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.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
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.
'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.
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.
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