Cuddles, African style.

Mango is back at work tonight.

I'd like to think that Baby Mango knows this, so he's started to get fussy the more night draws to a close. In the last hour, he's thrown up his meal and refused to settle beside his father as normal. He's only settled when I've picked him up (Ah, he really is his mother's son. It's like he's putting some distance between himself and his dad so that it doesn't hurt so much when daddy isn't around as much as he used to be!).

It's getting harder to lug him around, so I improvised this sling from a piece of cloth that his Grand Maman brought him from Nigeria. It's really a variation of how women in Nigeria carry children on their backs, but this time I did it at the front. He slept off before I had even tied the first knot!

I was going to buy a sling, but I suppose that takes care of that.

Besides, the boy is a bush boy who won't sleep in a cot. How am I sure that he would enjoy being in an Oyibo-style carrier?

Is one ever too young to be a clean freak?

Baby Mango is crying again and I know that he has soiled himself for the umpteenth time. As I am just falling asleep after the last change 6 minutes ago, it's easy for me to drag myself out of bed and attend to him. I hear Mango, who's taken the shift from 9.30pm till 3.35 this morning, mumble under his breath and roll over, pulling most of the duvet with him.

You see, I'm usually very organised. I bought jumbo boxes of pampers of all sizes during the Christmas sale at Asda and piled them ceiling high. But with the way my boy poos, he's making a mockery of my skills.

This is a typical pattern: Baby Mango wees. He gets changed. As soon as gets a clean nappy on, he gets very fussy, then very, very quiet as he concentrates hard and poos. The he realises he's soiled and cries again. He gets changed. Then he finishes up pooing and cries some more. He gets changed. Then he finishes up his wee.

It's like he cannot stand to have even the tiniest speck of poo or a drop of wee in his nappy. He'll start to poo, clench his bum as soon as even a little comes out and then finish up when he gets a clean nappy. He can stretch one bowel movement into three nappies.

When I complain, Maman will say "Why are you complaining? He's like his mother. He hates dirt." But this is costing me money!

Maman is right though. I remember when my brother was little, he'd take off every scrap of clothing to wee or poo, fold them neatly on his bed and refuse to put them back on until someone had wiped his bum and washed his hands with soap.

I suppose I should be grateful to have at least given Baby Mango something, seeing as he doesn't look like me in any way. But did he have to get the neurotic bit?

Drat and double drat!

After weeks of keeping the baby sequestered - the better to avoid germs, my dear - I've only gone and caught a cold, haven't I?

Can you spell 'IRONY'?

I try not to talk to baby or breathe on him when I am breastfeeding him which is difficult because just this week, I have noticed him gazing intently at my face when I feed him or following me with his eyes when I move. Not the best time to spend our 'Mummy-Baby' sessions with my face up to the ceiling, I tell you. It makes me feel guilty, like I am shutting him out or something.

And it's tearing me apart to push him away from me at night when I know all he wants to do is snuggle and feel my heartbeat (he won't sleep in his carry-cot unless it's in motion or even his crib - long story short, nobody was getting any sleep until he lay down beside us in our King size bed. Don't judge me! You don't know what it's like!).

I know I caught the bug in our GP's waiting room late last week when we went to have the rash on his face evaluated. I'd say 'Can you spell DOUBLE IRONY' but it's well known that GPS' waiting rooms are the sort of places where germs come to date, mate, marry, co-habit and eventually divorce for other relationships. I'm lucky I escaped with just a cold. I hope Baby Mango doesn't catch it.

But until it goes, it looks like I'm going to keep my face away from the boy.

Will this give him any problems, I wonder? I'm thinking mummy/daddy issues, the type of which the Tory Party is painful familiar, where coldness from parents in early life breeds such sexual '(mis)adventurism' that even the News of the World wouldn't touch it with a 10-foot pole?

Riiiiiight.

I'm off to kiss my baby on the lips and breathe into his face.

Some things are worth a few germs.

I'd like to see you try!

I know all babies love to wee when their wee bits are exposed to air, but to borrow a phrase from Mango, 'We're raising a champion pee-er!'

So far, Mango had been the culprit of Baby Mango's hose-downs. I've sat smugly away from the spray and directed him as he spluttered and coughed up a mouthful of baby plumbing contents: 'No, no! Not like that, point it away...away, I said! Didn't you bring any toilet roll to contain it? Well serves you right, next time you'll know better!", feeling superior because unlike him, I am not an only child and have had experience with these things.

But yesterday was different. As usual I blew on Baby Mango's bits as I was changing him and quickly covered it with the soiled nappy. I waited, peeked, blew and covered again. Satisfied that he wasn't going to wee, I turned around to get the cotton wool with which to wipe him when...'Prssssshhhhhhhh!'

My entire blouse was soaked.

"Oh no!"

"What? Did he pee on you?" asked Mango. He took one look at me, took a picture on his iPhone (no doubt to tweet later) and smirked.

"Whatever," I shrugged "At least it didn't happen ...TWICE!!! Ahhhhhhh!" The boy drenched me again, still screaming his protest at being so exposed. Mango doubled over and called his mum, who applauded her grandson, like it was some achievement.

"Right, that's it! All your wet clothes are coming off and I'm running you under the tap!"

As I dried him off, he became very still. I started to brag. "Yes, baby, I know you peed on me twice because I could handle it. I am Supermum! Anyone else would have freaked out." He let out a fart. "That's right, you have the best mummy in the world...Oh God!Is he pooing??!!!" The hand I cupped around his bum was gradually being filled by a warm, mustard-coloured sludge.
"MAHAHAHAHAHAAGGGG!!!!" Mango was turning blue and about to pass out.
I looked at the tiny bum passing such vileness into my hand, looked at the calm contented face and Mango's gagging form.

The old me might have been tempted to wipe my hand on Mango's shirt.

Meh. At least the poo wasn't watery. I got up calmly to wash my hand and Baby's bottom.