Rant of the day.

Whoever came up with the term 'Sleeping like a baby'? WHO?

Do they even have children? Or am I the one who is the anomaly to this rule? Because not only do babies spend an awful amount of time NOT sleeping but they also make it impossible for anyone desirous of this state to achieve it.

Let us recap: From the early stages - Baby hungry > Cry >Awake >Feed baby > Put down.
Baby poo/Wee > Cry > Awake > Change baby > Put back down
Baby want cuddle > Cry >Awake > Cuddle baby to sleep > Pace > Put down.

Then in the middle stages - Baby hungry/cold/got wind > Cry > Awake > Feed/Wrap/Burp > Put down

Now - Baby Separation anxiety > Cry > Awake > Stay with baby > Pat > Try to leave >Baby Separation anxiety > Cry > Awake > Stay with baby > Pat >Baby Teething > Cry > Awake > Stay with baby > Give Paracetamol/Bongela > Pat >Baby Separation anxiety > Cry > Awake > Stay with baby > Pat >Baby Teething + Separation anxiety > Cry > Awake > Stay with baby > Pat >...you get the picture.

And if this happens every one and a half to two hours, then at what time is a baby supposed to sleep like a baby?

As for me, I've given up all hope of a good night's sleep. No sooner than you conquer one problem then another rears its head. Oh joy.

And then he smiles in the morning, and you are like 'Sleep? WHat sleep? I'll sleep when I'm dead. Oh he is so cute, I want another one," forgetting the night's issues.

 Babies rule the world, I tell you.

As soon as he's 18, I am soooooo booking an extended spa break where I can sleep all I want.

It's just a little crush...

Right? I mean, a married woman with a child can have a crush. I don't necessarily have to do anything about it, that would be bad and wrong, oh so wrong. But having the crush in itself is harmless right?

 And what if the crush was not on a human being per se? Would that still be acceptable? No? I mean doing anything about it then would definitely be weird and wrong. And bad, mustn't forget bad. It's still pretty harmless right? At least it is a living thing...wait...is it a living thing?

Are cartoons technically 'living things'? People do the voice overs and make them move, but they can't be...

Oh heck! I'm in crush with a cartoon saxophone from Baby TV. I don't know what it is; the voice, the winking-blinking badassness or those carelessly thrown-on glasses, but there it is. My shameful secret it out.

I am a goner.

That's not my name!

I don't know why, but Mango is the worst nickname picker in the world, bless him.

 He means well, but some of his nicknames for me have just been weird. One of them,was 'Feigel', the Yiddish for bird.

 I am neither Jewish, nor birdlike and each time he called me that, all I thought about was how the only bird that looked like me was yellow, had big feet and wasn't called Tweety. But this was not as bad as the period where he kept calling me 'Giuseppe'. I hated that period and now I hate that name.

Anyway, today while changing Baby Mango, he suddenly asks: "What colour would you say he was, caramel?"

"Yes, I guess you could say that," I replied.

"You're a little caramel licker," he said to Baby Mango, referring to the fact that he was licking his shirt. I paused and thought about saying nothing. Mango's  previous offering was 'Tongue boy' based on BM's 5-week-old habit of sticking his tongue out.

"Why do all your nicknames for him sound a bit porny?" 

Apparently me pointing these things out says more about my one-track mind than it does his lack of skill.

Ah, well.

Eight hands are definitely better than two.

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Baby Mango is wailing in his play nest. Saliva is dribbling down his chin and he stops between wails to suck on his itchy gums, look back at me to see if I'm coming and continue wailing. I finish up what I am writing, toss the noodles in the wok, wash my hands and pick him up. He instantly stops crying and begins to gurgle. I put him down. He starts again. I wash a few dishes before the wailing gets unbearable then pick him up again and kiss him all over his face.

He smiles briefly before his mouth turns down at the corners. I kiss him again. I know he wants to please me by smiling but he is still sad.

"Baby, please don't cry. I'm trying to write so I can make money for you to go to private school. Like a proper Tory, eh?" I place Baby Mango over one hip and flick between documents to check that my writing makes sense. Then I type for a bit with one hand. I can hear BM gearing up for another wail. He takes a deep breath...

"Not now baby, seriously. What do you want? Are you hot? I changed your nappy and you've just had some milk. Do you just want a cuddle?"

"WAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" I juggle him as I type a few more sentences. Then I throw in all the vegetables and condiments into the wok. "You've got to let me make dinner. I haven't even had lunch yet and daddy won't have anything to eat when he comes back." I put BM down again give the whole wok a final toss, turn off the stove and pick him up again before he can cry.

Later when BM is in bed and his daddy comes back, he makes straight for the wok: "Mmmmm, nice." He shoves a forkful in his mouth straight from the wok and chews thoughtfully. "This is delicious!"

"It's rubbish. BM didn't let me cook or do anything properly today really."

"Nonsense. You keep saying that. Taste this." I grudgingly open my mouth and take the fork. "Not bad."

"You're crazy. It great." Mango is eating greedily from the wok. I watch him for a moment.

"Maybe I should become a chef instead? How long will it take me to make money? 5 years?"

Mango almost chokes. "I'd stick with the writing if were you - for now at least. Those kitchens are brutal."

I eye him and resolve to play the lottery tomorrow. You never know...

Ergotastic?

I just bought an Ergo baby carrier on the recommendation of a friend - and glowing internet reviews. Will let you know what I think after I use it this Sunday on our return to church.

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?