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.

Off to Work

Naaa, just teasing! No way am I going back to work yet! I've got lots more baby bouncing, singing and babling to do before I start entertaining the thought. But perhaps Tara would like to set out, please the managers, and take a few calls on my behalf? We're training! Internet and general computer skills, phone manners, and for good measure a bit more of head lifting!
But for now, Janet, thanks but we're still giving Induction a miss. Maybe next week?

Scan Man Meets Tara, Tara Meets Scan Man

At last, they meet: Scan Man and Tara (as the title of this entry already suggests), the little black and white girl of the many measurements, and her friend of the great many concerns. We had received an invitation for a "chat about your recent pregnancy" weeks ago, had made a note in our family diary and arrived well on time at the antenatal reception desk. We were promptly issued with the appropriate paperwork for the next pregnancy (but NO! wrongwrongwrong!) and ushered into a private little waiting room. Bad move! Jose had been all calm up to just then but when he saw a box of tissue sitting on the table, and I suggested that we would now learn the results of the chromosom analysis, the poor man grew all nervous again. A hospital habit, it seems - unjustified, as hindsight has it.
We're not here for any diagnostic drama, there aren't even any reports about the chromosomal analysis in our notes as they were just fine. We're just here, as Jose realises with great relief, for a post pregnancy chat, cuddle (excluding Jose, which I'm sure he's also relieved about) and introduction. Aaaah, that's what I wanted to see, scan man keeps saying. The tissues do not get to play a role in today's meeting.
I think... well, I'm not sure, maybe I was a bit nervous as well and it's been a few days, but i think part of the conversation went something like this:
Scan man: You've had a very difficult pregnancy...
Alex (interrupts): The only difficult part of this pregnancy was you!
OUCH! Very rude, mother. Very German, in fact. Tara would surely be embarrassed if she had paid more attention to her mum. As it was, she was happily studying the ceiling, indulging in daddy and scan man cuddles.
Lucky for me, too, the good doctor seems genuinely unfazed by such behaviour - well, he's seen me about 14 times so has a rough idea of what I'm like (I'm sure everyone at work can relate) - and in the remainder of the chat about our recent pregnancy we learn that
1. scan man was a lot more concerned than he told us (actually, I thought so), and that
2. at the end of the pregnancy he thought we only had a 30% chance of having a healthy baby, and 70% of an unhealthy one, but that he (rightly!) didn't see a point in telling us and worrying us unnecessarily, and that
3. he is very glad to have been wrong.
So are we.
Thank you, DC, for looking out for Tara - our little 100% 30% baby hit. How good that you were wrong!

This blog needs a new villain then! The old one stands redeemed, and what would Tara's little universe be without a bad guy... of course there's always mummy who sits her in a corner daily and tries to do, scandalously, other things! Or daddy who persist in head lifting training and occasionally feels obliged to clean her ears or neck...


Tradition has it that we hit town and treat ourselves to a coffee after a visit with scan man. Mummy has coffee, daddy a sandwich and most of mummy's coffee (while mummy is having a chat with another mother about babies, birth and the difficulty of regaining one's pre-pregnancy figure... yeah, right), and Tarita Pumpunita has milk (free). As you can see from Tara's outfit, summer's over for good now, and even though i don't look it I'm pretty cold. So in preparation for the depth of winter, surely soon to arrive, we add a visit to TK Maxx to our agenda and introduce Tara to the world of sartorial vanity, budgeting while spending and bargain hunting. Jose is quite keen on the pink winter coat in the top right hand corner, but Tara either has a stiff neck from all the exercise he's put her through, or genuinely prefers the sight of the white fluffy one in her line of vision (she does like staring at the white ceiling at home after all, maybe that's just her fave colour?), but it's the white fluffy one we get her for a treat - she's been such a good girl, treating us to the 100% of the 30% she was given. In fact, why don't we just buy her the entire rack of baby clothing! But then, she's not really that much into clothes, fashion, shopping and bargain hunting yet...