The boy child is nearly three. He’s at that brilliant age where he’s a proper little human who you can actually have a conversation with. Okay, so his topics are limited and almost always come back to Fireman Sam or Paw Patrol, but we’re getting somewhere. He’s managing this whole new grown-up-toddler thing alongside his Tyrant-In-Training gig, so it’s a fine balance we have to work with. He tells me he’s a big boy (or a big girl, dependent on the day, we’re leaving him to figure it out), we’re half way to toilet training and I’m given a spark of joy each time he makes me a “cuppa-coffeee” from his toy kitchen. These are the good days.
You snore. You get that from me – apparently, I don’t believe I snore but apparently I sound like a train breaking down, so if that’s to be believed then you take after me. You’re currently curled up in the foetal position, all 80cm of you managing to take up a considerable amount of bed space with your tiny frame. Though I put you sleeping on the pillow next to me, you’ve curled over so your foot is in my rib, your body stretched out across the rest of the bed, meaning that when I lie down, my head is aligned with your nappy. I pray for a peaceful night. Read More
As I have said previously, none of my peer group of close friends had had babies when I was pregnant, or indeed had my own baby. This left me at a distinct disadvantage with regard to planning play dates or even just socialising – the best cafes (newer, hipster, slightly better coffee) always seemed to be inaccessible and as cute as they did find my son, the lack of conversation on his part (and the lack on my own, between only having baby things to talk about and being distracted by him) was definitely a deterrent. I noticed them pull away a bit and so was left in a bit of a twilight zone. Enter the Mammy and Baby groups. Read More
I’ve managed to survive 22. For most people that likely isn’t a massive achievement, 22 is generally a rather nondescript year, without major party or celebration. For me though, I’m looking back and thinking “Wow, what a year”.Read More
This weekend is the Cork LGBT Pride Weekend. There’s a massive list of things on for the last few days, culminating in the parade which took place this afternoon. We went along after a lovely brunch in town, buggy and all, and brought E to his first parade. We were afraid he’d freak out with the loud music. We had nothing to worry about, he slept through the blasts of “Euphoria”, a song I realised I had only ever heard playing on the dance floor of the gay bar whose float was blasting it today.Read More
Today is the second day of August, the eighth month of the year. It’s almost a year to the day that I found out I was pregnant last year – that has simply flown. I sit here now with my gorgeous little man in my arms, accustomed to sleep deprivation, able to make up bottles with one hand and no longer disgusted by much of anything that may get on my person – dealing with baby explosions of all types will do that to you. Back then I was pure terrified – 21, not feeling like a grown up at all, much less a responsible one who would be in charge of making sure someone else had a good life. (To be fair, not much has changed there. Mammy guilt is ever present.)
My little fella is finally growing into normal, non premature baby, clothes sizes. Which gives us a lot more choice thankfully, because as cute as the tiny dungarees we got in Tesco were, after 8 weeks we were getting a little tired of the same four outfits! I’ve become one of those people who finds it difficult to walk past the baby section in any clothes shop, or Tesco, without picking up a little top, or dungarees, or cardigan (I really need to stop with the super cute cardigans, we are not getting cold enough weather for the gorgeous tiny things I pick up!). In my quest to fill my sons life with the cutest of the cute clothes that now finally fit him, I’ve discovered a prejudice against Mammy. Read More