I'm mourning my pre-baby life, massively.
Someone fetch me a sleeping tablet.
Your baby is eleven months old.
I've received a handful of emails all stating this over the past few days as Lil is six days away from turning eleven months.
They all go on about how she may be speaking a few words and trying to walk if she isn't already. A lot of drivvle really. This, however, is what they seem leave out...
Your baby, who no longer appears to be a baby, will be throwing tantrums. Ones that involve throwing themselves back so they smash their head on the floor if you don't catch them in time. Tantrums that involve throwing themselves forward, too, so that they smash their face on a toy or the floor, causing bruising so that somehow even though it isn't your fault, you feel like a child beater.
The child may also be teething like a mother fucker. They will refuse all food except Wotsits and sit there and whine and whine and whine.
Changing their butt or undressing them for bath time will be a nightmare. They will wriggle like little worms and kick and roll until they get out of whatever it is you're trying to do.
Your house will be a constant mess because, unless you lock them in a playpen or they're asleep, you won't have time to do any housework. This kid has to be watched like a god damn hawk.
You may find that you don't have time for yourself. You can't go and grab a coffee or pop out for a manicure because they may be sick and you don't want to leave them. They could be sick for a while so any time to yourself is out of the question really for fear of feeling like an ogre. A spotty, sore cuticled, guilty ogre.
So there we have it. Your baby is now eleven months. I bet you're wondering why you ever got pregnant.
Am I right?
They all go on about how she may be speaking a few words and trying to walk if she isn't already. A lot of drivvle really. This, however, is what they seem leave out...
Your baby, who no longer appears to be a baby, will be throwing tantrums. Ones that involve throwing themselves back so they smash their head on the floor if you don't catch them in time. Tantrums that involve throwing themselves forward, too, so that they smash their face on a toy or the floor, causing bruising so that somehow even though it isn't your fault, you feel like a child beater.
The child may also be teething like a mother fucker. They will refuse all food except Wotsits and sit there and whine and whine and whine.
Changing their butt or undressing them for bath time will be a nightmare. They will wriggle like little worms and kick and roll until they get out of whatever it is you're trying to do.
Your house will be a constant mess because, unless you lock them in a playpen or they're asleep, you won't have time to do any housework. This kid has to be watched like a god damn hawk.
You may find that you don't have time for yourself. You can't go and grab a coffee or pop out for a manicure because they may be sick and you don't want to leave them. They could be sick for a while so any time to yourself is out of the question really for fear of feeling like an ogre. A spotty, sore cuticled, guilty ogre.
So there we have it. Your baby is now eleven months. I bet you're wondering why you ever got pregnant.
Am I right?
Biscuits.
Seeings as it appears to be socially unacceptable to drink a bottle of wine at this hour (unless you live in the Meditteranean) and quite irresponsible to be drunk in charge of a child (I couldn't disagree more), I shall instead eat biscuits. Pink biscuits.
That's right. The biscuits are back.
And I may have already eaten half a packet.
That's right. The biscuits are back.
And I may have already eaten half a packet.
A test of patience.
So Daddy has gone to Vegas, leaving me in charge for a whole four and a half days. There will be no locking myself in the kitchen at 6.30 when he gets home, clutching a bottle of wine and no long, lazy showers at 8.30. Instead, I gotta deal with these tantrums alone.
I woke up in a bad mood this morning due to another night of not a lot of sleep. But, the day could only get better, I foolishly thought. Well it hasn't. A trip outside in the glorious weather might shut her screaming up for half an hour. Fresh air will make us both happier. Plus I'm all out of formula. Did it shut her up? Did it fu.... Instead she screamed and screamed and screamed and then sicked on herself so I got her out of her pushchair. She stopped. She's heavy. I needed to put her back in there. I tried, she screamed. What to do? Toy shop. Go.
Eighteen pounds lighter and a quiet child. And breathe.
But oh whaddaya know, half way around Tesco and she starts again. Now what? Chocolate. Of course. Don't judge, I was and still am desperate. So I bought white chocolate buttons, by the bucketload.
Now she is sitting at my feet reading; with a runny nose and a hearty cough, clutching at her ear and sipping on her 'tea' (her sippycup full of water, she calls it tea - I'm not that bad a parent!)
Half a day down, four more to go...
I woke up in a bad mood this morning due to another night of not a lot of sleep. But, the day could only get better, I foolishly thought. Well it hasn't. A trip outside in the glorious weather might shut her screaming up for half an hour. Fresh air will make us both happier. Plus I'm all out of formula. Did it shut her up? Did it fu.... Instead she screamed and screamed and screamed and then sicked on herself so I got her out of her pushchair. She stopped. She's heavy. I needed to put her back in there. I tried, she screamed. What to do? Toy shop. Go.
Eighteen pounds lighter and a quiet child. And breathe.
But oh whaddaya know, half way around Tesco and she starts again. Now what? Chocolate. Of course. Don't judge, I was and still am desperate. So I bought white chocolate buttons, by the bucketload.
Now she is sitting at my feet reading; with a runny nose and a hearty cough, clutching at her ear and sipping on her 'tea' (her sippycup full of water, she calls it tea - I'm not that bad a parent!)
Half a day down, four more to go...
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