The debate begins. Today, thumb/fist appears to be the winner.

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This arrived a few days ago:

It's supposedly a Baby Bjorn carrier, rated very highly. I decided it's a questionable piece of bondage from some people with a twisted sense of humour. I was also considerably annoyed by the smug looking "mother and baby" on the cover of the box, modelling it so beautifully and so effortlessly. I think it was about three days before I decided to embrace the virgin pureness and breast enhancing/figure hugging straps. Have to admit, it's actually pretty good, and Noah doesn't seem to be at all bothered. Mind you, like he's ever bothered about anything.

Needless to say, the Poopgate Scandal continues, and it seems to be spreading amongst close circles. After initiating a fabulous Code Brown at a friends house a few weeks ago (sorry K McG...), Noah decided it was time to let Nana know that behind that adorable cute face, hides a deep dark secret.

Having collected Nana from a friend’s house because she was ill, Noah and I took her home, where Noah had a feed and a nappy change. Followed by another almighty Code Brown. I wonder perhaps if I had not been so stupid as to say "Yes he's been great lately, though he hasn't filled his nappy in a while so I expect we'll day with that in a day or two", then he may not have taken that as his cue to commence the Old Man Grunting and that wonderful bubbling, gurgling sound as he expels everything with all his might into his nappy. It's a sight to behold. Nana almost passed out.

I think maybe one day when I’m feeling particularly care free (and care less) I may just post a picture. However that does mean exposing my son’s nuts on the internet, and well, let’s face it, that’s just wrong.

My sympathies to C enduring her own Code Brown with Huddles. Try laughing, it always amuses me. But then I think I have an addiction to Poop.

By the way, he's still piling on the pounds and is now back to the original growth curve when he was born. Yes, he's 16lbs and on the 99.8th centile. I'm so proud. And back-broken.

My Old Friend is making a very comfortable appearance, rearing an ugly head at every given opportunity. Wouldn’t mind so much if I had the strength to fight back, but it’s amazing how quickly a person can beat themselves up at the most ridiculous things.

“Omg he threw up on me all day and omg omg his nappy is dirty again and omg omg omg I didn’t feed the cat and omg omg omg omg omg omg I forgot to wipe his face clean this morning BAD MOM BAD MOM BAD MOM”

Etc, etc.

Anyway (and this bit is the Proverbial Fan in case you’re wondering) today was just one of those days.

All set to waste a day spending obscene amounts of money shopping with the lovely “Wags”, when I get a phone call to pick up Nana. I think Noah and I had had enough time to approximately drink a diet coke (DIET! Hah.), eat B’s crumpet (thanks B, I never had crumpet before and yours was very nice…), munch on BabyB (omg those cheeks and that hair), and have a brief conversation with C about sports bras and almighty breasts (Seriously. H cups are just frightening things. They’re bigger than Noah’s head).

Nana had fainted from a stomach bug and needed collecting. Is it wrong that for a little while I was really pissed and wanted to go shopping? I felt bad, but hey. She got to see Noah and I know that made her happy. I’ll just have to go buy the world’s biggest tit-slings another time.

Finally got home, checked emails, put Noah in the Baby Torture Device (it’s surprising how fast it grows on you), and then all the power went out. For a whole freaking hour. No heating, no microwave, no cooker, no internet (GAH) nothing. And Noah had somehow soaked his way through his nappy, down his trousers and a sock. So he was really pleased.

And then, to add insult to injury, I had to give in and admit that I had dyed his clothes pink.

In another one of my "Half-Soaked Mommy" Blank-outs, I'd left his red hoodie in with his whites. Which are now bubblegum pink. He's now as well dressed as any other girly out there. I'm not entirely sure what to do; they're still sitting in the bath of bleach, being ignored by me.

He doesn't care, of course, not since his passport arrived and he's free to leave the country.

He also doesn't seem remotely bothered that in an attempt to spruce up Winnie-the-Pooh, we gave him a far more interesting outfit. Or at least a sleeping bag.

In fact, it could be a small scale Baby Torture Device...
Ah hah! Thinking back to when I was convinced Noah's greatest achievement was his frowning and pooping face? Well smack me on ma bitch-ass and call me Terry, Noah tried signing for milk. It involved me signing it to him just before a feed, while he was calm(!). He responded by staring at me curiously and frowning a little, then waved an open palm and closed it. I signed, he did it again. And again. Then he yelled at me. So I fed him.

And then he ralphed on me, for the 5th time in one day. I think it was worth it.
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ACK. Enough with the emotions already.

Good news: despite tendonitis, I can still carry on playing as long as I ease in gently (ha!)and IL has offered to resume my lessons. Thank the lord (lucifer is on a break).

More good news: We're indulging in Baby Einstein and it's actually good fun. We're working on signing for milk (which involves me signing milk whilst Noah screams his heart out for milk and just feed me now and stop wriggling your hands in my face you stupid whore). Occasionally we also sign mommy and daddy. His input is to stare at us curiously, sigh and wonder what the hell we're trying to torture him with.

I must say, I'm truly impressed with D and his efforts; he sat and watched the signing DVD with us and learnt pretty much all of them first time round. Then we watched Baby Bach. Noah fell asleep. I can understand that...

Random good news: Noah's cradle cap is clearing up now that I'm paying more attention to actually doing something about it, I'm off to Lush later today to pick up some world famous* Dream Cream, which does the trick nicely, compared to the 'hint of plastic bondage clothing scented' Oilatum.** It makes me want to Ralph.

Interesting news: Noah decide to test my skills by having two Code Browns in one day. I rose to the challenge, which resulted in only one change of clothes. I am the master...!

Not so good news: I can't seem to shift this pregnancy weight dammit! I'm kinda tired of hearing "Oh yeh, this one girl breastfed for 3 days and lost her preggo weight plus another 48 stone!" People that does NOT make me feel better, especially when I'm exclusively breastfeeding. (Yes, because I can so nyer nyer, bitches.) I truly admire people who can shift the weight, and look gorgeous, and blah frigging blah, but what am I doing so terribly wrong? I eat breakfast (porridge), lunch (pasta maybe, big chunky-ass sandwich) and then dinner (proper in-yo-face meal). I snack on fruit...and cakes...and biscuits...oh wait, hang on.

Maybe I should take a hint from Noah.

"mum, thanks for the milk and everything, but seriously the snacking has to stop. can i interest you in a squidgy finger."

"maybe a juicy hand."


* It probably isn't world famous, although it might be, and it should be.

** I'd like to point out that I do not make a habit of sniffing plastic bondage clothing.
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Ah sheesh will the shit ever end? Am I destined to have days when I feel fucking awesome and can take on some of the world, beautifully intertwined with days when I'm sat with Noah in his sling trying to stop him squirming, straining and grunting loudly with me crying because for the love of Lucifer the little guy just can't settle as he ralphs for the umpteenth time?

I'm tired. I'm so very tired. Don't get me wrong, he sleeps really well at night. He also has considerable naps during the day. But now I don't sleep. I lie there, thinking about all the latest crap that people have dished at me, wondering what kind of person I am, what kind of person I should be, whether I should change for myself or for others, to make Noah's environment far better or just to help myself out.

Fact is, I'm just not really cut out for this I think. Who am I kidding? I can barely look after myself, let alone this gorgeous baby boy I somehow managed to bring into the world. Would he be better off with a different mom? If I just had visitation rights every so often when I'm feeling strong enough to manage him? Lately I sit there with him on my lap and wonder if he really is mine or if someone else should have him and I'm just doing them a favour by looking after him. I hate that feeling of detachment, it's very lonely.

I guess I thought that feeling of 'oh he belongs to someone else, they'll come for him soon' would have gone by now. I thought I'd have gotten over it and moved on and really started to enjoy him. I feel like I'm doing a job, not something that comes naturally to me. It sucks because it makes me feel like a failure.

I also thought I'd still be able to deal with my own problems. I expected to be back on my feet feeling perfectly (reasonably) ok within 6 weeks to 3 months. I didn't expect to develop tendonitis in my left hand. How much fun has playing the cello become now... I didn't anticipate the vivid memories and reminders of sciatica and SPD to still be so strong at this point. I want to walk everywhere and still I struggle. My left hip sometimes feels like it's been shattered and my damn crotch feels like an elephant may have been jumping on it while I was trying/pretending/wondering if I would ever get to sleep. Sometimes when I get out of bed I can't put any weight on my legs because my knees can't support me. Which then makes me feel like a fat loser. I'm thinking there's a no-win situation here.

I'm also not cut out for so many other things. I can't cope with politics, other peoples issues which started out trivial and became mammoth, back stabbing, gossiping, all the freaking crap that you wonder if you should have to take from people you've known for so very long, and had put your trust in them.

I sit and think about finding a way out, and it reminds me of how I used to do that with my Old Friend nearly 10 years ago. The outcome was never ever good. I also remember saying that there was no way I would ever go down that path of thought again. But how do you stop it? When you're weak, and tired, and you wonder who to turn to, and aren't really sure who can support you when you really need it most, how do you deal with it?

I knew this wouldn't be a breeze, I'm not that naive. I know it is a breeze for some people though. I guess I thought I was stronger than this, and had placed a whole deal of stuff on myself without actually realising it. So what do I do? I guess what everyone else expects; put on a brave face and keep ploughing on.

I wonder why we do that.

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I never appreciated how much competition there was in the world of parenting. And I guess it makes me sad in ways I hadn't thought about before. It's so easy to look at someone else's baby and see how supposedly perfect they are, and sadly miss how perfect your own baby is too. Yet, at the same time, there is just no such thing as the perfect baby. Unless there's some kinda Perfect Baby store that I don't know about (maybe this is where stork babies come from? Or maybe Cabbage Patch babies).

Of course, I think Noah is perfect. But at the same time I know he isn't. We've had several more Code Brown* moments which really don't smell like roses. His scalp and neck are so very dry and spotty. Cradle cap is slowly causing the boy to go insane, rubbing his head on anything to try and scratch it. His lil' butt, legs and back are a fascinating bright blue from his Mongolian Blue Spot. I could go on, but there are the things I enjoy about him which far out-weigh the things that could be seen as flaws.

No matter how tired or pissed off I am, his smile makes me want to hug him. His frown makes me laugh. He has awesome huge hands; I'm hoping he might play the piano. He snores like a kitten purring and sighs baby noises in his sleep. He's learning to put his fist in his mouth. Again I could go on.

I could also go on about other people's babies too. How they're so precious when they look so tiny and fragile. How you're able to hold them and they don't mind being cuddled. How they're progressing to playing with toys or anything else nearby. Making efforts to roll over, or speak to you. How they'll grin when they see your own (frowning) baby.

I guess what I realise is so important is that no matter how great someone else's baby might be, it's always so good to be proud of your own. And I'm so proud of Noah. I don't care that he's the size of a dumper truck. I don't care that I often change his clothes several times a day as a result of Poopgate. His head is dry spotty and scaly? All the more opportunity for me to rub cream into his head and watch him drool like a lil puppy. I've learnt to appreciate him and I know how important that is to him considering I never got anything like that when I was younger.** I always hope that I can make him feel like the most wanted and loved baby in the world.

* I hasten to add, a Code Brown is not just your average everyday poopy nappy. No no no, a Code Brown is when the world ceases to exist because the poopy nappy has just taken it over, and become your mother. And also, raped your butt.

** My mum is now awesome.
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Have you ever been stabbed with a needle? Ok, have you ever had an injection in the thigh? I yelled when I had that done years ago. I can't even remember what it was for, I just remember developing an instant strong dislike for the person administering it.

Noah had his first jabs yesterday. And do you know how they do it? DO YOU???? (High pitched wailing voice and desperate wringing of hands) HOLY MOTHER they give him TWO NEEDLES at the SAME TIME, in BOTH THIGHS.

How did he take it? Well, um, he whimpered a bit and then sat there sucking his pacifier while frowning at the loony nurses. Out in the lobby, he cried for food, then went to sleep. You know, no biggie.

I'd also like to pay a small homage to that wonderful attitude known as Stubborness, a close dear friend of mine.

Yes oh yes thank you very much, I owe Stubborness a lot of gratitude, because that's nearly 50fl.oz of milk you're looking at. Sometimes it's worth bawling your eyes out in sheer pain for six weeks when you get rewards like this.
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Hey! Remember when Noah heard about putting on 7oz per week and decided to play catch-up? Well we had words about that. So creepily enough, he started to feed for about 15 minutes at a time, one boob at a time, bang on every 3 hours apart from at night where he'd sleep through. In his nursery. Without his mom hovering nearby. (See how I got smug there then took it right back?)

Needless to say the panic slowly started to creep in, thinking he'd be shedding oz/lbs again ("My poor baby! Your 13lb frame and baby rolls will just whither away to nothing! What will I DOOOOOOO!!!!!!!"). I got my arse into gear and took him to be weighed yesterday. We also managed to piss off a few other mums who were trying to coax their babies to stop screaming, fidgeting or for the love of god just go to sleep.

Noah lay on his mat in his nappy and laughed.

Went in to be weighed.

HV#2 "He's 6.53kg"

Me "...uh?"

HV#2 "I'll work that out in pounds for you shall I dear?"

Me "...thanks..."

HV#2 "Yes he's 14lbs 6oz."

Me "...uh??"

HV#2 "Yes he's gaining maybe an average of 12oz per week. What are you feeding him?"

Me "... ... ...uh???"

"I say old chap, do you mind topping me up, what? I was having a drink with my aquaintance and some blithering idiot knocked over my glass..."
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It's official, we have a Poopgate Scandal on our hands. Today was a day filled with poop in so many ways. After the antics of our official first Code Brown, things have escalated. Code Brown has escalated. Code Brown has reached amazing new heights (volumes). We've had another 4 since the first one, today's Code Brown resulting in a change of Noah's entire outfit. We have actually taken pictures of one of them. I daren't post them because, well, oh my god (and who wants to be that person who posts pics of baby poop?). I get kinda scared when we go several wet nappies, no poop, cos you kinda know a Code Brown is in the making.

To add insult to injury, and as if Noah's poop wasn't enough (did I mention I'm clearly developing an obsession with poop?), some little doggy pooped on our front lawn. Not impressed. I daren't (can't) point any fingers as I don't know who's adorable little doggy it is, but still, not impressed.

Further to the Poopgate Scandals, it's still a sore subject with myself. Fibersure is my new best friend. What frigging joy. (And don't tell me to eat more fibre. If I eat any more fibre than I'm doing, I'll have my own fruit farm and be growing my own corn dammit.)

"Mother, I'm bored of this poop obsession. Big Tig and I have far more interesting things to deal with."

"Like learning to shove my entire hand in my mouth."

"Followed by a satisfying Code Brown. Ah yes."
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