Living in a Box

We're packing all our stuff to move back to the old one-bedroom flat next door, and let's call the reason for that an administrational cock-up, oops: error, and not waste precious web space going into details. Unfortunatley Tara's mum has an odd sense of humour and feels the need to pack kith and kin along with kit, so Tara gets to live in a box for a bit, and living in a drawer seems to please her just as much. Of course! There are two men on her left and right, just outside the picture, keeping her upright and entertained, just as she likes it. (Her favourite man just kneeling to her left.)

As bad luck has it, her sitting skills have not progressed much since her ding-a-dong days, so boxes and drawers are not really as suitable as babysitter daddy, who keeps polishing his one handed dish washing skills placidly when he absolutely has to. A shame those skills cannot be transferred to the scrubbing of bath rooms and the defrosting of freezers. Wah wah, says Tara, I prefer living on arms to living on bouncy chairs, wah!
But can you see the smile she's giving me? I didn't even have to work for it, this time. I only said hallo hallo hallllllo! She must remember me as the woman who only yesterday made her laugh so hard by bouncing up and down in front of her shouting Boo! Boo! Boo! for about 20 minutes. If I don't make it to the gym, I figured, and kept power-sqatting and shouting. (I'm lying. I just thought: If you keep laughing like this, my wonderful amazing daughter, then I'll just bounce forever, or at least until I can't feel my legs any more!)
The only box I know to come with inbuilt entertainment is a TV. And we don't have one. Oh, baby...


P.S.: So yes, we're busy moving. No more blogs, calls, or emails until we're reconnected, whenever that will be.

Going Bananas

So it's December, and with the regularity of the sun going up and down, I'm putting dough in the over and pull banana loaves back out. Since my sister made us 3 cakes in four days, Jose got addicted and we have developed a new family tradition (I don't get addicted. I just get chubby). It goes like this:
Mummy: Jose! I'm going to bake you a cake because I love you so and I know you love the cake nearly as much as me!
Jose: Great. This is true love. My cake! My cake!
Then I bake the cake, eat about 40% of it, run off with about another 40% to feed friends, and leave Jose with the remaining slices. What he has to say to that is no blogging material, but also part of the tradition and a good enough reason to go out and buy:
butter (110g), sugar (190g), 2 eggs, 3 ripe bananas, flour (150g brown and white each), baking powder (2 tea spoons), walnuts (100g), and two bars of dark yummy chocolate;
and get baking again as follows (Sarah & Sue, listen up!):
mix butter, sugar, eggs and 3 spoons of warm water until smooth;
blend or mash the bananas and mix them in with the above;
mix all the remaining ingredients together, add a pinch of salt (smash the still wrapped bars of choc up with a bottle, pound them and beat them to a pulp - this is highly satisfactory in general and whacks that unruly chocolate into shape on top. Do NOT cheat by buying chocolate drops);
Mix all of the above together, and stick in the over for an hour at ca. 160 degrees.
Hmmmmmm... that smells good! And how it tastes! Doesn't it Jose? And you don't mind if I take just one thin slice to...

Tara of course helps as best as she can by behaving and sitting quietly in her bouncy chair for however long it takes. Depending on how cooperative she feels, this is anything between 20 minutes and half a day. And because she's well over four months already, and because wriggling my expanding backside at her in time with the chocolate beat was not entertaining enough to keep her happy during the last baking session, mummy bribed her with her first taste of yummy yummy mashed banana. Hmmmmm, Tari, lecker!
But then this whole eating business is just the most fascinating thing! (Yes! Yes! My daughter! No doubt! ... And just how lucky is Jose that Tara is too young still to claim her share of the remaining 20%!)


Although of course for now there is nothing quite as blissful as a nice meal of a boobie. A picture in babana yellow.

Princess Pumpuni & Princess Peanut

Welcome to the world: Princess Peanut, Tara's "cousin Martin" Lia. We are delighted that everything went so well and that the sad little frog, who a week ago was still stranded without much water in the pond, is such a contented, healthy little thing, and positively taking after her mother where beauty is concerned! Who kissed this little froglet, to turn her into a princess? No. Wrong question! Who, other than those lucky enough to be where Lia is, would like to kiss her, too? Me, me, me! I'll have to kiss Princess Pumpuni instead (easily done!), but I'm counting down to when I get to see and cuddle your gorgeous baby girl, Nirite!

Tara herself hasn't much to say about her new cousin yet - but I'm sure she will, once we get back together for a lifetime of play!



Do you remember when Tara was this small? She didn't even have her name yet when she was as old as Lia is today (2 1/2 days!), and that's only four months and a week ago!

This Mummy is a Dummy

Peaceful sleeping arrangements? A thing of the past! Tara's sleeping pattern had taken a funny (NOT!) turn over the last few weeks, and begun to look like this:
Daytime (ca. 10am to 12pm):
Doze at random, depending on soothing movement provided in the form of bouncing chairs, motherly embraces or moving prams (stationary prams? WahWah!), for random periods depending on continuity of movement.
Nights:
12pm to about 4am, decent sleep, largely, and most of the time.
ca. 4am, 'Mummy I'm hungry, I want some milk!', and back to sleep.
ca. 5am, 'Mummy can I have that booby back, I'd like another sip', and back to sleep.
ca. 6am, 'Mummy where is that booby again? Sucking things is so nice!', and back to sleep.
ca. 7am, 'Booby? Nipple?', and back to sleep.
ca. 8am, 'Hungry? Mummy?', and back to sleep.
ca. 9am, 'I thought we had an arrangement here? Now where's my nipple? I'm going to cry if it doesn't come back in my mouth right now!', and back to sleep. Or rather, doze, lamenting the loss of decent sleep. Even though it is very nice to be woken by my snuffling baby who knows how to find me with her eyes closed, and then opens and closes her little mouth in the direction of where she's found me.

It struck me the other day: I'm her dummy. And what is happening is exactly what anti-dummy advocates describe as the problem you have when baby gets used to her dummy, loses it in the night, and then wakes you and won't settle again till you recover it for her! But what was I going to do about it? Tara had made it clear she didn't like them!
And then came Monday night, with Tara waking up at midnight, ready to party and unable to get back to sleep; and with it came:

THE DUMMY DEBATE (Part II)
Mummy: I have a BRILLIANT idea! Wouldn't it be just WONDERFUL if it worked?
Daddy: Yes, wouldn't that be great!
(Mummy runs to dig the dummies back out, and plops one in Tara)
Mummy: My God! It works!
Daddy: My God! It works!
Both: Oh thank God for that! Hurrah!

The nights haven't improved much since. Whether she wakes me to go looking for her dummy or my nipple really comes down to the same. But they work, in the daytime as well, and yes, we are making use of them. Occasionally.
Dummy (1): Alex (0)



And while all this went on, another baby was being born, and another new mummy launched into sleepless nights. Good luck to lovely Lia and Nirit!

Ooops! (More on Poo-Poo Faces and, well, Poo-Poo)

Ladies and Gentlemen! I present: Pumpuni's current poo-poo face. It is an after-the-event face that she reserves nearly exclusively for her daddy, who I'm sure she knows to be no fan of untidyness of any kind, be it on floors, stairs, living-room tables or in nappies. "Ooops, Papi," it seems to say, "I... erm... need your help getting out of this nappy (optional: and everything else I'm wearing)!" Now, ladies and gentlemen, do not read on if your delicate sensibilities are as easily offended as Daddy Jose's.

People! What you can see on the right is an emergency bath. What you cannot see, and it is better than way, is Tara's pre-accident outfit in the elegant tones of used-to-be pink gone mustardy yellow. Tara has broken all personal records and put a mere up-to-the-shoulders to shame. How bad was it? Let's quote her father on the original moment of discovery: "Alexxx!! I need you up here!!" (I was downstairs, trying to sort out the mess on the table. A millenium project.) "Es para devolverla!!!" Loosely in English: It's so bad we should consider returning her and getting a new one! It was indeed so bad that he tried stripping her lying on her front and then begged for my help. A two parent project. Granted, she was already in it up to her neck, but there was no need to get it into her ears as well. Another record she broke today is that of two (emergency) baths in a row, we normally space them out more, shall we say, generously? Normally, though, our baby smells good and is skin colour, not baby poo yellow (to give you a visual idea). Did she do it on purpose? A subtle call for more baths? Pumpuni?

Tara! Sorry, babe, I had to record your records and show you off, my gorgeous plum pudding. Your baby self did not object, enjoyed the bath and had the usual shout at Papi when he tried to dress you afterwards. I know you prefer going naked.

And she could have said something! She does talk, you know? It goes something like this:



Note how skillfully she strikes her best model pose after she realises she's on camera! She's a star! Though she doesn't get it from me, and there are only three possible explanations for the way she has with the camera: 1) She's a natural. 2) It's genetic and she gets it from her aunty Nirite, aka Tante Rosi. 3) We've trained her up. This might have to do with the new camera we got at the end of September. We've had it for about nine weeks and we're on to picture 1362. All of which feature Tara.
I think all three are likely, don't you?

Haushaltshilfe

So. Arm wie wir sind, können wir uns es nicht leisten, so verwöhnte Bälger ranzuziehen wie wir welche sind. Tara wird sich ihr Taschengeld erarbeiten müssen, und ab 14 verbringt sie ihre Samstage nach guter englischer Manier in irgendwelchen Büros. Und weil sich früh übt, hat sie auch jetzt schon, mit 4 Monaten, ihre erste Aufgabe im Haushalt zugeteilt bekommen. Ihrem Alter angemessen natürlich:Beim Windelwechseln hält sie ihre Füße hoch. Und das macht sie ganz toll!


Außerdem fungiert sie, außer als Haussonnenschein, Wonneproppen und Liebesapfel, als Familienheizkörper. Wenn wir uns alle abends aufs Sofa kuscheln und Computer gucken, hält Tari uns warm. So sparen wir Heizkosten und können dann anders investieren, z.B. in Neoprenanzüge zum Schwimmen gehen. Die halten das Kind extra warm und bieten verbesserte Grifffestigkeit. Obwohl wir dafür erstmal Schwimmen gehen sollten. Bald sag ich da, vielleicht morgen, vielleicht Montag. Heute wird erstmal geimpft, 3. Runde. Pieks. Aua. Wahwahwah.

Auf eine neue Tischdecke sparen wir auch. Tari macht die alte kaputt. Beim Essen reißt sie fasziniert und hingabevoll an den Zotteln. Das macht aber nichts. Schreiben wir alles auf, wird hinterher vom Erbe abgezogen. Familientradition.

P.S. Neoprenanzüge. Kaufen oder nicht kaufen?
P.P.S. Tara aktuell auf Spanisch und mit Fotos? Hier!

Prize Baby

I admit it. I'm one of those (horrible horrible) mothers who think that their daughter is one of the most precious things in the world. Which she obviously is. So I'm not being unproportionately presumptious when I think that I am doing people a great favour when allowing them to hold my baby girl. There is, in fact, a hierarchy of prizes to be had with Tara:
"Would you like to change her nappy?" - Third prize. Regularly awarded to Jose. I just hand her over and march off without ceremony.
"Would you like to feed her a bottle?" - Lucky you! This prize is not to be had very often (and feeding her a breast is, I'm afraid, not a prize to be had). Also tends to be won by her father when available as it's mostly given away when Mummy makes off to the gym.
"Would you like to bathe her?" - Congratulations! You have just WON the FIRST PRIZE!

Tara's Aunty Claudia, who'd flown over for a long weekend last week, got lucky and won the first prize when I realised that Tara hadn't bathed for longer than I dare admit in public (doesn't time just fly...). It had been a while since she'd last set foot and bum in her tummy tub, and we were pleased to see that it no longer looked like drowning in that bucket was an imminent danger. It hadn't been so long that she didn't remember what water felt like, though, so in she went happily.
Mummy, too, got lucky and got weed on - I wouldn't call it a prize but warm baby pee on your trousers and all over the bed surely is lucky, isn't it? Like breaking glass? In some culture, some superstition, somewhere?

So. Since i've got a few prizes to give away (nappy/bottle/bath), I'll put a question out for all to answer: Is Tara's washcloth piglet edible?



To enter, leave a comment. To win, you actually have to know Tara and where in this world to find us. Please note that in light of current events, however, the order of prizes has been reversed: Since Tara has now had her fortnightly bath, bathing her will have to be relegated to third prize. Tante Claudia spent four days baking cake, which I spent five days eating, and this must have had an effect on my milk and consequently Tara's digestive system as she's gone from doing three poos per day to one poo in 36 hours. First prize is, consequently, a full nappy change, elevated in its status due to increased rarity. Good luck!

Ding-Dong Tara

True to my promise I've tried to tackle some of the house work, with Tara keeping me company and insisting on sitting up, or trying to. It doesn't quite work, neither the house work, nor the sitting up bit, and I keep alternating my focus of attention ironing-Tara-ironing-Tara, while Tara keeps alternating the sides she falls to, left-right-left-right, ding-dong, whaaaaaa!

Congratulations, Mummy!

With Tara over 100 days old, and bottle training going so beautifully well, my gym membership has come off suspension and I've knocked myself out last weekend by jumping straight back into my old routine. I'd quite forgotten how out of date my idea of what I can and can't do is, and have suffered the consequences for the last two days. Straight after the last class I nearly fell down the stairs - my legs just caved in when asked to carry more weight (my own) down to the changing room. Since then I've been barely able to drag myself up and about at home, and had to decide that sliding down the stairs at home on my bum is the nicer option. A very humbling experience, and not at all cool looking, so there is definately no picture!
Tari, meanwhile, is having more fun at home with her dad, and of course she can't quite hold her bottle herself yet, but Jose (other than manipulating her little hands into the right position so he, too, can take cool pictures) is always there to help.

101 D(almatian D)ays, or, Tara, Advanced

If our little girl did not have us on the go most of the time, I'm sure I would have written her a little poem to celebrate her 101st day. As it is, I can only report that in honour of the day, I've toasted her with an accidental drink of milk that she kindly spat right in my mouth as I was trying to kiss her after a meal. Luckily gravity was on my side and Tara did not return the favour of a full feed. To Tara then, and all she has achieved in 101 days:

She started holding things at 10/11 weeks when daddy Jose thought he'd have a go at fun fotos, and offered her his mobile phone - who could say no to that?! When family friends Marc & Kerstin presented her with the irresistible giraffe-duck Ernest a few days later, Tara took to whole hearted duck-throttling, and ernest quickly found his way to her mouth. A most tasty duckling!


Needless to say that now she's got a 'grasp' of gripping, her little hands make it into my hair more often than not, and I would no longer attribute my excessive hair loss to hormonal changes only. Holding on seems an easier job than letting go, for now.




Weight gain is progressing at an excellent rate. I will, some day soom, work out where that baby clinic is, make my way there, and actually have her weighed and measured. For now, all I know for sure is that Tari is getting heavy to hold, especially when we're in town and she once more 'asks' to be carried back home upright because lying in her pram is not half as exciting as looking over peoples' shoulders at all that is going on on New Walk. And since looking over shoulders requires certain head-holding skills, she's obviously been getting much better at those as well!



The books say that her personality should have started to show by now. I'm not sure about that one, though we can tell she has certain pronounced likes and dislikes. The likes are easy enough: food, lots of it, entertainment (daddy is the specialist), being upright and looking at everything. Oh, and she does like to watch the telly! She sits with us at night and stares and stares at the pictures and the sound. Bad habit! Must be nipped in the bud! Especially since we don't have a telly.
Now, her dislikes, in no specific order: putting on her hat, putting on her jacket, being made to lie in a pram, taking her jacket back off. Lack of attention and entertainment are no great fun either.

And, as it had to happen some day and promptly has on day 100, Jose observed that his daughter has finally understood the connection between making sounds commonly known as crying or whingeing, and being picked up and/or being provided more entertainment. Wahwahwhee - pick me up, wheoaaa - look at me, I'm bored, wheeeeheeeheee - No, I didn't mean like this I mean differently!

101 days - Congratulations, Tara!

Tara Goes Sightseeing

Just in case we do leave town before Tara grows old enough to appreciate the beauty of Leicester, we've taken her sight seeing on one of those lovely Very English sunny autumn days. Town Hall, the New Walk Museum ('Do you want to see a really huge spider, Jose?') and that's enough for a start, for such a small kitten.
Of course, Daddy and The Camera are present, and active (he is, after all, the man who managed well over 350 photos in about four hours at the British War Museum). So while mummy does not feel too passionate about the museum (the sunshine scores so much higher on my scale than dinasours and spiders), she does feel very passionate about looking snazz on mummy-and-Tara pictures, and gets two rather nice examples of cool-mum-pics out of the trip, dragging baby through the various photogenic scenes, not-at-all posing.
Jose admires the various dinasour sceletons and stuffed lions that are shaggy enough to be just as old, and is appreciative enough for the three of us (I just look the part, gazing at those lucky bones while privately marvelling at how good my baby looks on me, what a fashionable little thing she is, and enjoying the admiring looks we get from other people).
On Town Hall Square, I take the camera off Jose and just can't resist the semblance between Tara's hat and the clock tower ('Higher, Jose, higher... more to the right... more to the front...'). There, now: Tara's been sight seeing, and while she may remember none of it, the pictures will be there to tell the story of how great a day she had (and just how snazz we looked).


P.S.: For those who haven't noticed: This entry is really called 'Tara Goes Sighseeing, and Mummy Gets to Look Good'.

Jose Has a Ghost Writress

With write-up time coming to a close it seems that Jose is getting a little tired of writing writing and more writing, and has decided to share some of it out to his family. I've gotten too used to sitting on the sofa, and probably stopped productive thought about a half a year ago, so I'm no use at all. Tara however is full of fresh and original thought, and as that's what traditionally wins people the odd nobel prize here or there, Jose is now claiming his daughter to help with his work. She'd probably prefer studying up on princsses and dragons like she did last week when her knowledgeable uncle Andi was around, but better than having to help around the kitchen, I say. Playtime? Over.

So with Tara and Jose looking after each other, I get some valuable spare time and can finally indulge in ironing and washing up, and clean the bath room, hurrah. Expand on the role of mother, now that I'm getting used to it, and try on that of house wife for size. For now it looks like it's way too big for me, the kitchen is a mess. Or too small, depends. But my appoach to dish washing or cooking will decidedly not win me a nobel prize, not now, not ever, and that's for sure. Though I do do a mean mother's milk. And occasionally I remember to serve the working part of the family a piece of chocolate and a tea. That too matters.

On Family Baths

With Tara now three months old (yes! to the day! and only another three months before she's off to nursery, now how scarily big is that?!), we're old enough, all of us, to have developed some family traditions. One of them: Cuddly family baths with as many adults as fit in the tub. Which normally is one, but on special occasions like today, two (and that's the limit! We're not inviting! There are prizes that just can't be shared). It's a splishy-splashy affair, and so much more convenient when it comes to hunting down baby gunk in the inaccessible valleys between chubby leg and neck roll mountains, the most inaccessible one being located between her double chin and what might be either her triple chin or her neck, one can't be sure. Poor baby, she's inherited her mother's insatiable appetite, and while mummy proudly kisses each extra gram of baby, daddy fears the onset of skin disease in said valleys.
A wonderful feature of family baths is the inbuily mummy soak time. It's not that long ago when I never made it to even the post-shampoo conditioning stage (and forget about the body lotioning stage and other finishing touches!), but now I simply hand a clean, fed, happy, naked baby to her father, and dive, not to be heard of again until after all of the finishing touches.
Different from Tara today: She's decided she decidedly dislikes getting dressed, and must have burnt up all her bathtime snack calories protesting loudly, wahwahwah. I had just gotten through the shampoo when the door burst open, and Jose, looking accusingly at queen Alex in her tub, dangled a crying Tara from outstretched arms. The little angel promptly stopped crying, dangled a little longer in baffled silence, and was then withdrawn ('The doooooor, Jose!'). I soaked on. Poor man, he'd had her for most of the day. But then, I had her three months ago. I think the deal was fair (and Tara was, of course, fed promptly and, as ever, generously. Yum).

Family, olè!

As announced, last week Tara got to meet her family of the more exotic, mediterranean side, olè! They arrived at about 1am, and they arrived in style, bearing vast quantities of presents from everybody in Spain... I still haven't decided whether Tara got luckier, or the fridge: huge homebaked cakes (thanks to the nice neighbour), liters of good olive oil, two kilos of nuts, and about 5 kilos each of various types of cheese and meats, at least.
When 7 salamis materialised out of the first bag of edibles, I just stopped counting and started fearing for storage space. On it went with a suitcase full of things for Tara: Everything from daddy's baby blanket, on with vast amounts of clothes, cuddly toys and various educational books (my first Spanish words, colours and shapes), and through to little gold bracelets and mini mouse earrings. And not only were the presents from people present, but also from the neighbours, greatuncles, aunts and cousins, the married aunt's mother, and a whole lot of people that I'd met but once, and Tara not yet at all...
a wonderful people, the Spanish, and we definately cannot spend Christmas there this year, as we're not currently rich enough to pay for the kind of overweight we'd have to deal with on the plane if we did (body AND suitcase weight!).
Luckily Tara slept through all the rustling of wrapping paper, or else we would not have taken two hours unwrapping everything on her behalf (and that of the fridge), but surely much much longer.


Tara and her family got on like a house on fire (the fridge didn't do as well and kept getting all warm as the door kept popping back open due to over-filleage, and surely getting warm is not what a fridge likes best, though it does come close to being on fire), and adapted to Spanish levels of volume (think fire engines and sirens) well enough.

La abuela: BEEAUUUtiful girl! My BEEAUUUUtiful granddaughter!
Tari: EEEeRRRRHHH! GGGUUURRRRRR! HHHRRRRR!
All hearts were won within a matter of minutes (who could resist her charming smiles?), though England as a country did not score so well, what with the horrible cold, the odd opening hours of restaurants, and why actually does Croques not serve any wine?!


On through 3 1/2 days of (cold) English adventures, and surely the various members of the family liked different things best. A trip to Oxford for those interested in culture and history, a number of trips through the local shops for those who needed presents buying, and one guilt free, taxi free trip to the dentist for me (rental car, Jose for a driver, and grandma and grandpa for baby sitters!), though as a matter of fact, Jose felt rather anxious about that one, waiting for me at the dentist and phoning home thrice within an hour to check on his daughter's and the baby sitters' well being. Tara herself must have loved the loving attention of 5 adults in one go best, for when it was time to say say her good-byes, she took to loud and desperate wailing. And that had only a little to do with her being desperately hungry!

With so much love, and so many presents we can only hope that she still loves mummy and daddy best, after all we only gave her the gift of life and nothing much beyond. But she still loves a giggle with mummy, and at least doesn't cry with daddy, so there is hope still.

Spring Clean

Well. Obviously not, it being October and all. But a general scrub of the flat from top to bottom in preparation of an avalanche of baby visitors. So, what does Tara do, left to her own devices while daddy is trying to get some lunch going and mummy is trying to get a load of washing in? Exactly: complain about lack of attention and involvement. So there she went, dumped straight into the washing as the heart of the action! Did she like it? You bet! Especially the show her father put on for her!



P.S.: "Der Papa kocht" - yeah right. And as per me 'spring' cleaning, I did the bathroom and was then conveniently claimed by my daughter for the rest of the day for booby-sofa company while Jose made lunch, made dinner, hovered the house with particular emphasis of the stairs, kept washing the dishes, took the rubbish out, went to fetch the rental car, did the shopping and put it away. Just to state things as they are, I wouldn't want to claim praise where none is due.