I feel I should put my hands up immediately and admit I’m 35. I hereby declare an interest. In the 80s. I didn’t go to a school prom, not because my train track braces were so ridiculously off-putting to the opposite sex that I couldn’t get a date (could well have been true), but because they hadn’t been invented yet. Or more accurately, they were invented, but only taking place in the land where you can go to a movie drive-thru and American Diners are just called, well, Diners.
And so it is with the apparent grand ‘tradition’ of the baby shower. It’s new. It’s not something we had even heard of ten years ago, apart from on the odd American sitcom. Nowadays though, it seems to the The Thing To Do.
With only 7 weeks left until mini man #2 turns up, I return to my old faithful pal, mortality.
It’s not depression. I’m not upset, distressed or desperate. I’m resolute. I will die. This new life will be the end of me. Period.
I will suck my last worthless breath and my husband will be left raising two boys alone. Or perhaps he’ll shack up with young hot designer from work, yes, that’ll be it. They’ll be calling someone younger and fitter ‘mummy’ and I’ll be bloody well dead.
Eldest used to be so chilled. Such a chilled dude. Everyone always said. So happy, so chilled.
You want milk? Yeah? Just have a bit more, ok? Cool. Thanks. You woke early. Just go back to sleep, yes? I’ll just leave you until you do. Great. Worked a charm. Want this toy? Yes? And this one? Great. You don’t want the toy your cousin has, no? No. Good boy. Good, chilled, happy boy.
But wait. 18 months arrived, and with it a completely different specimen. Coinciding with a muggy, light-mornings summer, he’s waking at crack of sparrow fart. He doesn’t go back down. He’s learned ‘the cry’. Not had it yet? Lucky you.
Mum of Mini Men has a Pinterest account.
On it are boards like ‘Boys Craft’, ‘Boys Room’ and ‘Boys Toys’. Even as I clicked on the + to create them I could feel the feminist in me dying as I realised what I was perpetuating.
Recently we took a trip to my brother’s. He’s got a girl with another on the way. The house is top-to-toe with baby dolls, My Little Pony, fairies, princesses, you name it.
There, eldest son happened upon a baby doll which he took rather a shine to and dragged around looking not dissimilar to a rugby second row gently but firmly keeping hold of his ball.
Buy newborn nappies.
Get shit down from the loft. ALL the shit.
Wash vests. Hundreds and thousands of vests.
Shit, where’s the boy? Oh, there he is. Where was I? Oh yes,
What’s he doing under there? What are you eating? SPIT IT OUT! NOW! My god, you’re so gross, that’s yesterday’s lunch. No wait, that means I’m gross, I can’t even clean up properly. I mean, it’s hard to get under the table 7 months pregnant but still.. Right. Continue Reading
This bad boy isn’t the cheapest high chair on the market but it’s one of the dozen or so items in my procession I couldn’t imagine life without.
Sturdy enough to contain a (very lively) mini man through thick and tantrum, it is also neat enough to fold and stow away for when the Queen comes to tea. Happens aaaall the time.
Beautifully designed to not need straps, mini man is secured into place by the clip-on, wipe-clean table top and means cleaning the whole thing is a doddle, and it still looks like new 12 months and LOTS of spaghetti hoops later.