Dear Sóley

Dear Sóley,

Happy Birthday, you're seven months old today. I got my boogie board out to catch some waves in celebration. First time in a year. A year! I squeezed into that wetsuit and strode down the beach telling your dad it didn't matter that the sea was as flat as super model's tummy, 'I'll just paddle, good practice. For the Olympic boogie boarding championships'. The teenage boys zooming round the beach in their car only slightly ruined the sweet feeling of satisfaction as I sat in the shallows pulling on my fins.

Seven months. You've been busy. You've gone camping twice, sat in the hotpot in Iceland, taken your clothes off in London Heathrow, had an unexpected sun holiday in Connemara, dipped your toes in the Atlantic and even been to the odd party. Well you were mostly outside, asleep in a borrowed pram. Yes, it IS perfectly acceptable to leave a little baby sleeping outside at an Icelandic party. No really, it IS.

Seven months. You're also very happy. Lots of giggling and smiling and socialising with whoever will give you a smile. Yes you're very happy since you got over your colic. We're happy too. Four months of screaming was no fun. Well, it wasn't screaming ALL the time, just like six hours at a time. Don't worry, just get me something nice for Mother's Day when you're older (hint: I like After Eights). Actually, it was heartbreaking to see you that way, we held you all the time.

Seven months. Sometimes I wonder what kind of mother I'll make. I'm sorry I can only bake flapjacks. And I only learnt how to do that as part of my hasty and short lived 'becoming a homemaker' project while pregnant. I'm sorry I'm frightened of playgroups and I only wanted to go back to work instead of singing 'the wheels on the bus'. I'd also like to apologise in advance for when I turn my back and you roll off a raised surface. It's bound to happen, sorry about that, happens to everyone apparently. I refuse to apologise for dyeing all your pink clothes orange though. It's just that pink is not a proper colour and I HATE it. And if it means you grow up thinking you're a traffic cone instead of a little princess then so be it.

Oh there's just one more thing, could you please please PLEASE sleep a bit more? You're not very good at that one. I might have to get my own back when you're a teenager, see how you like when I wake YOU up every few hours demanding that you make me a snack.

Oh sorry, one more thing, we love you. But you know that, right?

PARTY!

I am getting to go to a party. To stay out all night long. And all next morning. With no baby. No nappies. No crying. No waking in the middle of the night. No gurgling, no smiling, no chatting, no cuddling, no chuckling ...

Damn. I'll miss her!

Happy Father's Day Dad! Enjoy this quality time with your daughter. She does take the bottle, sometimes, kindof, just a bit of crying ... screaming ... spluttering ... sobbing ... you'll be grand.

Five Go Camping

Admittedly it was a four star campsite. With a restaurant. And a baby bath. But we did it. We took the baby camping. The three and a half month old baby.

'What, they went camping with the BABY??' several people gasped.

It was so good we did it twice. And she never slept better, all that bracing Tipperary and West Cork air. I actually had to wake her up to feed her, poke poke prod, hey you, wake up! What a shame that the one time she sleeps like a log I spend the night wriggling round trying to get comfortable on my old camping mat, sliding round in my slippery sleeping bag and listening to dogs barking and birds singing at 5AM, worrying the baby is too cold. Or too hot. I consult the ESB room temperature guide. 'Cold/Fuar 9°C DANGER OF HYPOTHERMIA/BAOL HIPITEIRME' it tells me. Not very reassuring. I pull her fleece hat down over her ears and check her mittens, plunge my icy paw down under those 50 million blankets to feel her warm round tummy then readjust her 50 million blankets again.

A couple of hours later I wake up roasting, rip the blankets off her, pull the hat off, yank the mittens off and leave her out to air in the porch. Looks like Summer's arrived in Ireland.

This baby is taking up ALL my maternity leave

I honestly thought I'd have time to do stuff on my maternity leave. Whaddya mean 'what stuff?'. You know, stuff. Painting murals in the house, creating a floral wonderland in the back yard, forging a new career, discovering a hidden talent, working on my childrens' book (don't ask), learning Irish/Icelandic, finally becoming a full member of that obscure and succinctly named organisation The Association of Archaeological Illustrators and Surveyors, you know, stuff. But I can honestly say that in three and a half months I have only managed to get one constructive thing done:

I got the baby and I new passports.

Oh yeah, and getting an infant successfully to age three and a half months, complete with trimmed fingernails, clean neck and roughly 840 changed nappies later.

My Baby Only Wears Pajamas

I can't seem to dress Sóley in anything other than babygros, which are technically pjs I suppose. It's just everything else seems like too much trouble, all those bits and pieces, jeans and socks and shoes and shirts and cardigans, would you be bothered?

So we were shamed by the appearance of little Sophia at our recent Mother and Baby pilates class. There she was, a whole 3 weeks younger than Sóley, impeccably dressed in her frills and flounces, socks, shoes, pantaloons and who knows what else. Not only that but she was mannerly aswell. 'No Sophia, we don't cry' chided her equally well turned out mother when little Sophia let out a tiny whimper.

'No Sóley we don't cry!' I try it out but it has no effect so I pack my screaming baby into her car seat and hightail it outta there.

That'll almost put a halt to her gallop

Eight one way tickets, three credit cards and one very confusing evening later, all four of us are going to Iceland in a staggered feat of babysitting. The mother, the father, the baby and the mother in law. Just so I can draw some pictures and stay up late drinking beers in the sunshine like I normally do every summer.

I can't WAIT! Of course it won't be like the old days when all I had to think about was whether I should buy vodka or jagermeister in the duty free and if I'd be able to outrun an exhausted polar bear. No, this time it'll be all buggies and baggage and tiny swimsuits and cuddly giraffes and teething and the price of nappies. What is the price of nappies in Iceland? Where does the baby go on the plane? How will the baby sleep in bright night? And will my entourage like being stranded in a tiny hamlet where horsemeat noodles are a salad and the most exciting thing to happen will be pizza night on a thursday? These are the questions that race through my head as I pat my baby's back at 5am.

Whoops ... I almost sat on my baby

I'm not sure if it was the dim lighting, the thimble of beer I had, or the way she was impersonating a cushion but I completely forgot she was laying on the couch beside her father! Where is my maternal instinct!? Surely I should have sensed her presence before plonking my butt down a hair's breath away from her peaceful sleeping face. That'll teach her to let her guard down hey.

A valuable lesson learnt by all: DO NOT SIT ON BABY.
We can add this to: DO NOT LET BABY'S HEAD GO UNDER IN BATH.
And: REMEMBER TO STRAP BABY INTO CAR SEAT BEFORE DRIVING OFF.
And lastly: YOU WILL GET CAUGHT IF YOU TRY TO SELL BABY ON EBAY.

The last one I think was a lesson learnt by a german couple who put their baby up for auction. As a joke! So they said.

Actually I blame my absent mindedness on the fact I was dizzy with excitement at the start of a game of Cluedo. Lately we have taken to trying to entice people to the house at weekends with the promise of board games, good old fashioned board games. Oddly some people prefer to go out dancing on a friday night, their loss I say. If they don't want to come out to the sticks to play Cluedo, split a beer between three and watch me almost sit on the baby well that's just fine.

Nine Weeks Later

She's a pretty good excuse for not updating a blog. It's nine weeks since I went into the clinic and the consultant said 'right, this baby has to come out now, they might be able to squeeze you in before lunch'.

'WHAT!?'

And with about 10 minutes to mentally prepare myself I was wheeled down to the operating theatre, sliced open and hey presto, Sóley was produced just like that.

Wow. I'm only just getting over the shock.

Pause. She sleeps.

I can't believe I have a baby.

Mothers

Is it just mine? Or is it an Irish Mammy thing? Or are they like this the world over? And even more importantly am I going to be like this?

See I have this annoying condition related to the pregnancy. Basically it makes walking, sitting, bending, moving, and sometimes even laying still, quite painful. Understandably it gets to me from time to time so I rang my mother looking for a bit of sympathy.

She took it all in and said 'well, the only advice I can give you, (pause), is to look after your appearance, I mean you looked okay most of the time at Christmas, but there was one morning you appeared at breakfast and your hair was sticking out all over the place. And BFAP (obviously she does not call him that) was there and I noticed how well he looked, he looked particularly well-groomed that day. So make sure you look nice before you come down for breakfast in the morning'.

Would you say this to a 8 months pregnant woman?

And well-groomed? WELL-GROOMED!? The fact that anyone described BFAP as well-groomed is beyond belief, it must have been a trick of the light. Muftie, the family dog, has seen more grooming than this man!

But then I have to remind myself that one day at Christmas I was wearing these purple pajamas with 'sleepyhead' written all over them when she saw me, stopped in her tracks and exclaimed 'that's a lovely outfit!'.

On the Sick

It's official, I'm 'on the sick'. Doctor's orders.

I tell BFAP the exciting news 'Isn't it great! No more work! My blood pressure is too high, I've to take it easy, what will we do, where will we go, let's get a camper van, woohoo! Actually maybe I'll just go for a lie-down'.

But first I had to fill out my 'on the sick' special social welfare sick form, all eight pages of it. It takes forever and I'm not sure every thing's filled out right so I drive down and waddle into the little local social welfare office, all pleased with myself, doctor's orders you know. Except I can't actually get into it. Because the queue is out into the porch. There's about 30 people ahead of me. I stand there for a while, pelvis slowly breaking in two. 'It was right out the door and round the corner last time I was here' a nice old lady tells me. Then I wheedle my way inside, just to check there isn't a special queue for me with no one in it. Loads of people are sitting inside, on chairs, I note, yes, chairs, those things pregnant women are meant to sit on (whatever, this is Ireland). And I see the staff, all two of them. One of them is behind a desk called 'enquiries'. She sees me hovering and waves me away 'No! We don't do enquiries anymore! We're too busy!' So much for that. I go back out into the porch to stand in the immobile queue for a bit. Pelvis slowly breaking in two. I change my mind and leave, waddle back out to the car, get in and promptly burst into tears. As you do.

I guess there really is a Recession after all. There, I've mentioned it. Thinking of calling the baby 'Recession' actually.

The Latest Insult

'Look how fat that big mamma is!' (little boy in pool changing room, surely too old to be in ladies?')

The My Little Pony Gymkhana

I tried to tell myself it was just a herd of My Little Ponies* magically come to life having a gymkhana in the attic but the exterminator reckons it's rats. Rats? So you're sure it's not a gang of Labrador puppies playing with a bumper pack of toilet roll under the floorboards?

Rats! And I have to have a baby here! Well that's what I get for buying a cute little terrace house by the sea. Full of character. Or characters, as it turns out.

As I lie awake at 3AM I still tell myself it's just Moonbeam with her clumpy purple hooves galloping towards the next fence. 'Go on Moonbeam you can do it!' the other MLPs neigh. It makes me feel that little bit better.

*Just for the record I was (sadly) too old for the My Little Pony craze myself but my little sister had quite the collection so I would be very familiar with them.

Pass-Remarkable

People become very 'pass-remarkable' when you're pregnant. Not that I am even sure 'pass-remarkable' is a word, But it should be.

Here are some of my favourite remarks that have been passed:

1. 'No offence. But yer gettin' fat' (my 9 year old niece)
2. 'Hey it must be nice not to have periods anymore!' (colleague)
3. 'Do you feel pregnant? Or just fat?' (colleague)
4. 'Are they sure you're only five months pregnant?' (mother)
5. 'Ha ha ha ho ho ho! Jeans with an expandable waist!' (friend)
6. 'You know about the second umbilical cord right?' (friend)
7. 'You're having the baby at HOME!!!??' (many)
8. 'I can tell, it's a girl' (several)
9. 'I can tell, it's a boy' (several)
10. 'Where are you getting married?'

Muscari Armeniacum: An Enthralling Adventure

There are many things associated with pregnancy; swollen ankles, puking, cravings for chocolate rabbits at 3am, being a stupid cow. I have none of these. I have something worse.

Much worse. I have developed a compelling and unhealthy interest in bulbs. Yes, bulbs. So, armed with some kind of beginners bulb selection box from Woodies, on a torrentially rainy Sunday afternoon, I set about transforming our small back yard into a horticultural Wonderland. And now, I am so taken with their little green shoots I can't help but go out and check them in the morning before work. The fact that I am already late for work doesn't deter me in the slightest. Oh no, I just have to see those little green shoots. 'Oh little green shoots, don't you think you're up too early, why it's only Christmas? Here, snuggle up to these dead leaves, all cosy, that's it, head under the covers'. It's uncontrollable! I'm mothering my bulbs!

My book 'How to Garden' tells me in the preface that I am 'embarking on an enthralling adventure'. And the most frightening thing is THAT'S EXACTLY HOW I FEEL!

Next week's episode: Flapjacks: One spoon of golden syrup or two?

Action Man!

One thing I love about BFAP is that he is a man of action. He takes it upon himself to do all sorts of things at lightning speed. Like frantically painting the house, that's frantically, not carefully. It's a useful and endearing trait.

So it was with great enthusiasm that he took on the fraudulent letter I received telling me I had won a Spanish lottery (I hope it was fraudulent, 700,000 euro would come in handy). The bizarre spelling of my name was his first clue. 'O'Bocharpaigh, let me see where have I seen that written? I know, it's the ESB! They've sold your details to a fraud company! No wait, it's Eircom! THEY'VE sold your details! I'll ring them up right now' he said with delight.

'Hello, yes I'd like to make a complaint ... you've sold my personal details to a fraud company ... I know they got the details from you because you both spell my name incorrectly ... Yes, it's O' B_o_c_h_a_r_p ... '

He smiles with glee as he holds the line and awaits their excuse. He's caught them red handed.

'Hello, yes? The phone book? Oh ... they got my address from the phonebook? Oh oh, em no I'm not supposed to be listed, oh well, never mind, we'll live with it, no no, that's fine, no nothing else, okay bye, thanks.'

I giggle about it for hours 'Hello! I'd like to report a fraud, yes Fraud!'
'Well, Miss I went to Cambridge, you didn't spot that it was the phone company either!'

And yes I did ask to be listed in the phone book, I'm the only O'Bocharpaigh in there.