Hymn

Trek

We went out this evening for a walk.  Mummy, Daddy, Baby in Pram and thirteen Sherpas carrying assorted baby paraphernalia for the journey.

Customer Cares

I hate automatic call handling.  Hate it, hate it, hate it.  This one was particularly loathsome.  It was voice ‘activated.’  That is, it misunderstood my responses four times before misdirecting me to the Street Lighting department.  Who cut me off immediately.  The second time was more successful - I use the term loosely.  After repeating my ninety-six digit account number three times it told me that the service was ‘unavailable at this time.’  Thirty-five minutes on the phone at the National Rate (whatever that is in Azerbaijan) and the letter’s in the post.

Sounds like Trouble

You know what it’s like, you want to do one thing and the world is conspiring to achieve another.  Baby likes the night-time and would much prefer to fall asleep attached to Mummy rather than on her own.  As day starts to break and she’s sound asleep, the rest of the world wakes up. 

At 7.15 some nursery furniture arrives, courtesy of a large articulated lorry with one of those brash American women shouting, “This vehicle is reversing.  Warning.  This vehicle is reversing” and accompanied by shrieking sirens.

At 7.30 the workmen for next door arrive to pave the back garden.  They bring with them a whack-a-whack-a machine and one of those thumpedy-thumpedy chug-chug devices and bang-bang howl tool.  And then they plug them all into an amplifier and speakers that the Rolling Stones have discarded as being too powerful for their needs.

It’s not just paving. While my neighbours are away, they’ve very sensibly arranged to have their carpets cleaned.  He called at Ours first - he had the wrong house.  And his vrooming sucking hissing contraption provides an excellent demonstration of how thin walls are in modern houses.

Really, I couldn’t make this up, at 8 o’clock the teenage boy from two doors down had half an hour’s practise on his trumpet.

And through it all, Little One dozes soundly.  Cooing and gurgling gently to herself.

One Step at a Time

She has the longest toes.  Possibly in the world.  She’ll have a great future either as a foot-playing pianist or a bat.

Wind Up

Midwives are funny.  After all that training and experience, you’d think they’d know a smile when they see one.  “Wind” indeed!

Still

Little One sleeps.  And sleeps and sleeps.  In fact, the only time she’s cried so far is when we’ve woken her for feeding.  You’d think I’d be delighted but actually the quiet is as worrying as screaming would be nerve-wracking.  Silence is harder to hear.  And as contradictory to sleep.

Eye-spy

My mother-in-law lives a way away and isn’t very mobile.  ‘A’ had kindly volunteered to pick her up so that she could see her new granddaughter.  And that meant me taking her home.  Ninety minutes there at Ninety and Ninety minutes back.  But that was fine.  What wasn’t quite so good was the realisation that when I’m driving I tend to blink less. I determined that when, on the return leg, my right contact lens leapt from my eyeball.  I decided that if I could find it, I would pull over.  Afterall, when I put them in they’re the size of dinner plates.  How hard could it be?  After two minutes molesting myself and weaving across lanes, in a decision that made perfect sense at the time, I resolved to drive on, squinting through my good eye if I thought there was anything worth looking at, like other cars.

On miraculously arriving home, there it was, now a shrivelled transparent raisin, nestling in my crotch.  There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

Family Home

All’s well with Mother and Baby, so I’ve been able to bring them home.  Our Home.  My Family.

Hippy Chick

We’ve always had her name.  A couple of wobbles and distractions but never really changed our mind.  Scarlett.  Scarlett Rose.  We wanted a striking name but not one that will embarrass her.  Now though, it seems such a big name for such a little girl. 

And it’s only just occurred to me.  Scarlett Rose, it’s a bit like Dusty Rhodes or Sandy Shaw.  Bloody hell.  We’ve turned into tree-hugging hippies.

Goodnight

I’ve spent the whole day cooing and cuddling and just being a bit soft really.  She’s so tiny and precious.  Her whole head is no larger than the palm of my hand and her hands so small that she can only just hold my little finger (though she has a good grip).  All the time she’s slept and gurgled contentedly.

I’m not allowed to stay overnight so reluctantly I kiss my girls goodnight and leave them, Baby in her Mummy’s arms.