Babies Don't Care About Birthdays

Sooooo...this is another post prompted by me feeling like a weirdo in the 'Mum Community' (if there is such a thing - which there isn't really but it seemed like a better phrase than 'amongst all the other mums I've come across at baby groups, in Facebook groups and on forums').

Baby Bear is just coming up for his first birthday.  In fact, we're 'celebrating' it tomorrow because the Wolf can't get the day off work on his actual birthday.

This brings up two issues.

The first is that my whole blog here is titled 'Tiny Tyger, Baby Bear and Me'.  Baby Bear will technically not be a baby anymore once he turns one.  What if I keep writing for years and years?  Should I keep referring to him as Baby Bear when he's at secondary school??  Of all the first world problems I've encountered this ranks right up there with that time I tumbled dried one sock from a pair and that sock was softer than the other one.

The second issue is the actual subject of this post.  First birthdays, the stress they cause and the fact I just seem to be so very different to many other mums.

When Tyger was a baby I actually left the house every week to go to baby groups so I was friends with a load of mums with babies a similar sort of age.  For their babies' first birthdays some held parties at their houses with food for babies and mums laid out, some hired a hall, some went for soft play type parties or those sensory parties with singing and bubbles and lights and other cool stuff.  All lovely and great fun for Tyger, if a little bit stressful for me both because I don't drive so had to either walk or beg a lift and because Tyger was a little older than most of the others so tended to be at the running off stage where I couldn't sit for even two seconds without being worried he'd be halfway down the road.

Like I said: lovely...and a lot of effort and planning and money for the parents of the baby whose party it was.

I don't mind effort.  I can manage effort, depending on what I'm supposed to be putting effort into.

I hate planning,  I really, seriously hate having to plan something that involves people and places and...ugh.  My wedding ceremony took place at a registrar office (albeit, a nice one) and the 'reception' was just a meal at a restaurant.  There were 14 guests and no flowers, invitations, favours, chairs covers (this is apparently a thing people worry about).  My lovely mother in law made a couple of cakes but there was no big white tower with loads of tiers and the miniature bride and groom on top (which always kind of make me think of the little angel and devil on cartoon characters' shoulders when they have to make an important moral decision.  Not like I think the bride and groom are a devil and angel but more like they're the same sort of size and I can imagine them having a little get together...you know what, this is so irrelevant...).  And, yet, even this small amount of planning was stressful for me.  Having to call someone on the phone to book things...having to fill out forms...having to decide on a date and hoping it wouldn't inconvenience anyone.  *Shudder.*  Don't get me wrong; I'd have loved all my family and friends to have been at my wedding (we went for the smaller wedding because we used the money my amazing parents gave us for a deposit on a house instead of a big wedding) but I was very grateful for not having to plan something that large.  I'm not sure I'd have actually made it to the ceremony if I had.  So, having to plan for 20 little people and think about food and make phonecalls and all that jazz was not something I fancied doing for Tyger's first birthday.

Money was a bit of a problem at the time.  It was pretty tight and spending a fortune on something so - dare I say it - trivial just wasn't really an option for us.

So, what happened on Tyger's birthday?  Well, I made a carrot and walnut cake.  One of Tyger's friends came round for a little bit so her mum could drop off his present and have a cup of coffee and a chat.  The Wolf's parents popped in to see Tyger open some of his gifts.  And we Skyped with my mum (my dad was on a business trip) for a bit.  That was it.  And to be honest, that was enough to tire Tyger out and overload him with stimulation from all the fuss because...you know, he was one.

Do I regret spending his first birthday in such a low-key way?  Not at all.  He was a baby.  He didn't understand the concept of birthdays or presents or parties.  How are we spending the day for Baby Bear's 'birthday' tomorrow?  I'll make a carrot and walnut cake (seriously, it's a fracking good cake and it has carrot and banana and nuts and cream cheese in so it's practically a healthy meal...sort of), we'll all (me, the Wolf, Tyger, my Mum and sisters - my dad's on a business trip again) gather to watch Baby Bear play with the wrapping paper and boxes from all the presents he'll have.  And if the Wolf's parents are about we'll Skype them so they can say 'hi'.  That's it.

If you're the kind of person - unlike me - who enjoys planning things meticulously and who likes to spend hours making sure the wrapping paper matches the bunting (which is something I just had to google to ensure I did in fact mean 'bunting' so that gives you an idea of how often in my life I have dealt with it) and if you have the money then I have nothing against throwing a big party for a baby.  There are things I enjoy doing that other people do not and this is something some people enjoy that I don't.  It's fine as long as you realise it's not really for the baby.  It's for the adults.  Which is totally okay.  Why shouldn't parents get to have fun??  Go for it!  There's nothing wrong with that at all...

...But some people get very stressed about these parties and offended when family members can't come and upset if the cake is the wrong shade of red for a ladybird and...I just don't get it.  Your baby doesn't care that uncle Brian won't be there because he's on holiday with his new girlfriend in Madrid.  You baby won't notice that Grandma only stayed for an hour because she had a hospital appointment to fix her ingrowing toenails.  Your baby will be delighted to get a little taste of the Peppa Pig cake even if Peppa looks like a half-crazed, pink horse instead of a weird cartoon pig.  Your baby will still chew on the wrapping paper whether it's blue with silver stars or orange with purple hearts.  Seriously, you have years and years of birthdays ahead of you when your kid actually will know what's going on and will insist on a Minecraft theme after you've already bought the space themed tablecloth and paper plates.  When they'll be disappointed because you got them the wrong character figure from whatever awful show is cool at the time.  When they'll change their mind seven times about who they want to invite...even after the invites have gone out.  So, for at least this first year, give yourself a break!

It doesn't matter.  Honestly.

Frack You, That's Why (Breastfeeding in Public)

After not posting anything last weekend because the Wolf was on a call out, I thought I'd take advantage of Mother's Day (UK - don't panic if you're elsewhere) and write two this weekend.

I'm devoting this post to something that's been in the news a lot recently: breastfeeding in public.

Considering the subject, this post may well mention such things as boobs, nipples and breast milk.  *Gasp!*  If this makes you feel uncomfortable my advice to is - pleasingly - the same as my advice to people who don't want to see a mother breastfeeding: don't look.  Seriously, there are so many awesome things to see in the world (I hear there are a few cat videos on the internet, for instance) so why you'd waste time complaining about seeing something that's harming nobody and no-one's forcing you to look at is beyond me.

So, that's really the take home message here but that seems like a very short blog post so maybe I'll go into a little more detail.  We'll run through some of the things I read that anger me because who doesn't like to spend a day that's set aside for relaxing getting worked up about something that angers them?

The first thing that pisses me off: 'Why can't you just express milk and use a bottle when you're out?'

Tyger had a tongue tie when he was born but it took four months for me to realise.  This - coupled with terrible advice and lack of support from midwives - meant for several days after I got home from hospital Tyger wouldn't latch on to feed and I had to express every three hours.  Sounds kind of rough, right?  You have no idea.  My three hourly cycle (and we're talking all through the day and night) was to spend half an hour doing 'skin to skin' with Tyger and trying to get him to latch on (in the desperate hope he'd actually feed and we could break this terrible cycle).  After that I'd have to express milk.  The people who moan about women who could 'easily just express' need to pay attention to this part.  I had to make sure he had 30ml of milk every three hours as an absolute minimum (this increased after a couple of days).  Only 30ml.  That's a pretty tiny amount of liquid there.  You can practically sneeze and produce 30ml of snot (or...a less gross example).  And you know how long it took me to get that much milk out of my agonisingly sore nipples?  Up to an hour and a half.  Then I had a further hour in which I could choose to eat, wash (advisable when you have stitches) or sleep.  There were eight of these cycles every 24 hours.  So, eight hours of this 'free time'.  Deduct three for meals and one for having a shower and maybe just sitting not doing anything for a bit and that leaves four hour long (or maybe a little longer if I'd done particularly well expressing - yay, go me!) slots for sleep.  And if Tyger showed any signs of actually being inclined to feed during those slots my mum and the Wolf were under strict instructions to wake me so I could try latching him on.  I have suffered from depression for a long time (I'm currently on antidepressants I've been advised to stay on for at least two years because of the frequency of my depression) but those early days of trying to feed Tyger were the absolute worst of my life.  They were nothing compared to the fog of depression.

Why have I brought this up?  Because I like to include a downer in my blog posts?  Because I want sympathy or admiration?  Well, for two reasons.  Firstly, to show how hard breastfeeding can be.  Some people seem baffled by how heated the whole subject can get but don't realise the sorts of struggles mums might have gone through or still be going through just to keep feeding their baby every day.  Yeah, when I've gone through the crap I have to be able to breastfeed I will get Goram worked up when I feel my decision is under attack from small-minded people.  Secondly, to explain - in a roundabout way - that not all women find expressing easy or even possible at all.  Even after those hellish first few days when my supply was more established I struggled to express.  Tyger was not a good sleeper and the Wolf used to get me to express a bottle's worth of milk a day so he could stay up with Tyger and I could get two or three hours of sleep.  It took me several sessions of expressing through the day in order to get enough milk for that one feed.  If I was out for several hours in the day Tyger might want two or even three feeds in that time.  That's several days of expressing to get enough milk and forfeiting hours of sleep.  On top of that, of course, is the fact nobody should have to go to the effort of expressing when they can just bloody well breastfeed!

So, why can't breastfeeding mums just express?  Frack you, that's why.

The second thing that pisses me off: 'Feed in the toilet and/or breastfeeding in public is the same as peeing in public?'

Okay, so the toilet thing first.  Yuck.  Why would I take my baby (one of the most vulnerable groups susceptible to nasty germs in our species) into a place where people wee and poo in order to feed him??  Does your dislike of the possibility of seeing a human breast (if you choose not to look away) really trump a baby or small child's right to eat somewhere that isn't full of faeces and urine?  No it does not.

As for the second thing...what is wrong with your brain?  Seriously, were you dropped on your head as a baby?  Breastfeeding is pretty much the exact opposite of someone peeing.  You know what it is the same as?  Someone eating or drinking, you moron.

The third thing that pisses my off: 'Why can't you just cover up/breastfeed discretely?'

In some ways, this is the worst one.  It's certainly the most insidious because it's often said by people who say they 'support' breastfeeding and they're fine with breastfeeding in public or they have breastfed their own babies...but...  Ah, that 'but'.  'Of course you should be able to feed your baby in public but there's no reason to flaunt it.'  'Just use a breastfeeding cover or drape over a muslin cloth.'

It seems so reasonable, right?  Except, you know what happens when I put something over Baby Bear's head when he's trying to feed?  The same thing that used to happen when I put something over Tyger's head when he used to feed and probably the same thing you'd do if I put something over your head whilst you're trying to eat your dinner.  He pulls it right off (probably thinking, 'What's wrong with you?  I don't want to have a snack with a blanket over my head!').

And, yeah, I could point out that actually every single breastfeeding mum I've come across would rather the general public didn't see her boobs.  And, yes, I could also point out that by putting some huge cover or blanket or cloth over me and my baby I'm actually drawing more attention to us and to the fact I'm feeding than if I simply pulled down my top and got on with it.  But all that's missing the point.

The point is: why should I have to be discrete??

I'm not doing anything wrong!  I'm sorry if you have been told over and over by our society that breasts are sexual objects and their sole purpose is to arouse and sexually please and sell stuff but that's not their sole purpose.  It's not even their primary purpose!  Their actual purpose - for those of you who are so bad at Biology you think your eyes will fall out if you don't close them when you sneeze - is to feed our young!!  Why should I have to cover up the fact I'm doing something totally normal and natural and good?

When I was pregnant with Tyger, I couldn't wait to breastfeed and I actually hoped someone would make some sort of comment when I was out and feeding him.  I pictured myself laying into whatever monster dared to insult me for feeding my baby.  I was so confident...before the reality of doing it.  Then I had him and breastfeeding was so much harder than I ever thought possible and I had to listen to him screaming and screaming and screaming as I tried and failed to get him to latch on and I felt like the worst mother in the entire world because I couldn't even feed my own baby.  That knocked my confidence a little.  Okay, a lot.  I dreaded feeding in public in case he wouldn't latch on.  In case he cried and people looked and judged me or - worse - said something.  Luckily, I'm largely a recluse and rarely went anywhere other than baby groups with other breastfeeding mums, anyway, but it was still one more stress and worry I could have done without at a time filled with stresses and worries.

Then I had Baby Bear.  I actually had a home birth because I couldn't stand the thought of being in the same hospital I had Tyger in with those same midwives who had failed me so badly when I was desperately trying to feed my child.  As it happens, Baby Bear's breathing wasn't great when he was born so we were rushed to hospital anyway where it turned out his breathing was fine but - haha - he was now really cold from being taken outside and bundled into an ambulance as soon as he entered the world, which meant we had to stay in a night and most of the next day.  So, despite my careful planning I found myself in a hospital bed with a newborn once again; trying and failing to get my scrunched up pink bundle to latch on once again; dealing with the stress of a tongue-tied child once again.  This time, however, I knew what the problem was.  I knew what to do about it.  I was assertive and got on with things and never had to go through the three-hourly awfulness of Tyger's early infancy.

Best of all, my confidence was back.  I have breastfed Baby Bear whilst walking round the supermarket, whilst chatting to a pharmacist in Boots, in cafes and restaurants and on the train.  That's how confident every mum should be about feeding her baby wherever the baby needs feeding.  There are so many things to worry about as a parent.  Legitimate things that are worthy of concern like whether you remembered to put spare clothes in the changing bag in case of a poopsplosion or whether that twat Gove's policies will still be in place by the time your kids start school.  Panicking about the possibility of abuse whenever your baby is hungry is not something that should be an issue.

The law is on our side.  In the UK, at least, it is illegal to ask a breastfeeding woman to leave a public place and that's great but it shouldn't be necessary.  People are 'offended' by me feeding my baby in public?  And?  There are things I come across all the time when I'm out and about that offend me: incorrect use of apostrophes on signs, football being shown on TV in public places, Ugg boots, hot drinks served in tall glasses instead of mugs, people constantly using the word 'ignorant' when they really mean 'arrogant'...  I don't go around telling everyone these things must be hidden from my view, though.  That would be ridiculous because it's me with the issue.

You know what, my hero and most favouritist person in the whole world has expressed what I want to say much better than I.  I am, of course, talking about Stephen Fry.  His view on 'offense':

"It's now very common to hear people say, 'I'm rather offended by that.'  As if that gives them certain rights.  It's actually nothing more than a whine.  'I find that offensive.'  It has no meaning; it has no purpose; it has no reason to be respected as a phrase.  'I am offended by that.'  Well, so fucking what."

And with that reference to Stephen Fry I have calmed down.

I Have a Confession

I have a confession to make.

I'm not a baby person.

I know, I know, that doesn't seem like a big deal and it goes without saying (except this is the internet so I'll say it anyway to ensure there's no misunderstanding (except this is the internet so there's always a chance of a misunderstanding)) I love my boys.  I'd do all the usual clichés parents would do for their kids: I'd die for them, I'd kill for them, I'd fly to Paris to rescue them from human traffickers and murder a load of gangstas on the way.  You know, all the usual parenty stuff.

But - and this is where I feel I deviate from the norm - I don't 'miss' the baby days with Tyger and I don't think Baby Bear is 'growing up too fast'.  All I seem to read in baby groups and from friends with babies is how upset they are their nine-month-olds aren't tiny babies anymore, how they're in tears over the thought of a first birthday, how nostalgic they are about teeny tiny sleepsuits and how morose they are at their baby moving up a nappy size.  I feel bad for them but I'm left wondering if I'm the only person in the world who just doesn't really like the baby stage.

I'm not saying I spend/spent the whole 'baby' part of parenting resenting my children or being indifferent towards them.  Of course, like any mum, I felt an overwhelming sense of love when they fell asleep on me whilst I fed them.  I felt all gooey inside when they started smiling.  I was convinced they were the smartest babies on the planet when they learned how to clap or sit up unaided or move around.  I was elated when they stopped pooping in the house and started doing it in the garden...or was that one the dogs - it's all run into a bit of a blur?  I even thought they looked cute and not like weird bulbous headed, purple, wrinkly aliens.

However, breastfeeding was excruciatingly painful to start with (and for months and months with Tyger) and every time one of the boys fell asleep on me I desperately needed to pee.  The smiling was lovely but the crying happened far more often.  They learned how to do things like clap and move around but got horribly frustrated before they managed (which resulted in more crying).  They may have tricked my hormonal, sleep dprived mind into thinking they were cute but looking back at photos I'm not convinced and they certainly look better once their heads aren't all squishy and bald.  And there's the crying.  Plus: the lack of sleep (oh, God, the lack of sleep), having to carry around a dead weight all day, the crying, the lack of sleep, the stress of starting solids, the crying, the lack of sleep, the crying...

Yeah, I know toddlers cry too.  I know sometimes they cry a lot, too.  Tyger tends to cry at least five times before 8am so I get it.  He can, however, generally let me know why he's crying, even if the reason is all the breadsticks left in the box are broken or one of his toys won't fit in another one or I won't hoover or I take too long hoovering and he wants his 'turn' or he wants to help me with the laundry but I'm making lunch or he wants lunch at 9am.  And, yes, it may be the case that most of my responses to his crying are met with, 'but why??' and more crying but at least I can respond and at least I know what's distressing him, no matter how baffling or bemusing I may find it.

With Baby Bear I have to guess.  Unless I see him fall or see Tyger smack him over the head with a ukulele (yes, that happened and the jury's still out on whether it was an accident or not) I have to assume it's tiredness or trapped wind or teething or...something.  It's incredibly frustrating.  I admit Tyger inexplicably spitting on all his toys/himself/the floor/the sofa/other people is also frustrating.  Tyger asking - several hundred times a day - if I'm going to do the hoovering and trying to dictate to me which hoover I use is frustrating.  Tyger refusing to let anything resembling a vegetable or a full meal or just...food pass his lips is frustrating.  Yeah, the tantrums, throwing things, hitting other people and himself, shouting all time are all really frustrating but not in the same way as Baby Bear's crying.  He cries when you pick him up as if he wants to be down and then cries when you put him down like he wants to be held.  And I can't ask him why or...bribe him with a biscuit (well, I'm sure I could but I'm not quite at the point of giving a baby biscuits to shut him up yet).

Baby Bear has recently started crawling, after weeks of almost but not quite part-crawling-part-rolling-part-commando-crawling-part-flailing where he'd just get himself worked up into a rage because he couldn't quite manage what he wanted.  Far from feeling sad he's now crawling - and by extension growing up - I'm soooo relieved he can finally do it because it's meant he's a little happier and easier to deal with.

The other thing that makes Tyger's behaviour easier to cope with is the fact he may pinch me one minute but he sweetly tells me he loves me the next.  Or I know five minutes before he throws himself on the floor in a rage over his Duplo 'castle' breaking he went around the room pointing at every one of his toys saying 'thank you' (or 'gankoo') for them.  He gives me hugs and kisses, he makes me pretend cups of tea, he says some of the funniest things I've ever heard.  As lovely as it is when Baby Bear gives me a high five or smiles or giggles, I can't wait for him to start talking (more than his current ability to say 'again' and 'Dad').

I guess what I'm trying to say is: whilst I love my baby, I don't look longingly at tiny babies in the supermarket, I don't sniff babies' heads (I think my two must have been faulty because I still don't get that whole thing), I don't well up over little blankets.  I'm not a baby person.

Sleep (or a Lack Thereof)

We’re stuck without internet because my parents are upgrading to fibre optic and...well BT/useless calls centres/stupid bureaucracy.  Do I need to say more?  Three days without internet so far and an engineer out today who doesn’t seem optimistic.  My teenage sisters are thrilled.  So, I’m writing this in MS Word and will put it on the blog once I have access to the world again at some point.  I thought I’d write about sleep because people obsess over things they can’t have so – other than internet access – sleep is something I fantasise about a lot right now.

Whenever you complain about being pregnant, everyone tells you, ‘this is the easy part; just wait ‘til you have the baby and don’t get any sleep for months and months.’  The funny thing is, once you have the baby everyone starts asking if they’re sleeping through yet.  So, after being warned babies and sleep are like...two things that don’t go well together (look, I’m not good with similes and metaphors) you suddenly feel like a failure if your tiny baby who has only been in the big bad world for a few weeks and needs to feed all the time because they have a really teeny tummy isn’t sleeping 8pm-8am every night.

Babies and sleep are chalk and cheese...no too much of a cliché (and also, what’s that about?  Why chalk and cheese?  Just because they’re alliterative?  I don’t know).

Tyger was not a good sleeper.  Well, to start with he was because he was jaundiced and not getting much milk due to a tongue tie and...that’s probably a future blog post.  But in the longer term he was – and I think this is the technical term – a little bugger when it came to sleep.  For a few months the Wolf got me to express milk through the day so he could feed Tyger in the evening whilst I got a couple of hours of precious sleep (oh yeah, if you don’t have kids yet: sleep becomes a commodity that can be traded and gifted when you have a baby).  But then the Wolf’s night shifts started (his old job sucked) and I had to largely go it alone.  The night was along the lines of putting Tyger to bed and him sleeping for an hour or so and then around the time I’d go to bed he’d wake up screaming and I’d be stuck in a loop of feeding and trying to get him down in his cot with the occasional break where he’d sleep for anything from a few minutes to maybe an hour if I was lucky until around 4am when I’d break and take him into bed with me so I could get a little sleep and to stop me from doing anything Social Services would disapprove of (although, let’s face it, they probably disapprove of co-sleeping as well because everyone seems to).

Hmm...babies and sleep are like oil and water?  I thought I was being slightly original there but a quick google has assured me this is a cliché as well.

At a little over nine months it was like someone flipped a switch on Tyger (why oh why could I not find that switch myself??) and his sleep dramatically improved to the point where within a few weeks he was sleeping through every night.  Basically, he was suffering from trapped wind every night until his stomach matured enough for him to deal with it without the, I'm assuming, agonising pain.

Baby Bear is – I’m hoping – just starting to improve with his sleep.  Maybe he has less of a switch and more one of those dials like a dimmer switch.  He’s still far worse than most babies his age but bad is an improvement on terrible so I’m still happy.  I have also been much more relaxed about the whole sleep thing this time round.  I deliberately co-slept for the first few months, knowing it would make my life easier and actually wouldn't mean Baby Bear was still sleeping in the marital bed when he was 35 with a family of his own.  I stopped when it got to the point where I was waking up feeling like an 80 year old every morning because of the amount of hip pain I had from contorting myself into bizarre shapes every night (Baby Bear is a BIG baby) and when Baby Bear got so rolly polly he rolled right off the bed one day (not when we were sleeping but I was still rather paranoid after that) but I was willing to give it a go for a while this time.

Anyway, for the time being I'm still getting a very broken sleep every night but I am keeping faith this will stop soon.  But if these blog posts are ever a little incoherent you can go ahead and blame that on sleep deprivation.

Babies and sleep go together as well as Tiny Tyger and vegetables.  Yeah, that's probably a little specific.  I'll try to work on the whole imagery thing for future posts, okay?

Why We Can Only Say 'Suspicious' if We Have Mini Milks

So, the Wolf, Tiny Tyger, Baby Bear and I are currently living with my parents (and my sisters) until we can sell our house several hundred miles away from the Wolf's new job and buy one considerably closer.

My mum is an amateur photographer.  I think she's pretty good but I also don't know anything much about photography so maybe she's terrible.  I think she's good.  So, she got a new camera and had looked into all photographyish stuff (like framing, shutter speed, aperture, lens something - yeah, I don't know) and wanted to just get on and take a bunch of photos.  However, she found she didn't really know what to take photos of (I don't care if I have a degree in English Literature - oh, by the way, I have a degree in English Literature - I don't agree with the stupid 'don't end a sentence with a preposition rule).  So, she joined a couple of scavenger hunt groups online where you're given a load of words/phrases etc. every month and have to take a photo for each one before the end of the month.

Anyway, she's been doing these for a couple of years now, I think, and one of the words she was struggling to get a photo for last months was 'suspicious'.  She'd hunted around in my 13 year old sister's bedroom (with my sister there - she's not that sort of mum).  I assumed she was looking for porn magazines or weed paraphernalia but it turns out my sister used to sometimes stash empty crisp packets away and that's what she was hoping for.  No luck.

So, she was thinking out loud and, turning to Tyger, said something like, 'I don't know what to do for suspicious.  Do you?  Do you have suspicious?'

To which Tyger replied, 'Okay.'  (He's never said 'yes'; he says 'okay' instead.  I don't know why.)

Mum: 'Okay?  You have suspicious?'

Tyger: 'Okay, Tygy spicious.  Okay.'  (He calls himself by a cute name I won't give here since I'm keeping this blog real-name-free so 'Tygy' will have to do instead - it's gets the gist across.)

Mum: 'Okay?'

Tyger (in a progressively higher pitched and more desperate sounding voice):  'Okay, Meemaw.  Spicious.  Tygy spicious.  Okay, spicious.  Meemaw, Tygy spicious.'  (My mum didn't want to be 'Grandma' or 'Granny' or 'Nanny/Nana' so she's 'Meemaw' and yes I got that from The Big Bang Theory.)

So, it became apparent Tyger thought a 'spicious' was a thing Mum was offering him and he really wanted one.

We were in stitches at this and I tried to think of something he didn't know the name of to give him as a 'spicious'.  I thought of the Mini Milks in the freezer and gave him one of those.  Problem solved.  The end.

Except...

A couple of days later Baby Bear was in his activity station playing away with the big beads on a 'wire' (plastic wire - I'm not totally irresponsible) and the 'keyboard' and all the other colourful bits and pieces on the activity station to keep babies quiet and occupied so parents can have a hot cup of tea (that's what I assume they're for, anyway) and I caught a whiff of something.  Then I made a big mistake.

'I think I smell something suspicious.  I need to check your nappy,' I said to Baby Bear like the idiot I am.

Tyger - overhearing this: 'Spicious?  Spicious!  Tygy, spicious.'

And then he threw himself on the floor crying.  So, I gave him another Mini Milk.

And that's why nobody can say 'suspicious' around Tyger unless we have Mini Milks.

Weaning is a Chore

So, Baby Bear is a six months old and we have started weaning him.  I mean weaning in the UK sense of 'starting to introduce solids (or weaning onto food)' not the US sense of 'starting to stop breastfeeding (or weaning off the breast)'.  I have come across this language difference before so want to be clear in case I'm the victim of some online outrage.  Baby Bear is still very much a booby monster but I'm also trying to introduce him to the monstrous world of food.

Now that's cleared up, I'll tackle another potential internet minefield.  I'm doing what's known as 'baby led weaning' (or BLW on all parenting forums and groups).  This is basically the method whereby you plonk meals/food on baby's tray and let them get on with it rather than the 'traditional' method of mushing up food and making aeroplane noises.  I'm not advocating one over the other (she says, backing away from her laptop) since Tyger was 'traditionally weaned' but there you go: that's what we're doing.

Baby Bear is a big baby.  He's 6 months old and in 12-18 months sized clothing.  After Tyger - who was a scrawny thing - it is a joy to have a big fat baby whose wrists and ankles look like cookie dough with elastic bands round but there are also certain expectations when your baby's thighs are fatter than parts of your calves.  I had visions of him snatching at any and all edible (and non-edible) items as soon as they were in his general vicinity and opening up his maw like in Alien and just swallowing everything whole.  So, imagine my disappointment when it turned out he's a normal baby who flails around blindly for a while and then grabs some food just to drop it over the side of the tray.  He does manage to get some food to his mouth (more and more) but then comes the terrifying gagging.

Now, gagging.  Gagging is noisy.  If a baby has food in/near their throat and they're making a frack load of noise that's fine.  Noisy is good.  It's silence that's dangerous because choking is when no air can get past.  I know this.  I remind myself of this every time Baby Bear is making horrid retching and coughing noises but it doesn't stop that little stab of fear from pulsing through me every time.

What I'm trying to say is babies are fun!

And toddlers are a riot.

Tyger sees Baby Bear gagging.  Tyger sees Baby Bear thrashing around and squeezing his food and throwing his cup around.  And he sees Baby Bear gets attention for this...and he emulates it.

I ignore him and he keeps going.  I try the, 'Oh, Baby Bear doesn't know how to eat properly.  He needs to watch his clever big brother who does it so so well.  Why don't you show him how to eat since you're so good at it and so smart and such a good big boy,' tactic.  It doesn't work.  I'm sure this will pass but right now weaning is a chore.

Oh Dear, Chicken

I haven't fully thought through what I'm going to write about today but I didn't want to get into the habit of leaving it too long between posts (you know, what with all those imaginary people clamouring for me to write more - those people also being the ones who told me I won the lottery and that Nathan Fillion wants me to divorce my husband so I can marry him instead).

Potty training is going far better than I ever dared hope (which still means Tyger went through at least six pairs of pants yesterday) but I won't talk about that today.  For one thing, I'm fed up of dealing with and thinking about other creatures' waste (one of our cats pooped in the bath this morning.  Of all places, it was easy to clean up but still WTF!?) and for another, I'm going to talk about The Small Toys.

Yes, The Small Toys are the smaller plastic animals from Tyger's farm set.  Specifically, the rabbit, duck and swan, though he also has a turkey and cockerel and had a hen (more on that later).  Tyger is not very good at remembering where he put things but he is very good at putting things in/behind/under all sorts items of furniture and such.  This means every day includes at least 10 conversations along the lines of the following:

Tyger: Where's it duck?
Me: I don't know.  Where did you last have it?
Tyger: Where's it duck?
Me: I'm not sure.  I'll look for it.
Tyger: Where's it duck?
Me: Is it behind the radiator?  Under the sofa?  In your kitchen?
Tyger: Where's it duck?
Me: Is it in your spaceship?  Behind a cushion?  Under a speaker?
Tyger: Where's it duck?
Me: Look, here it is!!  I've found it.  Here's duck.
Tyger: Where's it rabbit?

This is one of the infuriating issues with The Small Toys.  The other is connected to our husky.  We have two dogs: a black (technically 'blue') German shepherd who is clumsy and has a tendency to eat her own poo (again with the poop) but is generally eager to please and pretty trainable (as per the breed), and a Siberian husky who doesn't give a flying frack what anyone wants her to do ever (as per that breed) and chews up anything and everything especially if it looks like a children's toy (or your child's first pair of shoes - not that I'm still bitter about that).  You can probably see where this is going.  Basically, the hen now looks like this:

Obviously, this has at least taught Tyger why he can't give his toys to the Devil-husky and has given him a greater respect for his possessions.

Of course it hasn't.  This morning I had to rescue a spoon from his toy kitchen and no doubt many more toys will meet Chicken's fate.  As it is, I had a donkey minus it's hooves and face given to me one morning with the phrase, 'Oh dear horsey,' repeated over and over.

Ah, the joys of pets and children.

Potty Training the Tyger

We are on morning two of potty training the Tyger.  We are also on pair 11 of underpants and three teeny, tiny spots of wee in the potty (but, hey it's better than nothing).

You know what's fun about potty training a toddler you suspect has Asperger's?  Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  It sucks big time.

He's actually doing better than I'd thought he would.  The number of pairs of pants is about what I thought (my sister with Asperger's went through 10 pairs a day for a while and my mum - who thought she was a dab hand at this potty training business having already trained me and my brother - was shocked but her surprise has led to me being prepared).

Talking of pants, you know what pisses me off?  Stupid gender stereotyping.  When it came to buying pants for the Tyger, I wanted to get him ones he'd be excited about and what film does he love right now?  Much like many kids his age he adores Disney's Frozen.  But he's a boy so of course you don't get any underwear for him with Elsa on the front or Anna...not even Kristoff or that annoying snowman.  So, we got some Peppa Pig ones because the Tyger likes watching Peppa Pig whilst I make lunch every day.  The pants don't actually have Peppa on, though, because you know she's a girl and she's pink!  That's dangerously close to being girly.  So, they have her brother George and his dinosaur toy on them, instead.  George is still pink but at least he's a boy and has a dinosaur (a nice acceptably masculine toy) so it's okay.  Now, as it happens, the Tyger does like George and his dinosaur (dinosaur, rarr) but it still seems a shame that boys aren't allowed the main character of a kid's show on their pants if they like.

So, where was I before I got sidetracked into a rant about gender stereotypes?  Ah yes: potty training sucks.  I am already dreading having to potty train Baby Bear (though, I expect he'll be easier than the Tyger who has been...shall we say 'a challenge' from pretty much the get go).

I should actually go and try to coax the Tyger onto the potty - even though he'll sit on it for about five seconds without doing a wee, get off and then probably do a wee somewhere else - because it's been a while and I don't want him to wet his pants (today Mickey Mouse since George and some truck ones were all used yesterday).  Wish me luck.