My Week in Parenting Emotions

Revulsion (Part I)

I learnt the hard way that it’s best not to leave a newborn’s recently-filled nappy in a small room beside a warm radiator.  There is a reason Diptyque don’t produce a candle called “Milky Shit”.

Revulsion (Part II)

My stomach has, more or less, gone down completely.  Which is not the cause of celebration it should be.  For what was, for the past few months, taut and rounded, is now... flabby and saggy.  With a great big balloonous naval protruding from the middle, eye-fucking me every time I catch sight of it. And still my pre-pregnancy clothes don’t fit.  I suspect I’ll be in these Godawful maternity clothes until the end of time.  Tho at least the elasticated panel keeps my belly-button in place.

Impatience

The Girl has self potty-trained.  Which doesn’t suit me at all. Remember this? Now throw a newborn into the mix.  So she yells: “I need a weeeeeeeeeeeee...” and I yell back:  “GO IN YOUR NAPPY!” To get me back for this she has perfected the art of the night-time-nappy-removal.  Luckily, she doesn’t poo at nighttime, but I guarantee that that’s not from lack of trying on her part.

Efficiency (quickly followed by Stupidity)

I actually found time to do some Christmas shopping this week – Santa presents only. I got home with them on Friday evening, dumped them on my bed to properly see what I’d bought (it was a shopping smash-n-grab, the deadline of childcare looming over me) then promptly lay down on top of them and fell asleep. 12 seconds into this unintended slumber, the Boy came gambolling in, and – I imagine – stopped dead in his tracks, before letting out a shriek of unadulterated joy: “What is that? And THAT?” (I assume he was referring to the cuddly-toy-hot-water-bottle thing.  Or the wall stickers.  The dolly / dinosaur clothes perhaps?  Or the dolly herself / dinosaur himself?) I woke, and as is the norm these days, my body engaged immediately and, without even fully realising what was going on, I shoved the presents under the duvet and the Boy out of the room in under a nano-second, then fell back asleep.  The Girl is currently given to climbing under my duvet, which she did 4 seconds later, and so the discovery, the shriek, and the subsequent shoving, were all repeated. 

So now I have to redo the Christmas shopping (albeit online, as my childcare days are very numbered [see "Panic", below]), because I can’t imagine I’m going to be able to get away with producing already-seen gifts on Christmas morning.  (Anyone want a fluffy hot water bottle?)

Irritation

The Germans – with their brilliance for having a specific term for every occasion – have a word called “ear-worm”.  It’s refers to the unpleasant experience of having a tune burrowing it’s way into your inner ear, on a loop.  This has been my earworm since my sister turned it on for the kids last week.  Worse:  the Man, on hearing it, changed the “Where’s” to “Spank”, so not only do I have earworm, I also have porn earworm. 

Panic

Forget the monkey being beside the tv / under the table / behind the door; the monkey is on my back.  The maternity nurse leaves in the morning.  For good.  This knowledge has been my own personal hairy little back-dwelling primate for the past few days.  All attempts to ignore it as its spindley little paws grasp tighter and tighter around my throat have failed.  I’ve done everything I can think of to minimise the trauma:  organised a car-pool for the Boy’s nursery run (note to self to remember to tell him about that in the morning); stocked up the freezer (almost entirely with left-over risotto, teeny odds and ends of it in super-model-sized portions); sent a hysterical late-night text to the kids’ babysitter (“HOW MANY AFTERNOONS CAN YOU DO NEXT WEEK?” I roared in capitals, in case she failed to understand the chronic urgency)... But I can’t dodge the inevitable.  In twelve hours I shall be the primary carer for three very young children. 

Christ.

Jealousy

I am entirely devoid of artistic (or indeed any) talent. This doesn’t sit terribly well with the tendency I have to be poisonous towards anyone who excels me in anything.  So it surprises no one more than I that I should have chosen – and, amazingly, been accepted by – an incredibly talented artist as one of my closest friends.   She’s exhibiting her latest work this week, so if you happen to be Central London on Wednesday or Thursday and fancy seeing some really quite amazing art, pop by for a gander.  Tell her I sent you. As well as meeting one of the loveliest people you will ever meet in your life, you’ll be welcomed with hard drink, tall tales (ask her about the time she taught Sean Connery and Ronnie Wood to play the spoons) and beautiful paintings.  I defy you not to leave feeling bitter and poisonous too.

Stupidity Part II (quickly followed by Revulsion Part III)

In a bid to have some sort of food fodder for you all, I resolved to try one new recipe a week.  I thought I’d kick off with a Beetroot and Feta Tart.  Having never cooked with raw beetroot before (I just couldn’t be arsed), I decided I’d kill birds with stones.

It was a masterpiece of cack. 

What should have looked like this:

...ended up looking like this:

Mmmmm........  In fact just looking at it is making me feel a bit sick.  (That's not, however, vomit on the top of it - just bits of raw pastry I picked off the counter; having dropped the fucking thing and destroyed the pastry shell, I had to get creative and went for that well known delight, Beetroot Crumble...)

But my ham-fisted cockery aside, it was still completely blah.  In fact I won’t even bore you with the details, unless you really want to know what happens when you combine onions, potatoes, cream, raw beetroot, bits of reclaimed pastry, and a mountain of cheese. (It tastes much like you’d imagine pink cheesey mashed potato topped with lumps of raw dough does). 

So, no recipe.  But a litany of experiences that I think we can all learn from, no?