Sometimes brands do things I don’t understand. On the upside, their silliness provides me with blog posts (see Exhibit A, Exhibit B, or Exhibit C for examples).
This is a Bonds easysuit, which was so called EITHER
because the cheeky folk at Bonds thought it would be hilarious to mess with the
minds of parents (plus “ridiculously difficult suit” is long and probably
wouldn’t sell as well) OR Alan and I are putting it on totally wrong. If anyone
from Bonds is reading (HEY!), I’ve come up with
a-not-too-different-but-far-more-accurate alternative name:
I’m not entirely sure what the definition of “mummy
blogger” is, but I associate it with a patronising tone and have therefore
always wanted to avoid the label. I’m aware, though, that this blog has become very
kid-focussed lately. Part of me thinks, “You’re a mummy, and you blog. Get over
it.” Another part wonders whether posts like these are just like the hours
of video I took of Moses trying new foods: at the time it all seemed
significant, but watching it back now is quite boring.
I feel like writing though, enough to do it with a pen
and paper (!!) when I’m feeding Hazel and can’t be bothered setting up my
computer and typing with one hand. So I’m going to write, even if it means
I write about mumming and bore you all to tears.
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Why do babies fight sleep? Why? Whyyyyyyyy?! If Hazel noticed
me yawning repeatedly and asked me to please just close my eyes and drift off, I’d obey immediately. She wouldn’t have to ask
twice. There’d be no patting or rocking or walking or swaying. I’d love for someone to dedicate their time
to helping me sleep. But babies are silly. I remember this now.
I’m also reminded of this Tim Minchin video, which is sweary
but hilarious:
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I hate figuring out what my baby should be wearing. My
midwife told me the ‘What you’re wearing plus a layer’ rule, which makes it
sounds far simpler than it actually is. I think ‘What you wish you were wearing, plus a layer’ is more helpful, but this also needs added notes about what to do when the baby’s been rugged up at the warm end of the house while you’re goosebumpy at the cold end, for example. Or what bub should wear when it’s so hot that even nakedness seems like too many layers. It’s possible I’m over-thinking this.
I love calla lilies. Calla lilies are my favourite flowers in the whole world. I
love them despite the fact that they’re also known as ‘funeral flowers’ and ‘death
lilies’. I love them for no particular reason; there’s nothing I can point to
as the thing that makes my insides turn warm and fuzzy, yet my insides always turn
warm and fuzzy when I see one. I love them so much that ‘Calla’ made the shortlist
when we were thinking about names for Hazel. I love them so much that when my
aunty buys some for me I can think of nothing more enjoyable to do with a slot
of both-kids-are-sleeping time than photograph them and make a collage and post
it on my blog.
It’s odd to think that a
couple of months ago she was a stranger to us, sleepy and new. Now she’s one of
us, irrevocably; the placid one with the impressive mullet and giant, whole-body smiles.
It’s odd to think that this time last year she didn’t
exist. It’s odd to think that the blob we first saw by ultrasound last December
has turned into this gorgeous, baby-shaped girl. It’s odd to think that the
other blobs we saw in ultrasounds for my previous two pregnancies, the blobs
that didn’t live past eight weeks, that they had the potential to turn into
baby shapes, too. I don’t think I’d really understood that before.
