at the latest.

Splodge is now 12 weeks and letting his mama know he’s fine and dandy by cursing her with heartburn that can only be described as spiteful. Surviving on minimal sleep and suffering numerous aches and pains, the love of my life continues to be filled with boundless spirit and has rarely threatened to beat me to death for irritating her in countless ways. I consider myself very lucky, and I say that sans any hint of protruding tongue. It takes quite a woman to put up with me, and she’s incredible beyond words.

The 12-week scan is just around the corner and I’m looking forward immensely to see how our little bundle is faring. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to the bump appearing more prominently…though I’m guessing I’m in the minority.