Baby Days

Abacadab!

2012-01-15T23:41:00.012+01:00

"Look Mummy! I Harry Potter! Where 'tick?"

Leo's found a pointy hat, Leo's found some glasses... my, Leo is Harry Potter! And he knows it!
He's sat with us through a two-week marathon, a little bit of magic every night. Take two grown ups engrossed in teenage telly and mix in one little tired tearful boy at the top of the stairs calling out to Mummy, "Leo watchin teeeeveeee Mummy! I watchin teeeeveee?" Nobody gets in between my and my teenage fun, so there he is, snuggled up to me and joining us right in the first proper dark and scary bit. "I don't liiiike it," he wimpers, "Mummy I don't liiiike it!"
"Me neither," I lie and refuse to bring him back to bed, just because that's a half hour exercise at this time of day and, I repeat, nothing gets in between me and Harry Potter.
Enter Professor Dumbledore to save the day, and the night: "Leo, look! He looks just like Father Christmas!" Leo is very very very fond of Favver Friffmiff. Leo, easily impressed and very excited now: "Mummy! I think is Favver Friffmiff! Look! Favver Friffmiff!"

So, a few days, a hat and some glasses later, we find him a chopstick (which seems a remotely better choice than the pointed barbeqeue skewer he is after), make him a very happy Mr. Potter and get abacadab'ed left right and center. Abacadab! I get poked in the behind. Abacadab! I get poked in the tummy! Abacadab! Leo is crying because his magic 'tick mysteriously disappeared.

"ABACADAB!"

Abacadab! Hat and glasses mysteriously disappear off Leo and reappear on Tara. Bless... Tara knows nothing of Harry P, other than that it is scary and she will not be allowed to watch it until she is at least 18. Leo, meanwhile, secures another hat, another 'tick and keeps poking at everything that presents itself.

Abacadab! Off to bed... part eight out the way and both Leo and I are serously sleep deprived.

"Mummy I'm Harry Potter now."

(Ah the fun that can be had with teenage entertainment! Twilight next.*)

* NEVER!

The tmarto anb The oring, or, The Tomato and the Orange (or, Not Really!)

2012-01-07T19:50:00.005+01:00

onw fagee day a pepo went to the pleygrawnd
She went to the swing theen she thrayd and thrayd and thrayd to get an it
atlarst she cold har mum
she swingd and swingd
at was tuym to go hom and on the wy she went to get sweets
an the wy she met har fhrind

Picture of the author
(who shows remarkable similarities to the hero of the story in her preferences for spare time activities)

... So much for trying to get Tara involved in writing the blog... Might want to think of a different approach...

Happy New Year, 2012

2012-01-02T23:30:00.004+01:00

A happy new year to all of you - and us - and may it be a prosperous one too! Please remeber us if you win the lottery. (Wouldn't that be nice.)

Last official picture of 2011

Leo slept right through the noise with which 2012 was welcomed in rural Germany, but Tara opened her eyes with the first whoosh of the fireworks, to be welcomed by her slightly disoriented (tired!) mother into the year 2013. Ahem. We adjusted eventually.

First official picture of 2012

Hello Tara, welcome to 2012. I think you had a good 2011, except perhaps the trouble with your baby teeth which just will not end - in fact where it come to those, I would just like to fast forward to 2020. Fingers crossed that that will come to end this year. This year, you will be participating in your first dance school performance - I'm looking forward to it, but I'm not sure how many more you'll attend. You like your dancing but you're not passionate about going to your classes. Mind you, you're not keep on the idea of joining a karate club (or some such) with either of your parents either, although I'd been planning that for any girl of mine since long before you were born.
I asked you what you would like to do this year, and you have asked that we start going swimming like we meant to a few weeks ago, so swimming it will be his year. Let's see if I can teach you, or maybe Opa in the summer (cause he taught me an eternity ago)... One target for a 5-year-old is enough, isn't it? I'm still too caught up making it through the busy days to think any further for you, although it would be great (for you) if we could manage to set up more playdates with your friends - you're just a people girl. Here's the one scene that says it all: You came into a huge room full of fab toys (vehicles, puzzles, books, lego, play dough, paints, kitchen and equipment and lots more), canned it all and sighed, "I'm boooored." Your playmates were all having a nap and that, to you, means that all the toys are good for nothing. I'm amazed, but taking note respectfully. And luckily, at home we have at least our Leo, who is about to drop napping altogether and loves you, the same toys as you do when you have company.
And maybe this year we're ready for the Spanish Club? We'll see. Happy 2012, my girl.

Ey, Leo? I think the only wish you made when I gave you the sparklers, was, "More?"
The things you could not get enough of in 2011: Candles (called "Happy-Happies"), climbing, balls, babies, particularly Baby Mona, the park and the play park, cats ("naum-naums"), dogs ("wawas") birds ("piepieps") and chocolate (until the overkill in December). You went from angelic baby to little talking monkey, and where, in the first half of the year, all your nursery staff were awed by how much loving attention you paid to the new babies in your group, I've just now had to sign the first "Incident Form" to acknowledge that you pushed another child over. Totally amazing what a cheeky, spirited little man you've become, with a repertoire of facial expressions to match the attitude.
I'm sure you got enough cuddles, kisses, love and admiration in 2012; not a day has gone by without a dozen remarks along the he's-so-cute line (and boy, was it cute when you came back with a teensy "I so cute"!). More of this in 2012!
No need for any plans for you, my boy, we'll just take every day as it comes, keep watching in awe as you grow, pick up the damage (from destroyed playmobil scenes, walls of the dolls house pushed over, tipped-over Christmas trees, armies of tipped over drinks and the like) and throw in some "choo-choo twains", some scootering in the summer and as much time spent outdoors as feasible at all. Happy 2012, my monkey, and if we could keep away from the pushing of friends, thank you.

Loving siblings but, uhm, somewhat different personalities!

Us gown ups, well, we have some modest hopes for 2012: that it will, in 12 months, have been The Year in which Things Got Easier. Wouldn't that be nice... Leo sleeping through the night... in his own cot... house finished down to the last paint job... more decent proper cooked meals on the table... in time... fitness levels upped... Alex back to the gym... weight lost... nothing ambitious you see.

A relaxed, healthy, happy and successful 2012.
And without further ado, on to The Family Photo of 2012:

Family Photo 2012

2012-01-02T21:02:00.002+01:00

January 2, 2012. We are looking forward (not!) to driving back to the ferry and all the way across the channel to England after a lovely few days with M, K, E and Baby M in L (which followed a fabulous Christmas "at home" in Wunstorf).
Well equipped with towels and bags in case anyone feels like throwing up (like on the way out), and stocked to the roof with Pflaumenmuss, herbal cough teas, other can-only-be-had-in-Germany essentials and presents galore.
And here's The Truth: 8 years in, England feels like home. English breakfast tastes better than German breakfast. Christmas cards, English style, are as basic a requirement as a front door, and although German sized bedrooms are a delight (like, at least three times bigger than Tara's) and German playgrounds and indoor pools are way superior, this really feels like we are going home. Eight years and one's own house do make a difference.
We've got a lot of growing (and me, shrinking) to do this year. (By which I do not mean increasing the number of family members!)

Merry Christmas Everyone

2011-12-21T23:53:00.005+01:00

(This one's three weeks out of date... you got to take what you can get!)

Enter: One tree from the garden.
It is, if you look at it closely (or even glance over it very briefly) a particularly sad and shaggy looking specimen, but it's lived at the house (in the garden) oh so much longer than we have, so it's got certain rights nad we honour it accordingly. All children and dolls out the way and onto the window sill, Papi is bringing The Tree in! (Finally! About time!)

Out the way, here comes the tree *drumroll*

Bit of a job, getting the venerable thing to stand straight

"Mami! Look! Appletee! Fiffviff tee!"

Bring out the ornaments...

... and the lametta ok ok, if we really have to...

There it goes, our shaggy old tree, looking just perfect, and we love it lots (please also note the new shelving left and right of chimney breast. Massive improvement and finally we can go get a few more boxes down... only some 4 to 6 now left in loft!).

(The intention was to write lots more about the kids and "Favver Fiffviff" but, alas, no time, got other things to do. Maybe later, ey?)

The Kiss

2011-11-06T17:57:00.016+01:00

I knew it was coming to Margate, then I forgot and nearly walked right into it without realising that I was about (be too polite, sadly, to) touch art history (and too old to actually - as opposed to just metaporically - pee my pants with excitement). The Kiss - AAAHhhh! What extra large feet (though well proportioned when considered next to the thighs), what sensuous buttocks, and... my, I can't say what my favourite feature actually IS, it's all such smooth beautiful marble and I'd place it in my garden any day! (Or on the landing for that matter.)

I must have studied it in art class, some 20 years (or more) ago, I can't quite put my finger on how I know to be quite so excited about seeing it in the flesh(y marble)... but before I get carried away on the kids' blog... Yes kids, your mother (has private interests although no time is left to persue any of them for even 15 minutes a day, but I get carried away) loves her some good Rhodin, and Leo, you're sort of interested too (mostly in the boobies and the kiss, actually, less the feet and the sensuous perfection of every muscle) (AND we're not posing but looking at the sculpture's manifold reflection in the mirrors on the side) while, Tara, you are not so fussed but far more enjoying yourself chatting with friends.

(And I kiss Leo)

Gotta love having a free brand new art gallery just round the corner. Even the Queen, just under a week later, travelled further than we did to see it (hah!). Exciting!

(... and all reported only two months out of date. That's... progress!)

Well done me

2011-10-16T22:58:00.004+02:00

Well EFFING done me!

I deserve some praise. Come on people, let me hear it! Outdoor toilet to indoor loo (the pipes on left are the pink ones on the right).

Leo-Loo Soll Schafen Lernen

2011-10-10T21:57:00.015+02:00

How long can I handle snuggley cosy cuddley co-sleeping for? Here's how long: 5 years and one month, roughly. And now those five years and one month, wonderful though they were, are over and I've had enough: Leo-Loo's got to learn how to go to sleep by himself. At least how to go to sleep by himself, in his own bed.
All sorts of text books promise that new habits are acquired within one week, and in exchange for a though-through series of sleep inducing events, after a week of decreasing levels of fascination and protest, we're there. It goes like this: "Book, Boobie, Bett." Leo's words, along with "Mummy, cuggle me!"
In the first weeks Water and Maus are also key ingredients of a successful night time (see last picture), and true to form my kid shows very little interest in cuddly toys but hugs his water bottle instead. If you can drink from it it's gotta be good...

Bed? Feeling a bit lost perhaps?

... but when a boy's gotta sleep a boy's gotta sleep.

Night by night...

... bed by bed. Ooops, wrong bed...

I love watching my sleeping baby...

... and my sleeping baby's baby loves my baby.

ZZZzzzzz

Oh well, yes, this happens too (and I want no funny comments about recycling pink sleepwear.)

"I'm my Mama's sugar pie and I know it and I sleep when I see fit."

A few hours in the divine child wakes up, needs a cuddle and kicks up a major fuss if he does not get to move over to my bed, but it's a start. (And I miss him when he's not there...)

The de-babyfication of Leo-Loo has begun. *BIG SIGH*

Leo goes by the name of Leo-Loo these days. Looks wrong but sounds right. And rhymes with Mister Moo and Baby Boo. One day I'm just gonna go and eat this baby UP.

ZZZZZZ

2011-09-23T20:37:00.003+02:00

There is exactly one good reason why Leo did not fall into his tea face forward: I'd taken the plate away literally 30 seconds ago - to get him seconds, at his request.
Poor baby, it's been a long day at the end of a long night and along week.
(As Tara put it, "Mami I hear tomorrow is going to be a good day: Mamis aren't going to be so shouty tomorrow.")

Dem Leo klebt 'n Opa anner Backe

2011-09-18T22:32:00.005+02:00

'I know that I have Opa stuck to my face and I know that that's funny!'

Check... check... 'Is my Opa still stuck?'

Es war einmal... ein Collage aus Großeltern und anderen Familienmitgliedern, die in Tara's Zimmer hing. Bis zum Umzug, bei dem sie abhanden kam, um dann neun Monate später gefunden und sofort von Leo zerlegt zu werden. In Köpfe und andere Fetzen. Seitdem taucht Opa Didi immer mal wieder auf.
Die erste Erscheinung fand im Wäschekorb statt, den Leo hilfreich leerte. Mit dem halben Körper im leeren Wäschekorb rief er voller Begeisterung "OPA! OPA!" Danach tauchte Opa auf der Treppe auf und Leo fiel fast kopfüber die Treppe runtern beim Opa Einsammeln.
Danach tauchten Opa und Leo im Team auf und sprangen durch die Küche, von Kameras und begeisterten Eltern bewundert (sehen sie sich ähnlich oder sehe nur ich das grade?). Von uns aus muss sich der Leo den Opa gar nicht von der Back putzen...

Irgendwo dürfte auch ein Omakopf versteckt sein. Mal gucken, ob der irgendwann auftaucht, und wo. Wir freuen uns schon auf die nächste großelterliche Begegnung.

Bis dahin kleb ich dem Leo anner Backe. Was sonst. (Irgendwann fress ich den Jungen auf.)

'I've got a mummy stuck to my face... somebody get her OFF!'

PS on those excesses in the late summer park sessions

2011-09-17T11:15:00.004+02:00

Aaaaaand the first official cold of the season goes to.... [drumroll]... Mr Moo, it's true!

At least it's fair and proportianate to his passion for the park. My boy wakes up in the mornings, sits up and even before he opens his eyes, exclaims "PARK!" (followed by roughly another 200 "park"s before we actually get there). Boys. ey?

In case these are the last days of summer

2011-09-16T23:23:00.010+02:00

Squirrel hunt

(The squirrels win)

So, just in case these are the last warm and sunny days, we are out there when we can. Leo, when I promise him some PARK at pick up, gets so excited he can't nap and tells everybody withing range what he's up to. His carer, "Park!" Any other mum at the door, "Park!" Random strangers on the way, "Park!" It a bit like he's on his way to Heaven (on Earth), and all you have to do is set him free on the green.
There are squirrels in Heaven, and dogs and ants, aren't there?
Tara is equally delighted, and if she needed any convincing the hope of meeting friends (new or existing), having a picnic and hogging a swing for at least half an hour would win her over. Wheeeee!

Breadstix 'n biscuits

When you haven't got all day to yourself there's nothing like a decent park on the way home from school. So there we are, out in short sleeves while we can, getting sunburnt - what a fabulous way of extending the summer past the end of the holidays.

Fengcyoo Mis Flowu

2011-07-21T16:46:00.008+02:00

"Mis Flowu fengcyoo for locin arfta yelo clas" reads Tara's thank-you note to her teacher, and I am quite confident that she will manage to decypher it. She's a pro, that Mis Flowu, and we are grateful for a start to school life that was a lovely as it was chequered, red and white.

We had Tara's school report a few weeks ago, and Mum and Dad both nearly cried when reading it. So proud, ah, so proud!
May I boast?

"Tara has grown in confidence this year and she is always prepared to try new things and make new friends. She has formed excellent relationships with adults as well as with her peers. Tara works well independently or in a team. She is aware of her own ideas as well as those of others and appreciates these may not always be the same. Her behaviour is excellent and she is a good role model to others. Tara concentrates well and tries hard in everything she does." Aaaahhh.... That was the Personal, Social and Emotional Development.
This is the Overall Comment: "Tara is a delight to teach and always works hard. She has made excellent progress across the curriculum and should be very proud of all she has accomplished. Tara is a popular member of her class, has a wide circle of friends and gets on well with everybody. She has grown in confidence this year too. She has a very caring nature and her behavious is exemplary."

Cue: Dab at tear in corner of eye.
I am very proud, and proper spelling was not part of the curriculum.

Leo has one day to go at nursery and then our first holiday mission will be to hit the shops and buy every outdoor game going under the sun. Parks and beaches of Thanet, here we come!

Sommer, Strand und Sonne

2011-07-17T10:36:00.015+02:00

Ohne viele weitere Worte: So sieht der Sommer an den Wochenenden aus (obwohl wir in Haus und Garten stecken und streichen oder graben sollten).

Tara liebt's und Leo lernt's lieben. Geht schnell, so eine Sommer-, Sonnen-, Strandliebe.

Nana, or "Eating Well"

2011-06-10T14:53:00.008+02:00

Leo and I are home for the week (due to staff training at the nursery) and the beautiful task of feeding him lunches falls to me, his mother who can't cook, lacks any kind of inspiration and usually also inclination.

Leo calls it NANA, Jose calls it Mess, I call it A Beautiful Opportunity For A Great Picture, and I believe at nursery (where they have a lovely caterer who cooks up delicious and greatly diverse meals) they call it "Leo ate well today." This must be what they mean.

Bless - he likes his nana, especially at nursery. I don't know where he gets it but he's quite a connoisseur... If it comes in a shiny wrapper it's a must-have, bread is merely a means of transport for spreads and dips, and the crazier the colour the louder one must demand it. Boy am I glad that five times a week I can leave a nutricious healthy diet to the professionals and scrape by with pasta and tortilla otherwise! Now, Leo, enjoy!

He eats some, has a good feel of it, eats some more - and communicates any issues he has with his food rather well: The above pose is what has to be considered The Reverse Baby Bird - not a case of 'feed me' but 'please extract this undesireable lump of food from my mouth.' The accompanying acounstics go "aaaa-AAHHH?!" and his politics are: Only straight only mummy's hand, second and third choice, mummys hand again, and only in cases of extreme emergency dad's hand or (after a sufficient amount of coaxing) the table. Today we are dealing with too chumky a lump of mince. My fault.

I'm please to say that we are past the stage where 'Thank you I've finished my meal' was communicated by food and plate being flung across the table. It's way in the past and didn't last too long thanks to swift parental educational intervention. I did even have the good sense to leave the camera where it was; letting Leo go on just for a good snap would not have gone down too well with Jose. Or the walls for that matter. (Table cloths were lost.)

Leo-Loo... Sweetest sugar pie in the world. I could eat him up daily, breakfast, lunch and dinner. If only there was a recipe for cooking up another boy like that - hmmmm.

(I shall take any recommendations for quick kiddie lunches, by comment, email or mail, gratefully.)

May, Norma, Edna, Tara and me.

2011-05-09T22:39:00.001+02:00

There they are, all snug with their flags. Can't wait till the big day (tomorrow), and what-oh-what will The Dress be like? And will it shape Tara's idea of wedding dresses forever and ever?
Tara's looking a bit tired, that's all. So much hard partying at school. She's made her very own coloured-in flag to wave and doesn't want to wash off her face painting at bed time.
My one resolution is to watch the whole thing - this involves finding a pub that screens it (which shouldn't be difficult) - and ENJOY every minute of it, come what may.
William and Kate?

Tara, Norma, Edna, May and me agree: "AAAAHHHHH!"

(Next one of its kind in roughly 30 years.)

(PS Yes I know I'm a bit out of date with my blogging... I'll catch up and evntually all will be good!)

(27/04)

I Will NOT Share This Extra Large Banana With My Extra Small Brother!

2011-05-07T09:45:00.007+02:00

*LOL* What can I say?! At least she doesn't shriek quite as loudly as Leo when he doesn't want to share a thing!

(4/4/11)

"Are they crying now? Now? NOW?!"

2011-04-29T22:51:00.001+02:00

This looks like England celebrating England and Englishness, mostly

A big day for England, and a big day for us... It was meant to be, anyway, but come The Wedding, it's quite a job getting everyone motivated, out of bed, into a reasonably decent outfit and out of the house in search of a public screening - eventually found in a pub down by the harbour.
Tara and I are the most excited (not to say, the only ones in the family who care), but big weddings and princesses? Who would not be over the moon?
I've prepped my girl and told her how it was going to go down: Wedding in church, fabulous dress, everyone crying, long ride in carriage, kiss and done. For us, brunch in pub with telly and very many ooohs and aaahs.

"Are they crying yet?"

The Girl Approach to celebrational hats, and The Leo Approach

Ride in carriage with flashback

We have visitors (but they're not very interested and therefore face the wrong way)

Kiss kiss

What a dress!

(Five years of my new anual salary, apparently, before tax. But it's pretty.)

Hand-made flag, courtesy of school art session im Hochzeitsfieber

I guess you can't call us patriots if we're not proper English... but the House of Hannover and us, well we're practically family! And Tara and I, we like a good story about a beautiful princess any day.

I loved it, Tara liked it (but preferred Diana's dress), Jose escorted us through it and Leo ate his way through the English breakfast, slept his way through the wedding and scrunched his way through his Union Jack hat. Hurray to England, Royalty, Tradition and Extravagant Occasions! And a happy married life to the bride and groom.

I kiss my kids (her)

2011-04-22T10:10:00.014+02:00

It's been nearly two years since Tara's last haircut and her hair's grown grown grown. Long long long, and she loves loves loves it. Me too. "I'll NEVER cut my hair," says Tara with conviction. So much hair, and so much love!

And then comes the weekend at the beginning of Spring on which Tara loses as much hair as seems reasonable in a month or two. A bit like a lamb. Or a cat. Or a dog. Except she's my kiddy and there's a history of hair loss in the family. So Jose and I brush her hair, remove enough hair from the brush to stuff a doll's cushion with, and exchange panicked glances over her fleeced looking head. (We freak out, actually.)

Remedy number one: The hair must come off. How do we sell that to a kid who loves her locks? Easily. Poor baby girl, so susceptible to brain washing and manipulation from mum and dad. For one week we bang on about how chic short hair is, and how mum and Tara must go get a twin hair cut. A few days later - lucky coincidence - Tara's friend Sophie has her hair cut, we add a twist of peer pressure / 'gotta have what she has' into the equation and we're there! A twin appointment for mum and Tara, asap.

SNIP SNIP

Snip snip, and don't we look a light year better and at least five years younger? Well, me anyway - Tara not quite, but she's cute either way. Preferably with hair on her head, not in the brush.

Meanwhile, Tara has different worries anyway. Said friend Sophie has cancelled their friendship, and Tara talks about it daily. This is what transpired (so I'm told): Tara and Sophie, then with long hair, were playing tag. Tara caught Sophie by the hair once. Then Tara caught Sophie by the hair again and received the stern warning that they could never be friends again if she (Tara) pulled her (Sophie's) long hair again, ever. But Tara caught her long hair again, accidentally, twice, that being four times in total and the end of all friendship.
Tara recounts the events leading to disaster for days, talks about apologising and feeling sorry, draws pictures of princesses holding hands and writes "Im sori Sofie" but never hands her card over.
I'm feeling very sorry for her but don't want to interfere. Should I? Should I?

KISS KISS (Mum kisses kid)

KISSSSS (Kid kisses back)

PS: I'm writing a month after the haircut. There's Tara, looking over my shoulder: "Ooooh, I loved my long hair! I want to have long hair again, all the way up to my bum! Mummy, I miss your long hair!" I've clearly neglected the post-hair cut brain wash maintenance.
On the positive side, no more hair loss since. (Is she a seasonally sensitive kitten after all?)

PPS: "Hey Tara, are you and Sophie friends again?" - "Yes! We copy each other again, and that means YES."

PPPS: Me, I needed a hair cut to look good for an interview re-applying to my employer to see if they wanted to let me keep my job. Rephrase: Efficiency reviews, job cuts, redundancies, the whole lot. It's a bit of a surprise I don't lose hair over it as well really. Anyway, I looked fab at the interview and got to keep my little job, joy all around.

Hair grows back, friends grow back, jobs grow back... good news all over.

We're Still There! Well, Here. Well.

2011-03-26T19:36:00.011+01:00

I really did say STAY TUNED, didn't I. Well, I'm eating my words. But we're still there, although of course there is now here and no longer there!
Of course, given this virtualy return from the dead, seeing is believing. So here goes, very briefly:

WE PACKED

LOTS of boxes! Snowstorm. Desaster.

THEN WE UNPACKED. Partially. Women and children first.

And miraculously, we lived to tell the tale. Including: The kindness of strangers and new neighbours who fed us meals, and old friends whom we still have not thanked for Christmas presents due to lack of time and good manners. It's awful, really.

We have achieved a fair bit, though (cooking and letter writing not being among those achievements). Seeing is believing:

Kitchen - then & now

Tara's room, before and after (being before she made an unsightly mess of it)

We are out of one and in the other, some stuff is still in boxes, other stuff out, but more of it in cause there are still not enough boxes to stick it all up in. In the midst of it all, I have put my back out, and - wait, it's really high time I stuck the kids into their beds.

So, here we are. Back from the digitally dead, one hopes. Somewhat invisible still, putting it slowly all back together.

Family Photo 2011

2011-01-01T20:36:00.001+01:00

And thus we enter the new year...

(... of course it's really more like this...)

Schneefrei... SAY WHAT?

2010-12-03T23:59:00.010+01:00

Thursday. Roughly zero degrees and a handful of snow, and the local schooling system collapses and all schools close. Seeeeriously. Of course, I work for a school, so HA HA HA, I'm off too, and cuase no busses run, Jose gets stuck with us all at home. Brilliant! We're a family on a mission! Or rather, a few missions. "Mummy, FISRT we go on MY mission, which is a park mission, and a snowman mission. THEN we have coffee. THEN we can go on any mission you choose, which is going to be a house mission."
My, what a clued up daughter I have! So we wrap The Baby warmly into his pushchair and trot off into winter wonderland. Leo doesn't look too impressed, but really, he's just extremely displeased with being tucked away and patiently awaits his turn.

Mission one, The Park! Very idyllic, all of it, rather cold and luckily the snow is so flakey it's no good for rolling up a proper tall and abominable snowman, as I'm quick to explain to Tara. Suits me - I really want to get to Mission Three, which is a) all that interests me these days, and b) somewhat crucial gievn that we plan on moving in 9 days, and still have no kitchen, no bathroom and no paint on the walls in the one house, and not a single box packed in the other.

Unsnowmanable snow does, of course, say nothing about the potential quality of snow angels, and Tara plops down anywhere. Trodden down snow: fine. Head stuck under a bench: great! Flip flip, wave wave... and daddy's pretty good at it too!

Snow angels... whooooaaaa!!!

Leo is being kept happy with a now ball. Nice, cold and a novelty. Aaaah, that's a happy baby! I turn my attention to The Snowman and seconds later Leo begins to cry. Bitterly. Loudly. Inexplicably. Only daddy can explain: Mummy left Baby with The Snowball, completely forgot all about it, and Baby's poor little hands are freezing cold and hurting. Who wouldn't cry?! (Did I say I'm slightly distracted? That I want to be at The House?)

The Snowman (not that he really deserves the caputal letters...)

Mission one accomplished, I say, and we slither off into town on our coffee mission. Just a pit-stop really before the house mission, which deserves an entry in its own right another day, if I ever find the time.

Tara is happy enough with her mission. Also, there's plenty of things to do at the house. Talking to the builders, writing and drawing, dancing to the radio, singing along... All is a bit better still at home where my singing flapping angel can don her fairy wings and wave her wand, and where there's a choice of lots of pens in lots of colours, and a separate set for Leo when Big Sister doesn't fancy sharing hers.

"Mummy, Miss Flower says I sing like the radio!"

After Dinner Drawing, At Home

But then, "At Home" is about to change its meaning radically. The countdown is on, the boxes are still all up in the loft (flat, empty, ahem....), the kitchen is still at the shops und not yet paid for... What can I say, other than STAY TUNED!*

*(And, of course,חג שמח! , Nirite ;-)

My Family, by Tara

2010-11-17T01:14:00.004+01:00

"This is me. That is daddy. They boys have spikey hair, don't they. Leo is teeny-weeny, like when he just came out of the hospital. You had long hair then, Mummy. I miss your long hair."

Signed, in her best attempt at writing her name in cursive script. The up-and-back-down of the 'a' doesn't quite flow right yet, so the 'r' gets lost... a proper signature is what that is!

I'm glad that Tara still sees us as a smiley bunch, mostly - if truth be told, I think of the two grown-ups, she's captured the mood right for daddy, not for her tense nervous tired and shouty mother. This house is doing us in and all we can do is remind ourselves that it's only for another just-under-four-weeks running from one errand to another, not eating right cause nobody has the time to cook, and not even reading Tara's little books with her each night (homework!). But hey - I'm glad to say that our bathroom (FUTURE bathroom) no longer looks like this:

It feels like sorting a house out takes a lot longer than growing long hair back! We're moving in on December 12. By then it will look just lovely. Of course. Everybody will be smiling, and Tara won't even notice that she didn't get a pink carpet, nor pink wallpaper. Hopefully.

Has it really been THIS long?

2010-11-05T21:44:00.013+01:00

Who, gorgeous? Me? Thanks, Mummy!

Once upon a time, exactly one year ago, little Leo hopped onto my bed naked and voila, there he was: The most gorgeous baby boy I ever laid eyes on!
Well. Not quite. And in the same vein, one year down, still the most gorgeous baby boy I ever laid eyes on, he is still a bundle of joy and (a teeny weeny bit* of) trouble. Today, after a nappy changing struggle that, in its level of difficulty, resembles labour, the naked babe takes off with a giggle and pees straight onto my cushion. There it is: The liquid damage to the bed, anticipated one year ago - but, luckily, all absorbed by the shredded content of one box of tissues. We've come full circle, once. Thanks, Leo; and thanks, Leo! And, happy birthday, darling!

(and that pink thing on his head is not really ON his head...)

It's a regular day. I'm back at work, first week, day five, and already utterly exhausted by it. a school day for Tara, another day at nursery for Leo, and Jose got up before six and left before my alarm even rang. Cuddles and pee on the bed - plus a bit of Barbie for breakfast - got us a bit late, so - because I'm rushed and generally bad at judging where my car starts and ends, I scrape and scratch the neighbour's car (panic and tears), which is followed ten minutes later by a massive meltdown on Tara's part, thanks to the discovery of a packet of pink biscuits that were not for her but for Leo's friends at nursery. It's all a bit like homebirth gone wrong all over.
Maybe I should be a bit more grateful it's not all on the same day the bathstore delivery guy called me cheerily to let me know he was on the way to our current address with 3000 Pounds worth of new bathroom stuff and wouldn't take an address correction from me?
But wait, I'm losing direction - I was writing about Leo's birthday!

We have a tiny party for our tiny boy at home, after we've all made it back. Mummy has slipped into pyjamas (boobs-in-boobs-out at baby's convenience), Leo is in his dirty nursery outfit (he "ate well," as they call it ;-), Jose in reflective cycle wear and tight cycling pants and Tara in a very dis-sheveled school uniform. We're a bit of a mess really. To this we add cake (but only after Tara has finished watching Barbie. Priorities!), popcorn, cause Leo adores the stuff and scoffs it like a pro, a few balloons and one present. Yes, one. It's a mix of (1) 'we finally accept that less is more', (2) 'we're swamped and seriously depressed by the mess around us' and (3) 'didn't actually have time to even think of another present, much less go and buy one.' Jeez. Baby boy, I'd be sorry for you if I didn't know that our love for you knows no limits.

Leo loves balloons. Leo loves popcorn. Leo loves it when daddy comes home. Leo loves it when Tara hops and jumps. Leo loves Mummy. Leo loves his present cause it's balls and a hammer. And Leo loves walking up and down holding Mummy's hands. Up and down, up and down, up and down. Leo, I think, had a good day.

And at the end of a long day, he's out so quick after dinner I don't even manage to get a new nappy on him, nor a pyjama, and haven't taken his mismatched socks off him either. That is fine though - a nappy and clothing battle with a tired Leo is tenfold worse, and I'm way. too. tired.

Tara says: "Mummy, I don't understand it: How come Leo has a birthday, but he's not a different number now?" - "But he is a different number now. He's a number one now." - "WOW! That means that now he can walk!"
Well, he's nearly there. Just like we're nearly back to normal, I hope. The last months have been a stressful and tiring mess and I can't wait for that renovating business to be over. I do wish, however, Leo's first year had lasted longer.

Happy birthday, Little Man, and many many happy returns. You've been my number one all along.** I'd love to keep you small like this forever but it's time you work on turning into my "number two"!

* Just the nappy changing wars, and a spot of bother with a sleep association problem. Good as gold otherwise.
** Not fair but true. That's a whole other story which won't be written due to lack of time and energy, and because short changing one child for a whole long year is not something I should really want to admit to. (<-- The smalles possible small print.)

Nearly There!

2010-11-04T01:47:00.000+01:00

Little Man is nearly one! What a journey it has been.

Tiny thing in the background...

...catching up...

Give us a cuddle!

But really, this baby can't be stopped

Schulkind

2010-09-10T22:04:00.011+02:00

Und plötzlich war er da, der große Tag: Der Alarm klingelte um 7 Uhr, nachdem Jose um 6:30 schon behauptet hatte es sei "Viertel vor 7" - aber angesichts dessen, dass ich bis gestern verlässlich bis 9 Uhr verweigert hatte anzuerkennen, dass der neue Tag angefangen habe, war das eine zulässige Lüge.
Tara stand begeistert auf, und voller Vorfreude auf ihre Schultüten, die sie aber zuerst nur "für die Fotos" festhalten durfte (Fotos, die sie mir gar nicht zugestehen wollte). Zur Schule durfte sie nur die kleine von Tante Claudia mitnehmen, denn schließlich gibt es hier weder Zuckertüten noch Erstklässlerfeierlichkeiten, und wenn wir schon am ersten Tag fremdkulturell auffallen, dann doch bitte nicht gleich mit Karacho.
Zweieinhalb Stunden später durfte ich eine zufriedene Tochter mit entzauberter Zuckertüte abholen: "Everybody said, 'look, there's something lovely. Let's look at it!' So we all looked at it at snack time." Und die Lehrerin musste auch aufgeklärt werden, denn "We didn't know what it was, whether a birthday present or just a general gift?"

In den Klassenraum, am ersten Tag, haben Leo und Mama das Schulkind Tara bis zum Haken begleitet, Jäckchen und book bag aufhängen, und dann zu ihrer besten Freundin Sophie an den Knettisch gebracht. Blaue Knete mit Glitzer. Die Lehrerin half den Mädchen in einen Riesenpullover, mindestens Größe XL, damit die Uniform auch schön sauber bleibt (gegen Rotzspuren am Ärmel hat das leider nicht geholfen), und dann haben Leo und ich uns aus dem Staub gemacht, denn gebraucht wurden wir nicht mehr.
Hurra. Zu den Müttern, die sich heulend um die Ecke flüchten, gehört Taras Mama nicht.

Schulkind (deutsch-englisch!)

Schultüte

Schulweg

PS.: Dass Tara an ihrer Schultüte am meisten das Zuckerzeug interressiert hat, muss ja nicht extra erwähnt werden. Wir bleiben dabei: Schokolade, auch Smarties, sind out; lollies sind der Hit. Gleich danach: Die echt scharfe Kinderschere, mit der sie sicham nächsten Tag mal eben so zum Jux ein Loch ins neue Schulkleid schneidet. Schulkind und schlau, aber eben doch noch keine 18.

New Life (Preview)

2010-09-08T22:38:00.006+02:00

School uniform, grey/red, one full set.

One heap of paperwork to sign and return to solicitor in the morning.

One baby with sleep issue, lured into picture with one rattling box of mini smarties, temporarily borrowed from a very heavy Schultüte. To his right: School dress, grey, Tara's choice.

One little girl, 4 years and 6 weeks, asleep among the treats she will receive in the morning. Braids for much coveted wavy hair. Sleeps like a baby, but is, as of tomorrow, 9am, an English Infant School Student.

And so, 7 years and 6 days after arriving in England, we are about to become house owners, and parents of a little girl at an English school. It's crazy, and we're all looking forward to every bit of it.

Oops! (We did it again)

2010-08-15T02:05:00.007+02:00

Those blasted teeth! Seriously! Since our (read: Tara's) last visit to the dentist some 4 months ago, we have been ever so good with the sweet stuff:
We've stuck to our "juice time" deadline of 6pm / dinnertime and have usually only had water after that time. "Juice time is over," Mummy says, and all but Jose stick to it. Mostly diluted apple juice known as "fifty-fifty" or water for drinks, and milk. (How much damage can milk at night do?)
Sweets - not many at all. When we have sweets in the house I make sure I sacrifice myself and eat most of them myself... For Tara they're definately not a daily treat any more as they used to be before the discovery of The First Cavity, and the onslaught of crippling maternal guilt.
All right, we do like some cake with our coffee at the weekend, and granted, when there is ice cream in the freezer, Tara likes to get up before her lazy ass mummy* and help herself to a breakfast of an ice cream and sometimes two; and yeah, somehow we do use the word 'treat' on a more or less daily basis... Anyhow, my conscience is a lot clearer than it was ten months ago.
And still, when I had a good look at one set of tiny, 4 year old teeth last week, there was a new little cavity that should not have been there.
It's not fair. It must be genetic. Yes? No?
So, another sweet trip to the dentist for a filling for Tara, who accepted her fate cheerfully enough. Equipped with her own little bottle of rinsing water - somehow the only thing she remembered with distaste from her last horrid visit - she marched through the door with optimism, showed her special water to everyone, sat down on The Char on mummy's lap like before, and two seconds later crumbeled, cried and refused to be touched. Treatment, yes please, but not too close please!
The NHS kindly offered to desist and send her away - to a hospital for proper anesthetics for a tiny cavity that required five minutes work. They did not want to give her a lifelong fear of the dentist. Sweet. They rather give her anesthetics, and we're not talking local, we're talking all-out.
Err... sorry, not an option (Are they out of their minds???!).

We swapped mum for dad at Tara's request and bought her cooperation with promises of immediate trips to the toy shop, promises of a visit from "the little mouse" ratoncito perez (the Spanish tooth fairy, being a mouse not a fairy), a fair amount of threatening of worse things to come (see last paragraph), and lots of stickers from the nurse. "AAAAaaaaa," said mummy, for the duration of the treatment. "AaaaaAAA," said daddy for just as long. Leo looked on, and Tara sat it out, whimpering, but remembered to rinse with her special water at the end.
It was well scary, but did it hurt, Tara? No, not at all.

It was awful.

Check-up in three months, and there are another three highly critical spots on her front teeth. I just hope that we can scrape by until they fall out, I'm not so sure I can make it through those doors with her again, for more than a check-up.

PS.: As I'm writing this I'm eating the toffees I'd bought her for her Schultüte.

* Lazy ass mum, you got to be kidding me. I hold a full time job in child care at night, surely I'm allowed, on occasion, and as often as said occasion might present itself - even 6 out of 7 times - to sleep for as long as possible, say, 9am?!

FOUR

2010-08-08T23:47:00.004+02:00

My (former) baby is four, and I can hardly believe how big she's grown. Clever, original, and a right little monkey (in a very quiet way), a cuddly bed bug and a loving (if toy snatching) big sister. She takes my breath away with bouts of gratefulness and good manners, with the enthusiasm with which she makes her baby brother laugh (oh how he adores her!), and with the originality and attention with which she observes her world. (Such an eye for detail!)

Tara remains shy (outside of small familiar groups and settings, that is) and remembers her last birthday as a bit of an overwhelming experience. "There were too many people that we didn't know, did we, Mami?" is her take on the huge group of nursery friends that were / are not her "best friends." This year she requested a birthday with Oma, Opa, Tante Claudia and the rest of the family in Germany, and although it did concern her that her few and carefully selected "best friends" would not be able to come to her party, her wish was my command. (Phew!)

"Happy birthday to Taaraaaaa... happy birthday to meeeeee!"

Ummm... I've got soooo much more to say but it's near midnight and there is a long week of holidays and house buying arrangements ahead so... Fingers crossed I'll find the time to come back and rewrite this pitiful little entry that's so unworthy of my pink princess girl :-(

Happy birthday, my love. (No guests other than family, and the day was utterly exhausting anyway. But I think you enjoyed the bit before you collapsed while Mummy went for a massage. I think; I hope; I love you.)

Princess cake, anyone?

Buying a house seems to take up as much time and energy as having another baby - twins perhaps? - and I barely remember that we even have a blog; It feels like I am about 30 entries behind, and lying awake at night writing them up in my head isn't quite the same, unfortunately.

Leo, 8 Months

2010-07-05T20:19:00.003+02:00

Supported tentative wobbly standing boy, 8 months old

First things first: Just for the record, Leo, here's what I tell you daily: Goodness, I adore you! And then I sigh in general, to no audience in particular: Goodness me, how much I love this boy!

Now that that's off my chest and on record, black on white, and for future reference if ever there was any doubt, on to some facts about Leo at 8 months.

A piece of technology? GIMME THAT!

8 months, 4 teeth and a fifth showing. Two stubborn little legs that will refuse to bend when I want them to, so I continually find myself fighting with the little things sticking feet first in the pushchair, refusing to sit down and crying bitterly when I finally manage to wedge him in, heqad first, anyway. The same applies to the kitchen seat, the changing table and any other surface that I require him to sit on. Bribery with food works, and apples are particular popular. Or hot cross buns (Rosinenbrötchen) - he gets positively high on them (even though sugar is only listed as the 15th or so ingredient).
He still won't roll either way, continues to hate tummy time unless he's lying on my tummy, but sits long and stably when sat down although he still hasn't worked out how to sit up himself and is going about trying all the wrong way like a bug on his back.
In terms of weight and length: Weight just under average for his age, length some 10 weeks above average. Long and lean as ever.
Gone his great fascination with his mobile (of the bird variety, above his changing table); it has been replaced with an equally intense fascination with my mobile (of the electronic variety, insurance claim pending. The birds handled baby slobber better.)
Also, he is very enthusiastic about: cables, phones, plastic-button/sound/light toys, Tara's big doll Sophia (whom Tara does not like to share), balls and his weekly music class. All in all rather boy-like favourites, although Tara occasionally likes to pretend that he's a girl called "Leah" or "Lucy".
Sweet, ey?

If Leo was a girl (THANKS, Tara!)

But really, he's a BOY, going gaga over balls

Wait - really really he's His Mamma's BABY

Beautiful and Handsome

2010-07-04T16:09:00.011+02:00

Below, a bed-time conference. What are they talking about? I don't know - future bedroom designs, perhaps, and the amount of pink that would be acceptable? Tara does most of the talking, for sure, and Leo loves being spoken to. Boy, is he happy to be spending some extra time with Big Adorable Sister!
Equally better fun together: watching Peppa Pig, or having a picnic in the garden: Leo healthy peaches, Tara tasty ice cream (what else).

Kiddie Conference

From left to right: Little Brother, Big Sister, Peppa Pig (not pictured but VERY present)

Picnic for Two, peaches and ice cream

I love seeing the two of them together! Especially when one is all dressed in pink and the other all dressed in blue. My blue baby and my pink baby, I call them. But we like them in any colour.
"AAaaah! My two beautiful things!" I say.
"One is beautiful..." says Tara, "And one is gorgeous?" I chip in, wondering who she thinks is the beautiful one, but wanting to make sure they both get praised if only one is 'beautiful' in her opinion.
"... And one is handsome!" Tara completes her sentence.
But of course. I remember learning that in school. Girl are beautiful, boys are handsome. And here's one they don't teach you in school:
Mine are especially beautiful/handsome!

Ahem, what can I say... Maybe: Above, a lot of waffle about how much I like seeing my kids interact in a positive manner. I can't quite find the right words, but I really do like it... *sigh*

House Hunting: Offer Accepted

2010-07-02T16:31:00.001+02:00

Saturday morning. Pancakes with nutella for mum and dad, pancakes with sugar for Tara, and pancakes plain for Leo who wipes his face with them in an attempt at getting as much as possible into his mounth.
Also, one phone call from the agency to tell us that our offer has been accepted and that we are on our way to owning a house. YAY!

Well, YAY, says Jose. Tara seems to be saying OUCH, although why, we do not know. (Yes, Leo is wearing pink hand-me-down bibs from his sister. Ho doesn't mind, and now that we are looking forward to buying a new kitchen and a new bath along with the house I'm certainly not shopping around for blue. All Leo cares for is pancake.)

I've spent a week stressing over the great choice of solicitors (online somewhere in England, cheaper vs. local, more expensive but more direct and possibly faster), then agonised some more over mortgages (fixed rate? 5 years? 3 years? which provider?), and I've also made it back to the house to take detailed photos of every piece of furniture, floor, wall, and other pieces of equipment. I can't possibly post any of those interior pictures. They would give my father a heart attack. So here are just a few: Front room (note: 'SOLD' sign outside), back of house, and garden - currently lawnless, but that represents a huge improvement over the child-swallowing jungle of weeds it still was a week ago.

"SOLD" (subject to contract and excluding curtains and that arm chair!)

Bedroom, bedroom, (tiny) lean-to 'conservatory' , kitchen (left to right, top to bottom)

Garden: South-West facing. Aaaah, sunny!

We're about to grow roots in England, and this of all places. I'm thinking: My kids will possibly look back at this house later as the house they grew up in. They won't have any memories of living in any of the other houses, and living in England will be normal to them, 'home' and all they know. For me, it's totally weird. Possibly in a nice kind of way, but mostly bewildering and baffling.

All going well, we're on a 4-8 week countdown to getting the keys. It's weird.

House Hunting: We're Placing an Offer

2010-06-21T17:44:00.011+02:00

I've not even gotten round to posting any of our many house hunting pictures, and I'd actually decided to give the hunt a bit of a rest for a little while, but then, well: I walked past this street, and that house had a For Sale sign up that wasn't there before, and I though I'd just ring about the price for this handsome little piece of property, and it turned out to be affordable and in need of modernisation just like I'd come round to wantin; so before I knew it I was walking round the house a few days later, thinking, Oh isn't this just right!
South-West facing garden, 4 bedrooms, plenty of light around the house, and just the right size between being too squishy and so big I feel out of my depth. It needs a new kitchen and bathroom as well as floors and heating (which is reflected in the price), so we would get a house finished to our liking, which is much better than buying something done up to other people's tastes but being unable to replace it because it's new and you exhausted your funds buying it new, never mind having to have builders in for a few months! Location: a central tiny cul-de-sac, no thrugh-traffic and everything in walking distance, busses, (classy) supermarket, city centre and shops, harbour and beach, park and playground the other direction, gym, nursery and library all between 2 (library) and ten minutes (park or beach).
The only downside is that there is only on-street parking, but then that's pretty normal for a central location.
We saw it on Saturday, I've slept badly since cause I've been planning kitchens and bathrooms in my head at night, and come Monday morning (that being today), I've placed an offer just a tiny bit above the asking price (as there are other offers as well). We hope to hear back this week.
Bet I wasn't much fun to be around for the kids this morning, spending most of it on the phone, ignoring Tara and her half-assembled scooter, Leo dangling from my arm.
But Tara is concerned with lots of other issues anyway: Mummy, can I scooter to nursery? Mami, my legs are tired. Come on, Mummy! Mami, I want to take my knee pads off. And my helmet! Mami, if I was Father Christmas I wouldn't want to get stuck down the chimney.
Where ever did that come from?!
Well, it's a while to Christmas. Fingers crossed we have good news about the house (or another one if this one's not meant to be) before then, and then I'm all for seeing Father Christmas stuck in a chimney if only it's mine.

Left half of the semi-D at the end: Is it meant to be? (And have we offered enough?)

Across the street, or: View from front room (nice ey?)

And a bit further up the street, going up towards the park at the end

I used to have - and I used to treasure - a tape that my parents recorded when I was about 5. On it were some random little snippets like me, in my little voice, naming my favourite colour (blue). Also, there was a conversation between my parents about houses they'd been looking at. So, one of them said, which of the houses that we've seen do you think it is then, said one to the other. The house on what's-it-called street, the other voice replied, sounding not quite so sure but hopeful. And the house on what's-it-called street is indeed the house I grew up in.
I look at my children and I think: It's time we stopped paying other people's mortgages. Thanks to my parents there is enough for a deposit on a house, and by the time my sweet little poppets will need money for their education, we could be done with the mortgage and able to pay for it, or put some aside for a deposit for their future homes perhaps. Or both. (Or, given the state of the nation, keep our dear old selves in food despite some minimal pension, instead of having to move in with one kid or the other.)
Look at them. What comes to mind is a pink room, and a blue one. One for the future engineer, the other for the future musician. *Grins*

"Look Mami, I'm making Leo laugh!"

This is MY jelly and I AM taking it home! AND THIS ONE TOO!

2010-05-25T15:07:00.015+02:00

A very hot day. My daughter, sitting on a bench in town for a quick soothe-the-crying-baby break, gets lucky: Her "best friend" Zack zooms by with his mum, on their way to buying a paddling pool, and we are invited back to their house for a splash. Hurray, says Tara, I WANT TO GO TO ZACK'S HOUSE! (This is something she says with regularity, though only about once every week or fortnight in combination with that enthusiastic hurray.) Great, I say, let's buy some treats; and a littel later we are at Zacks, Tara in borrowed swimming trunks, and the two of them eating crispies (one bag each), and a jelly (one each, of a four-pack). Tara dips two toes in the pool after her lengthy snack: She does not care for (cold or otherwise) water as much as she cares for treats. Especially jelly. (Edit: Actually, especially anything.)
Fun is had by all, for various reasons, and it is home time. One innocently unsuspecting polite mother - not me! - says: Do you want to take the last two jellies home?
Na, don't worry, I say. (We have more at home. Plenty more.) YES, my daughter says by the door, slipping into her shoes one-handed because she is clutching a sweet she was secretly given by Zack in the other. She has very good ears, this daughter of mine.
In the kitchen, Zack begins to cry bitterly. His mother starts trying to talk him out of wanting the fourth jelly.
By the door, my daughter will not be talked into relinquishing her jellies, third and fourth. I suggest sharing, and now she begins to cry bitterly too. All right, all right, I say, choosing fairness and maternal betrayal over reason and educational perseverance: I slip one jelly out of the pushchair and behind the door as we go down the stairs. Oops, I plan on saying at home when we find one jelly missing, we must have lost that on the way.
My darling daughter must have heard the jelly wobble in its plastic bowl. There are three steps to descend: On the second she asks, And we have the jellies? BOTH?! But of course, I say, OF COURSE! and change the subject, quickly.
I think my evil plot might work as we make it half way home on peaceful conversation. But then, the other end of the peaceful conversation changes the subject back: Do we really have both jellies still? Emphasis on really and both.
It is here and now that I make the mistake of changing up on myself, 4 and a half a street from home: Well... I don't want to lie to you... I left one jelly with Zack. Are you very cross with me?
Well, yes, replies my daughter, composed. I am very cross with you if you give my jelly away. It is my jelly and I want to take it home, and if you give it to Zack that is not fair, and I am going to cry. Speaks with great composure, takes a deep breath and HOWLS. Extra. Loud. In between sobs she resumes arguing her case along similar lines as above and cries some more. Again, extra loud. And it is not just me feeling extra sensitive because of all the people that we walk past - people that I wish to exchange understanding looks with and casually wish to say to, Tired time of day married with not enough jelly to go round, you know... Ahem. But nobody seems to care as much as Tara. Tara goes WAAAAA!
I say, Do you want to go back to Zack's house and get the jelly back...
YEEEES
...and give him back the sweety he gave you?
NOOOO WAAAAA!
Does it seem fair to you that he gives you a sweety and you don't want to share your jellies?
YEEES!
But we have lots more jellies at home, you know?
I don't CAAAAAREEE! I want THIS ONEEEE!
We get home, and bless the 'tired time of day', daddy is home. By now Tara wants reassurance just as much as her jelly and she is howling: Mummy *sob sob* cuuuuddles *howl sob* eeeextra long cuuuuddle! I'm on a tired time of day homerun though, have made a dash for the kitchen, am trying to make her dinner (NO jelly for pudding!), and am cruelly refusing extra long cuddles.
Up she trots the stairs for daddy cuddles. Sad to report: only second-best.
From down in the kitchen, I hear the incident told over.
And again.
And again, under tears.
And voila, there's a new element to her tearful account! It goes: I want to go and live in a different house with a different mummy! I want a new mummy who doesn't give my jellies away! I want to live with Tante Claudia! SHE would NOT have given away my jelly! It's not faaaiiiir!
I've been disowned! Over a jelly! Downstairs, I am in tears. Of laughter.
Upstairs, Jose is, too. Tears of laughter. And Tara. Tears of anger and despair. What is she going to do without her mummy?
Daddy does a fair bit of soothing, cuddling and talking, and Tara is willing to move back in. Then there is a little silence in which, I learn later, she sits and eats Zack's sweeties.
My daughter, recovered.
She comes down, eats her dinner, and generously offers me a share of everything she eats, offers Leo a share of everything she eats.
She only has two more concerns, presented calmly.
1. Mummy, I didn't want Zack to have the jelly because he is going to get FAT. He's omly allowed one treat and he already had the crispies... (Ahem. In the first world, little boys do not come any skinnier than Zack. But I won't mention.)
2. Tante Claudia will miss me. (I bet she does.)

That's my girl: Brought up to argue her case.

Happier Days (when Tante Claudia was still here. SHE would NOT have given away Tara's 8th jelly.)

"Self Portrait on a Happier Day" (so named by Mummy; 3 years, 9 months)

Meanwhile, the little man has cut his first tooth and is happily shredding cooked carrots, bananas, toast and fluffy dogs or paper of any kind with it. Also, as of this week, he can sit for considerable amounts of time without falling onto his nose and crying hard, although that too does happen. Does it gets the news coverage it deserves? I does not. Life really really is not fair.

Dog bites Little Man. Little Man bites back.

Ein Voller Geburtstag, und ein Halber

2010-05-05T22:01:00.013+02:00

Dem Opa Didi zum ~~70sten~~ 59sten!

Happy Birthday to Youuuu

Hier wird so richtig laut gesungen, Happy Birthday To Youuuu, und auch gleich 5 oder 6 mal, denn wir singen auch für's Foto, wenn der Opa in einem anderen Land weilt (wo er hingehört) als wir (wo wir hingehören). Und weil auch Opas, die weit weg wohnen, nicht jedes Jahr 70 59 werden, feiern wir hier über'm Kanal so richtig mit Stil: Partyhüte (selbst gemacht), Käsekuchen ("Aber bitte mit Sahne"), Kerzen und ein Fläschchen Cider für die volljährigen Familienmitglieder (B.: "Ich hätte da noch 'n zweites Fläschchen im Kühlschrank..." C.: "Jetzt werd mal nicht übermütig.").

Und natürlich ein Fotositzung, denn was sind schon Feierlichkeiten mit selbst gebastelten Hüten für den Opa über'n Teich, wenn der sie nicht sehen kann? Ein Glück mal, dass Tante Claudia ihre Kamera dabei hat, denn damit auch ein vernünftiges Foto dabei ist, machen wir gleich 70 59. Im Passbildautomaten hätten wir nur vier machen können...

Irgendein Partybild wird schon was werden...

Aaaa-HA! (Bild nummer 59. Oder so.)

Wie... keine Geschenke?

Und dann singen wir noch ein siebtes Mal durch's Telefon. "Himbeerkuchen... für diss, Opa," verkündet Tara, die jetzt schon so scharf auf ihren Nachtisch ist, dass die leckere Geburtstagspizza gleich überhaupt nur mithilfe mehrerer kein-Nachtisch-Drohungen angeknabbert wird. Und wie ist das mit den Geschenken, will Tara wissen? Was? Keine Geschenke für Erwachsene? Höchstens mal ein bischen Schokolade? Na gut, das lässt sich später noch beheben. Jetzt ist erst mal Zeit für Pizza und Kuchen. So richtig mit viel Sahne. Und deinen Partyhut, Papa / Opa, schicken wir dir mit der Post. Mit ein bischen Schokolade.

Lieber Papa und Opa,

Zum ~~70sten~~ 56sten alles Gute aus England! Wie legen eine extra dicken Schlag Sahne auf einen Kuchen (der im Sonderangebot war, eine Ersparnis von einem Pfund brachte und sehr lecker war) und wünschen dir ein gesundes 60stes Lebensjahr, vielleicht auch 71stes, wer weiß das schon.

Alles Liebe von Britta, Claudia, Tara und Leo

Und Leo ist ein halbes Jahr alt!

... Und ich würd ja auch was dazu schreiben, wenn das Kind endlich mal schlafen tät statt heulen!

Lieber Leo,

du bist ein wunderschönes Kind und wir lieben dich von Herzen und geschenkt gibt's Schlaftraining nach Ferber, denn das ist ja gar zu fürchterlich, wenn du so weinst, sowie ich mich ab 6.30 Uhr abends nicht an deiner Seite befinde! Mehr darüber, wie wunderbar du bist gibt's später, wenn du nicht mehr so verzweifelt schreist, vorausgesetzt, ich schlafe nicht schon wieder beim Danebenliegen aus Versehen ein.

Deine Mama XXX

A Morning Like This

2010-04-10T22:29:00.009+02:00

There's something wrong with the picture above: It's not morning yet. It's about midnight, and the two kids flanking me (me being represented by the mid-sized gap between them) are gearing up for a party. I'm not too happy about it. Understatment.
But then morning comes. Before I even open my eyes, Tara has heard her daddy somewhere else in the house and has climbed out of bed to get some post-party nutrition in. And by the time I do open my eyes, the little man is still by my side, all warm, cuddly, contented and smiling. And fascinated by the camera.

We chat and we cuddle and we take our time with this morning. Every second of it is perfect. Just Leo and mummy, mummy and Leo. I'm endlessly in love with my little boy. If I had to hand-pick just a few moments to live over and over, groundhog day style, this is one of them. My mummy and Leo moment.

And then Tara skips back up the stairs and hops back into bed with us for extended cuddles. There's so much love to go around.

On a morning like this, how happy can a mama be? Or, for that matter, a big sister of a divine little fellow?

This is your morning Leo and you are making us ever so happy. Boy, how much we love you!

Eggstra Special Weekend: Festivities (III of III)

2010-04-04T19:41:00.003+02:00

Eggs dangling from trees

Last year the chickenpox got in our way of the perfect (to my mind) easter egg hunt. This year I blame the baby for Mummy Bunny's lack of organisation. Or maybe the English - where oh where are any green nests, green grass or indeed any Easter sweets that are not chocolate to be had? Maybe I should blame the miserable little garden too that leaves little room for hiding?
Oh well - I'm making mental notes for improvement for years to come: Buy a nice house with a lovely garden, order green essentials from Germany, and give Leo the chickenpox significantly before or after Easter 2011. At any rate, it does not matter much, Tara has (two weeks later) fond memories. Of having her friend Sophie and sister Amy over and finding Choc eggs and jelly beans (sorry, Tante Claudia, only half a tub left for you now) in the garden the day before
Easter. And on Easter, of finding more! Here, there and everywhere - mostly just lying about on the grass. Mum and dad helped her find them (yes, despite them just lying on the grass, somehow white and brown chocolate just isn't enough of a contrast). ... And thus we learn that, different from what we thought, Tara doesn't even like white chocolate, and that Alex, different from what I though, will actually eat any chocolate when pressed, even white.

Tara bags it - Mummy eats it

In due course (i.e. much later) we are all dressed and ready to go on a little excursion: The park it is! The boys look after each other and Kuschelbaby, and I get to follow Tara around, up the climbing frame, down the slide, and hiding under them, buying and selling imaginary ice cream, Tara's true passion (and chocolate only if all other varieties are sold out). Wheeee!

It's a special park too - the Eatsre bunny has been and left a few things, and Tara gets to find them.
Mummy: "Whooaaa, you are such a lucky girl! So many children in the park and only you see the treats!"
Tara, telling the neighbour later: "I'm such a lucky girl! The other children didn't see the eggs! Only I did find them!"
Naaa, despite the lack of basket, fake grass and sweets she actually cares to eat, our Tara likes her Easter 2010.

And tomorrow we are starting our Easter holidays. Nine full working days of just me and the kids, a first (and second, third... and ninth) for all three of us. Bit anxious, I am. It'll take a bit more than just a few pieces of chocolate to make that work!

Eggstra Special Weekend: Family (II of III)

2010-04-04T16:56:00.019+02:00

Pizza, pizza, and more pizza... I can't let anyone go on believing that that's all we eat in this house (much as Tara would like it!). VISITORS! But of course. Visitors arrive from Spain, and we stop cooking and go out, out again, and out some more, and in between we have pizza and ice cream, and other than kind volunteers washing the dishes, nobody works around the kitchen for three days.

Tara introducing her Special Visitors to her Spacial Programme

(Oh yes, and of course we go for coffee, plenty. See left.)

They arrive late at night, and Leo is a bit scared at first when, recently awoken, he is thrust straight into his fabled Titi Isa's embrace, but it's nothing that a second go the next morning can't fix. Once the sun is back out, Leo's smiles roll readily - just Tara, who's been talking about this visit for weeks, goes inexplicably shy and speechless for a bit. But she, too, recovers soon enough over an educational session of Gavin and Stacey, and at the next given opportunity is

chatty enough again to insult the friendly neighbour over it. "You can't come to my house. I already have special visitors," she tells Leah, otherwise her bestfriend and someone she demands to see on a daily basis.

What else is there to say? This pair puts smiles on the kids' faces, so much so that Tara is unwilling to let them go. At all, ever again. When they sit behin on the sofa, behind the table, Tara finds an assortment of bulky toys to lock them in with, and as if that was not enough, next produces blu-tack to 'glue' said objects together, and to the table, building an insurmountable wall.

But only until there is a call for food from the kitchen. Probably pizza.

Tara's Special Visitors locked in.

Off to the kitchen. Food beckons. Pizza, I bet.

Titi Isa and Tito Juande with Leo...

...with a tasty ice cream (and Tara)...

...and with Jose, two hats of Jose's and too much sunshine for Tara's liking!

Wheeee!

Eggstra Special Weekend: Food (I of III)

2010-04-04T15:35:00.006+02:00

There is no ignoring it: This baby wants food. Mummy's food, Daddy's food, Tara's food. At dinner, he will sit on whichever lap he is assigned and thrust his hand into whatever presents itself on a plate. Lentils, salad, pasta and sauce, chocolate cake - you name it, he's had his hands in and on it in the last month. Even when we take a 'dinner for all' approach and hang him on a boob he will suckle away with his free hand blindly patting the table behind him.
We'd already moved the intended introduction of solids forward to a vague "ok - before he's 6 months then" but really, the baby got to the food before we got it to him, in a kind of self-propelled autonomous bread-grabbing incident. Bread: The ideal first finger food, kind to aching gums, fine to hold for little hands, and of unoffensive enough a flavour. Bread: The kind of food to have lenient parents say, "Ok - he's not 6, nor 5 months yet, be he so wants to eat, let's let him have a go!"
Except, the bread happened to be pizza.

The first taste of real food: PIZZA

One day later, and as fate would have it, having dinner at Pizza Express. Here we are again with a tired baby that's had all the boob he would take, has aching gums and is eyeing up and groping for the food. We let him have a crust, he happily licks off all the sauce, tickels the dough with his little tongue into mushy softness, has little bits of it and cries bitterly when we take it away from him.

The second taste of real food: Ahem. PIZZA again.

The next day he has a desperately sore bum, and we can't wean him on pizza alone, so Tara volunteers and lovingly mashes him his first bit of banana, and helps feed it him with a pink hand-me-down baby spoon until I remember that first foods are introduced by finger. (They say with baby number two you don't read any books any more? Goodness how true that is!) Leo licks and licks and chews and swallows happily and eventually takes the spoon himself to lick some more. Hello food, here comes Leo!

Third time lucky: Soma banana at last

Some baby rice or porridge tomorrow. The little man wants it, and where I'm concerned, he can have it. Baby-led weaning, here we come. Actually, here we are. And he's five months tomorrow.

Mummy's Girl, and Daddy's Boy, or: KISS KISS

2010-03-29T21:53:00.009+02:00

Two parents, two kids, a gadzillion of photos, and a habit of re-using even those items of clothing of slightly gendered coulour schemes, and it eventually had to happen: Deja Vue!

Male parental suction machine and LEO, nearly 5 months; 2010

Female parental suction machine and Tara, 3 months; 2006

Of course, calling Tara 'Mummy's girl' and Leo 'Daddy's boy' is complete nonsense. They are both MINE! I kiss better, and I'm not half as prickly, and Leo STILL has the charming habit of throwing himself off his dad to get to me when he just a little hungry or tired and stands half a chance. Of course, he laughs more for daddy (if most of all for Tara). Mummy's not so funny.
Man, this invites all sorts of comparisons... Jose's got longer eyelashes than me, big noses for everybody, and look! NO hair on the boys, and some hair on the girls only. Now, if anyone wants to say again that the kids look alike? Nonsense. Let us describe their difference in terms of their nicknames, designed by Jose: Bolica ("Little Ball") and Bombillico ("Little Lightbulb"). The man's a bit harsh on his delightful handsome son there, especially when he calls him Bombillico con alas... I'm not translating, I'm just glad he doesn't call him Theo any more!
Where was I... Oh yes, comparisons. Gosh, I adore them. Equally and incomparably.

New OLDER Mummy

2010-03-25T21:11:00.000+01:00

36. Ugh. What can I say... it's not 33 any more, and when I look back on the blog I have to say that I feel the 3 extra years. Do I look them?
There is, of course, nothing like having your soon-to-be 5-month-old son hold the bunch of flowers I got myself (we're a practical lot in this family, by necessity); it does make up for the great abundance of white crinkly hair and a strangely wrinkled tummy (although it goes without saying that I miss my firm tummy and am greatly puzzled and confused in my self-image by the white hair!).
It's a rather regular day. The weather is awful. After I drop Tara off at nursery, I head over to her school-to-be - not the school of my first choice, and I've still not gotten over the disappointment and anger at being assigned a school that is twice the distance than the one I'd asked for - and on the way back Leo and I get completely soaked as the baby wouldn't peacefully sleep in his pram but cry and cry and scream until I picked him up and wrapped him into my coat, against me, in the streaming rain.
So actually, it's not a regular but really a sub-standart day. It does not help that the lovely shoes I got myself on Jose's behalf do not fit and have to be sent back.

By evening I've recovered from the rain, age and white-hair induced rotten mood, and gratefully accept all the good wishes from my family - and they are plenty if we can go by the amount of times Tara has me relight the candle and blows it out again! She even stops eating her ice cream over it.

I'm taking stock, and find myself a lucky girl on the whole. For the record, and as a snapshot of me as much as of our family:
On my 36th birthday, I got rained on, felt largely angry but resigned about out future schooling perspectives, though a lot about buying a house and was pleased that the government waived stamp duty for first time buyers for houses under 250k as a special gift to me (naturally), and issued an invite to Tara's new 'best friend' and her mum, who I had previously only exchanged a total of one sentence with.
There are a lot of new beginnings in that. As my father put it: "The best is over, but a lot of good is still to come."

Tara. When you're turning 36, I hope I'll be invited to blow out your candles and make a wish for you, and maybe even make it true.
Leo, when you turn 36, I'll have a bunch of daffodils for you. Red and yellow just like mine, and the price tag will have been removed. I'll be 72 then, you might have to remind me.

Happy birthday, you old Mamma.

New Mummy

2010-03-16T22:25:00.004+01:00

Bye-bye fluff, your time was up!
Over the last few weeks, Little Man had turned into a little monkey, discovered his clutching power and had been hanging off mummy's fur whenever given the opportunity. And I got a little tired of disentangling little hands from messy strands (behold! a rhyme!) and - ouch! - losing perfectly not-white hair to him on a daily basis. Growing old and going grey is bad enough; going bald wasn't quite necessary.
So Leo took me to the hairdresser - or I took him - and actually most of the ladies at the salon got a hold too, as he insisted on being carried about or else... - but on the whole he was being very cooperative and only at the very blow-drying end had to sneak under the gown for a snack and a snooze ("Oh my God where's the baby!" exclaimed hairdresser/babysitter number two) - anyway, to cut a long story short (ah! whit!): snip snap, off came the stuff, and a new mum went to pick Tara up at nursery.
Tara, of course, discussed the promised ice cream treat first, then negociated a suitable replacement treat (ice cream place closed) - priorities, ey - while eyeing me from the corner of her eyes throughout before addressing the change directly: "Why don't you have your long hair any more, mummy?" Is the radical change in maternal hairstyle disturbing for a 3-year-old? If truth be told, every time she sees me in the shower with wet or shampoo'd hair she tells me I'm a "different mummy." But she knows where I'm coming from. "That's why Leo gets stuck in your hair all the time" ("why" = 'because'). Leo getting stuck in hair is something she thoroughly understands. The last brotherly entanglement had her shout out loud: "I don't want any more babies in this house! ... Only ONE more girl and THAT'S IT!"

One trip to the sweet shop and one bag full of mostly red and pink treats later, old Tara and new mum are best friends again. (A few hours later, with Tara still chatting non-stop, singing loudly and operating three plasticky musicky toys at the same time on a three-hour sugar rush, I don't feel up to the best-friends business any more and vow to stay away from the sweets shop as long as from the hairdressers.)

That would be next Friday, when I've made an appointment for Tara. She doesn't yet know she wants her hair cutting, but new mum and the sweet shop have a few days to convince her.

Not so sure of new mum yet

Leo looks like he's posing with a celebrity. Bless.

Passport Picture

2010-03-12T23:32:00.005+01:00

One of a kind but I'd also take two - or six...

Six little portrait pictures of my little man, aged 4 months and a week, white background to please the Spanish embassy staff, please. Four pounds, thank you, and Leo is nearly ready to take on the world. But we're in no hurry, and the only thing Leo wants to do to the world at the moment is, eat it up. All of it. Slibber-slobber, litte man, a fist or some fingers are best for now, though Leo tries to fling himself into any plate of food that presents itself. He'll sit on my lap and stare it down for starters. Then he'll start swinging back and forth on my lap, his mouth wide open and drooling. Eventually he'll take aim and fall forward onto the plate, sometimes getting sauce on his nose, sometimes only plate.
He'll also reach and grab, or stare down drinks.
This baby is ready for food - but he still owes me a few extra calories, 12 kilo's worth to be precise, so we're waiting the next 7 weeks out. Also, at 7kg and 68cm he's doing good enough on milk alone.
And do not ask me what that stuff on our plates is. It was a hectic day without a moment to cook (or was it a tired day that we spent exclusively in bed doing nothing while we should have been cooking?... never mind...) and I'm trying to forget!

Stare it down - aim - fall forward with an open mouth - attack!

Kleines Daumenkino: Go Get Tara

2010-03-03T15:10:00.011+01:00

Es regnet. Ein fetter Regentropfen hat Leo grad genau links neben die Nase getroffen. Leo ist entrüstet und entsetzt. Aber der Rest des Schwesterkindergartenabholtrips macht das wieder wett.

Goodness Me, What a MESS!

2010-02-28T18:39:00.011+01:00

Moment, kurz mal's Baby ablegen und vielleicht ein wenig drumherum aufräumen, wo Tara grad nicht im Haus ist...

Tidy up time! Quick! Drop the baby and one, two, TIDY!

Also, ich begrüße es ja durchaus, dass Tara inzwischen gelernt hat, sich allein zu beschäftigen. Ganz toll, dass sie nicht mehr morgens laut weinend am Bett steht, weil sie aufstehen will, und ich noch nicht für action zu haben bin. Ganz toll dass sie dann die Spielsachen rausholt und innerhalb von 5 minuten quer durch's Zimmer verteilt - brilliant, dass es dazu auch einen narrativen Plot gibt, kreativ und originell, wie den hier unten abgebildeten.

Mess! Tara is Father Christmas, her sleigh on the left and lots of toys for everybody everywhere!

Tara: "I'm Father Christmas! Ho ho ho! I brought you lots of toys, everyone!" - kippt Leo's Spielzeugkiste um - "Here, lots of toys for Leo... a book, Hoopy-Loopy..." - Leo's Geschenke werden neben ihn auf's Bett gelegt - "... lots of toys for my babies..." - alle anderen Sachen bleiben auf dem Fußboden.
"This is my sleigh!" - platziert die umgedrehte Spielzeugkiste neben dem Hocker, zerrt all 12 gefalteten Spucktücher aus und breitet sie sorgfältig über dem Schlitten aus. Dann findet sie sich ihr fürchterliches Plastikzugtiergeräuschklavier, lässt das Ding laut eine aufdringliche, schräge Melodie auf 'Ente' singen (was der verzweifelt klagenden Muhkuh vorzuziehen ist) und singt obendrüber Jingle Bells als b das eine was mit dem anderen zu tun hätte.
Dazu: Einen Korb ungefalteter Wäsche und einen Beutel Windeln. Ho ho ho. Ich will nicht aufstehen. Nie wieder. Aber halt! Es ist ja Kindergarten! Wenn ich uns doch alle irgendwie aus dem Haus kriege, kann ich den Tag ohne weitere Verwüstungen - und ohne Plastikmusik - verbringen!
Wior schaffen es mit einer Stunde Verspätung zum Kindergarten und Leo und ich verbringen den Tag mit einem schönen Buch warm im Bett. BLOSS NICHT vom Buch hochgucken.

If I get out of bed, lift my eyes off my book and child and face the mess, I'm dead sure I'll faint

Wer natürlich wochentags im Bett liegt, mit dem schlafenden Baby kuschelt (das nie mehr als 30-60 minuten schläft, wenn man nicht daneben liegt, aber locker 3 Stunden packt, wenn man sich duzukuschelt und ab und zu im Halbschlaf ein wenig Milch nachfüllt) und Bücher liest, darf dann am Wochenende die Hausarbeit erledigen.
Waschtag also! Mal eben das Baby ablegen und sortieren... Oh, da kommt Tara um die Ecke...

Weekend washday

... und eine Minute später liegen zwei Kinder auf Wäschehaufen auf der Ecke, aber nicht lange, denn dann findet Tara es wichtiger, dass die Lulila ihr eigenes Bettchen kriegt, und guck mal Mama!, da liegen ja ganz viele von meinen Unterhosen auf dem Boden, die ziehe ich mir jetzt alle übereinander an...

Ugh, what is my underwear doing here... let me put it back on...

Also, sie sind ja süß, meine Äffchen, aber das Ding mit dem Monsterchaos und der Plastikmusik... gut, dass Jose ab und an hinter uns herräumt und inzwischen ganz gut darin ist...

(Wenn ich ein wenig aufgeräumt habe, kriege ich vielleicht ein paar Fotos von den Spaniern in Netz...)

(Truly, sometimes I just want to sit on the floor and whimper quietly...)

The Rice Krispie Treat Report

2010-02-20T22:11:00.009+01:00

To make rice krispie treats with Tara, you need:
* One Tara and one contented little brother
* rice krispies as per recipe,
* butter AND marshmallows
* one broom, child size, and one adult size
* one egg
* foreign inspiration (like from other people who have not yet blogger their pictures!)
* a lot of time to kill with both kids, like when Papi is on his way to the airport to fetch the in-laws (my in-laws, that is, not his).

Also, you need to read the rice krispie recipe in full before before you go shopping, so as not to just think "rice krispies... yeah well kind of obvious... butter, yeah I got butter," and then come to realise back home that you also needed marshmallows. (On the plus side, going down to the shops twice means double the fresh air, and double the time spent doing meaningful activities.)

Step 1.: Get ingredients together

So, after two trips to the shops, Tara excitedly cooks up a storm. Rice krispies go everywhere, with the first load being generously assigned to her mouth and the floor. Never mind - we have brooms of all sizes as well as a healthy appetite, and cleaning up your own mess is just of the same educational value as baking up a storm. Talk about a storm... Jose's daughter is very good with brooms, at every angle.

Step 2.: Generousbly clean the rice krispies out of the kitchen. They are everywhere.

Next, you actually allow your Tara to do the hot stuff herself, with, obviously, plenty warning about the dangers of hot pans and hot marshmallows. They melt in the most fascinating fashion. (That alone was worth the effort!)

Step 3.: Melt butter and marshmallows.

Talk your Tara into not eating up all the marshmallows, then stir in the rice. Fascinating gue.

We pat it into a form and while I stick it in the fridge (i.e. turn my back), Tara climbs atop the kitchen table. We've just successfully handled hot stuff, why not next handle gravity, ey? We talk to daddy at the airport until two grandparents emerge with two suitcases containing about two tooth brushes (and 40 kilos of Spanish foods and presents). Quote Tara: "Hey daddy, guess what! I'm sitting on the table like a monkey." Yep, true.

Step 7.: Announce treats to daddy at the airport

And finally, ta-da, we have reached the great big moment: We will sample rice krispie treats that all our friends think so much of. Tara takes one nibbly bite... "Ugh... Mummy, I don't like them any more... you can have them, and daddy, and abuela and abuelo. Can I have my egg now? Round, like Arthur [at nursery]." Ah. Well. Well then. All for me, as daddy and abuela and abuela sure as hell won't touch the stuff - totally besides the fact that they will, in just under two hours, unpack about 3 kilos of Spanish sweets from their suitcases, along with an expected 15 additional kilos of cheese and meats. Cooking sessions is over and rice krispie week is about to start, if only for me.

Last step: Eat that food which you think is tasiest even if that may be a boiled egg...

I Love My Baby...

2010-02-15T23:09:00.000+01:00

... and my baby loves me right back!

Winter, Again

2010-02-11T18:17:00.009+01:00

Leo and I had set off to look at a house which turned out too cramped to consider buying, and by the time we come back out the sidewalks are slippery with snow. By the time we are back home 15 mintes later walking is quite a feat, and going to pick Tara up from nursery just an hour later is, well, difficult. But nice - crunch crunch crunch. I can't wait to get my girl home to play in the snow with - my excuse,as if I need one - but Tara's a bit tired, having already made a snow reindeer with her friends and thrown plenty snowballs at the "grown-ups" but a single snowball against her window is enough to tempt her out again to play with her silly old mother. ("Silly"... "old"... ha ha ha!)
I turn my back this way, and she scrambles onto her trampoline to bounce in the snow. I turn my back that way, and she's put so many footmarks into the garden there's hardly any room left to teach her snow angels, but we just about squeeze two in: one - if I may say so myself - rather elegant, tall and slim mummy angel, flap flap, and one charming, small, pudgey smudgey baby angel.

Flip flap flop

Podgey stodgey baby angel

Cold snowbaby Tara retires into the warmth of the kitchen, and I finish my little project, The Abominable Snowbaby, by myself. Dedicated to Leo, who is sound asleep on his father's shoulder or some other warm irregular place.

The Abominable Snowbaby

The Abominable Snowbaby suffers a bit over night, spits out his dummy, possibly in an attempt to mature and grow over night, but to no avail: By the time Leo and Snowbaby meet, he's slumping and on his way to meet the angels. Accordingly, Leo spectacularly fails to be impressed.
He pats down the snow - cold - then looks away in a tired 3-month-old way. I should have given it boobs, maybe.

Snowman? Been there, done it... give me something more exciting, mother!

Pillefüße und Rosa Socken

2010-02-09T18:25:00.009+01:00

Aaaah-HA! Nach Tagen angestrengten (und anscheinend sehr befriedigendem) Lutschens und Halten der eigenen kleinen Hände, scheint Kleiner Mann entdeckt zu haben, dass er noch mehr Hände hat als gedacht... wenn man die Pillefüße nicht zum Laufen benutzt, und die kleinen Hände nicht groß zum Greifen, ist es ja schließlich mehr oder weniger dasselbe. Das saß er also und starrte und strampelte und starrte noch ein wenig mehr, und als er bemerkte, dass Mama auch starrte - durch dieses kleine interressante Ding mit den netten orangen Licht und dem hellen weißen, das Leo so interressant findet - da war sogar ein großes Lachen drin.

Genug gestarrt - zurück zum Wäschefalten, wenn die Berge Wäsche nicht wieder zwei Wochen ungefaltet im Schlafzimmer rumstehen sollen. Für den Sohn, der sich mit dem Begucken seiner Schuhe befasst, sind da natürlich ein paar Socken drin, die das Ganze farblich ein wenig aufmischen und vergrößern - zum vereinfachten Gucken quasi. Dass Socken in unserem Wäschekorb meist rosa sind, macht da gar nichts, Leo findet's klasse, und lutscht prompt die Handsocken wieder wäschereif. Socken, Hände, Füße - alles ganz toll!

Rosa Socken für alle!

Und wenn man sich seiner Füße bewusst geworden ist, ist alles gleich noch mal doppelt so interessant. Man kann so rum auf dem Sessel liegen und die Füße begucken, oder anders herum die große Schwester. Und die hat dann sogar auch rosa Socken an.

Three Months "Kleiner Mann"

2010-02-05T21:27:00.011+01:00

We were at the doctors two days ago for his second set of jabs, and as we were walking past a very new baby it finally struck me just how big he already is! He's ginormous!
Without further ado, here's an over view. I'm giving you: Leo G., at 3 months!

Growing, growing... grown! (Well, to 3 months)

Objects of greatest interest: 1. Mobile, 2. any inanimate thing held in front of face, 3. Tara, moving.

I'm staring my toys down

Most reliable smile extractors: 1. Daddy, 2. the mobile, 3. toys wiggled in front of him.

Hey giggles!

Biggest areas to still work on: 1. Falling asleep alone, 2. Staying asleep when put down, 3. Sleeping on inanimate surfaces (i.e. not mum or dad... or, really, any other willing adult).
Most likely to hear from Mummy: 1. "Ich hab dich lieb, kleiner Mann." 2. "Wassislos, Stinker." 3. "Tasse. Das ist eine Taaasse. Tasse. Henkel. Heeeenkel. Zum Trinken, uh-huh? Taaaasse."
Most likely to hear from Daddy: 1. "Blilililiillllllip?" 2. "Ping!" 3. "A gu-gu-gu-guguuuuu? Ping!"
Most likely to hear from Tara: "Aaaaw, I love you little man." 2. "Hey what's up?" 3. "Leo guck mal!"

"Aaaaw, I love you, Little Man!"

Three favourite acivities: 1. Being held and bounced/jiggled, 2. Bathing (full bath with mummy), 3. Nappy changing time (inc. mobile-gazing & massage)
Makes him cry furiously: 1. Waking up and finding himself put down/alone, 2. Being shown a boob when hungry and not having it immediately, 3. Being picked up and put down seconds later.
To soothe Leo: 1. Boobie (+/- stroking temple), 2. bounce & jiggle, 3. Bounce, jiggle and sing. Most recent firsts: 1. Holding a toy when given, one week ago. 2. Puking half a cup of milk back into mummy's neck line, yesterday. 3. Batting at, and getting his hands on things, today (pram toys, mummy's plate) (discounting the countless instances in which he's got his hands entagled in my hair)

Grab it - wave it - oops, it's gone!

People, people say he looks like: 1. Papi, 2. Tara, 3. his uncle Derek (but it seems only I see that.)

For all those that say Leo looks just like Jose

Most recent acquisitions: 1. Ergo baby carrier (organic, with baby inset), 2. Play mat with activity bow, 3. ~~Baby entertainer / play centre.~~ (Ugh. This is expensive shit. We better have another one to justify all this, ey, Jose?) (Jose talked me out of number three, for now. It STILL is expensive, all of it, and I shall NOT delete the content of the first brackets!)

PS: Three things I meant to have started by now (and what I've achieved): 1. Lose all baby weight by now (Ha! Ha ha ha.) 2. Become a yoga freak and very fit (attended 3 classes at the gym, over 4 weeks - and the other day I managed to carry socks down the stairs and switch the DVD player on, intending to do an exercise video), 3. Convert the blog into a photo book (Have come to terms with Jose having deleted most of the pics of days 1-12, and nobody being able to retrieve any/more than a few)
Three things I reall really need to get done now: 1. Post the last Christmas gifts out. 2. Properly say thank you to his many well-wishers and gift-givers, 3. Given 1 & 2, there is no 3.

Tara and The Allen's Special (For Tanya)

2010-02-03T15:06:00.009+01:00

Flashback! Tanya special!
I found these while browsing Tara's pictures at Leo's age. (And for all that are not Tanya, you can see how my babies look different after all, three months down the line!)

Tara is comfortably dressed in clothes that I got too small for Leo a month ago...

Now, Tanya, where is that picture of me and Jas at one of our Mirch Masala lunches? I know there is one...

My Lion Baby

2010-02-03T14:40:00.005+01:00

Na-na-na-naa-naa... Mine is CUTER!

Is there anything as adorable as a naked chubby lion cub lifted up to the adoring public? Naaah, can't think of anything! Even if I'm lifter-upper and adoring public all in one, and potentially resemble that old monkey slightly (not in wisdom, but in big bags under eyes and messy hair?).
Voila: I'm giving you one Leo cub of the day, possibly in transition from changing table to bathroom sink for a quick wash, maybe just dangled in front of his father (and the camera) for some extra adoration of his semi naked little self, extra cute with underwear on his head. Who cares? So cute!!

Cutie with odd headgear clutching and sucking his fists

(Second set of jabs today and barely a tear - I was pleasantly surpised after he raised hell the first time round.)

Tara, Three and a Half

2010-01-27T23:15:00.021+01:00

Hey Sweetie!

It's time for a milestone overview (like the one I'd planned at age 3, 2 1/2 and 2)!

Favourite Foods: Cheese sticks, mango, pineapple on pizza, pasta, Fish Pie, shrimp sandwich, ketchup (still going strong) and mayo, beetroot.
Dislikes: Chocolate (except M&M's), most vegetables that aren't red, and things that are "pieksi", meaning spicy.
Best friends: Carter and Zach.

With Zach

Enjoys playing the most: Dolls, Mummy & Babies, Dollshouse with playmobile, singing, building things like double pushchairs, visiting her friends' houses,
but also: reading and storytelling, puzzles, lego, painting, glueing and sticking, dancing.
Dislikes: The wii (read: trouble with Zach!) - "I don't like de music!", swimming (being splashed at).
Favourite Colour: Pink, what else. And it is NOT my doing.
Wears, if left to choose: Anything pink with her fairy outfit on top, or dresses, preferably pink, with pink shoes. Hair open with one clip. (Aspires to wavy hair.)

Some like it PINK

Most likely accident: Drink spilleage (drives daddy mad).

Greates vice: Sweeties and all things sugary. We're trying to control it...
Plans for future: When asked closer to age 3, Tara wanted to be "a princess." She's already moved on. "When I grow up, I don't want to be a princess anymore. Princesses have trouble with the malutas (baddies, female). I want to be a worker. With the computer. With the internet." Needless to say, I am much impressed by such early wisdom.
Tara and Mummy: Best night-time buddies. Love chatting, baking, picnicks and all things messy.
Tara and Daddy: Best bath time buddy. Playmobile master players and maker of things.
Tara and Leo: Best summarised in two quotes. 1, "I love you my darling." 2. "Mummy, tell Leo what I'm eating (doing / anything) and that he can't eat (do / whatever) it."

Small and Big. Can't eat and CAN eat.

Routines that work: A snack or treat on the way home from nursery while surfing the buggy board. Reading the playmobile catalogues with daddy at bedtime. The 10pm transfer to mummy's bed (The only night we've spent apart remains the day Leo was born and I stayed at the hospital) - sadly that routine involves her waking up crying for mummy 9/10 times and I still have not worked out quite why.
Languages: English like a native, and possibly above average (say her carers). German, well, like a younger native. I get the occasional full medium length sentence and a fair number of German words thrown into English sentences. Happily repeats most words or sentences. Spanish. Well well... not so well. Offers basic words like si, no, gracias, por favor, and the occasional extra, with some two word phrases (que lalo = que raro or 'we/lo tenemos'). Tends to refuse to repeat words or phrases, but has dared a few in the last month and has voluntarily been speaking to her grandparents on the phone, which is new. In short, Tara speaks English. Or, one down, two to go.
Personality: Inquisitive, inventive, observant, loving, bright, shy with strangers, assertive with friends (tending towards bossy), cheeky, giggly.

Tara-Rara, at 3 1/2, really has turned a few corners, not only the obvious one of becoming a big (and loving) sister. A few things just snapped into place some time after 3. Bigh things like potty training, which has been completed, nights included. Littler things, like being able to sing in time with the music. More recently, she's started walking to nursery every other morning - after three years and 5 months in the pushchair or on the buggy board. The most important thing for me: Just after three, she suddenly started playing by herself without needing constant company - the one thing that I'd found the most difficult.

Ay, Tara-Rara, my baby girl! It's a privilege seeing you grow up, knowing you so closely, and loving you all the way.

Mondays are for Sleeping

2010-01-25T22:52:00.008+01:00

Oh how innocent does this baby look, tucked in in mummy's blanket, on mummy cushion, and in his own bed on a Sunday night! But there's a catch: His peaceful two hour nap was not scheduled, he's in his day clothes, and ancient nappy (by nappy standards), his nest is highly improvised, and by the time I try to go to bed, there's no bedding for me. And that's just for starters. The rest of the night goes like this:
10am: (I'm struggling to fit under a corner of my covers without disturbing the baby wrapped up in them) Both children wake up crying at the same time in different rooms and require immediate attention each. (At least I can now have my covers back.) I transfer Tara to my bed, which stops her crying. I grab Leo but instead of offering a cosy snuggle and a boobie, he gets a new nice clean bum and his pyjamas on his most unsnuggly changing station. He is furious and screams the house down. Tara dozes back off in the din. Back to bed.
10:20 to ca. 3am: the dear children take amazingly well coordinated turns at waking me half hourly. Tara celebrates snotty snuffle feasts on my right and refuses to blow her nose, and Leo kicks and wriggles as he struggles with trumps and burps.
3am to 5am: They swap afflictions. Leo snuffles and Tara wriggles. Being merely in the same bed, she has decided, is not close enough to mum. It's got to be a share of mummy's covers (already sharing with Leo), and she snuggles so hard that I'm half convinced she's grown another leg and two more knees. I extract her from the inside of my pyjama bottoms twice. It's somewhat inconvenient, if highly amusing (when considered in daylight, and in daylight only*).

Monday morning presents itself in a very typical mix of a very late nursery run (45 minutes this time), an uninviting pile of unfolded washing, and a very very cute and slightly tired baby boy who does not like doing tummy time very much at all.

If I close my eyes long enough, will it disappear?

Cheek to cheek with Peppa Pig

Count down to crying: two to three minutes tops.
There's only one thing to do. Back to bed with babe and boob. It's not the most efficient way of spending a morning (or day) but it is in line with a night full of... ahem... surprises. And it is, so it seems, a typical baby-days-Monday for Leo and his Mum. It's very snuggly and satisfying, tummy to tummy. Zzzzzzzz.

And here's Tara, my big wriggling snuffle monster. Monday night, and she can't sleep. Because her daddy is talking on the phone. Because Leo is "not letting her sleep" by snuffling somewhere else in the house. Because mummy left the room. Because she suddenly remembers we did not finish watching the one Charlie Lola episode that I told her in the morning we'd finish in the afternoon.
So I tell daddy off. I fetch Leo and "just stick a boob in," as Tara advises. I come back to sit on her chair. I promise more Charlie Lola in the morning. And I bring the musical teddy. Tara plays two rounds of teddy, then tucks him up next to her ver gently and says, "Look, mummy, Teddy is sleeping". Tara is not sleeping. She is hot, but peling the cvers off proves a dilemma as Teddy would get cold. I fetch Bunny, whom Father Cristmas brought and who actually is (meant to be) a lamb. Tara tucks Bunny up next to Teddy. "Mummy, everybody wants to be with me!" she observes at the growing multitude of friends, and with the sweetest modest, pleasantly surprised smile. "WHY?"
"Because they love you," I tell her, because just that minute I am incedibly in love with her. "Because we love you! Good night!" Bunny pipes in in my fluffy talking animal voice.

In a good story, Tara now nods off, with the sweetest smile on her face. Real Tara manages the smile, then her eyes plop open again. Leo is snuffling away at the boob somewhat loudly. "Mummy, is Leo awake?" Yes, I lie, hoping for the best. "I want to win!" she says, closes her eyes and races her sleeping baby brother to sleep.

Come 11pm, Tara, Teddy and Bunny are arriving in my bed. Truth is, I've been waiting for them. Truth is, I can't fall asleep without them. My wriggly snufflemonsters. And there's always another morning to ignore the washing and go back to sleep on. (Of course, if I were Tara, and folding the washing a competition, I'd do some ironing, folding and putting away first. But I'm me. The stuff is likely to still be there next Sunday night.)

And on Wednesday, Tara will be 3 1/2 years old.

* I'm lying for dramatic porposes. Actually, extracting her from my nightwear is amusing even in the dark.

Hallo von Strand!

2010-01-24T16:44:00.002+01:00

Nein, nein, er winkt nicht wirklich - er versucht angestrengt, ueber Papas Schulter zu Mama zu klettern.

H is for Hip (Hip Hurray)

2010-01-22T23:44:00.004+01:00

Here is my little man, at hospital, having his hip checked. His hip - hip hip hurray! - is fine, like Tara's, and different from mine. Operations, manifold and not very pleasant, to cut through his thighbone and adjust the positioning of the bone in the hip socket? Not for him, nor for Tara. It is a relief. For this generation (so far)*, it looks like I've kept my bad genes to myself.

Dear Tara and Leo (and any future siblings)*:

The friendly docor lady has asked me to pass this message on: Please make sure to have your own children and your children's children (etc etc) scanned for hip placement. It is not done automatically for every new baby in the UK (at present, but who expects the NHS's financial situation to improve?!), and you have been asked to use the excuse of your mother's and you maternal grandmother's bad genes and hips (respectively your children's grandma's and great grandma's respectively) to use up NHS resources. We're talking about my grandchildren (your children) and my great grand children (your grandchildren) at least, all of whom I am hoping to meet (although this is no invitation to have children the Ramsgate way at 14!!!), and all of which will undoubtedly be as precious as you two (or more) are, so please be good and listen.
There. I've officially recorded the message. In writing - it's a bit much to take on board when you're 6 weeks old.

With love (and apologies for poor genes, not that they really are my fault),
Mama

* No no, I'm not pregnant. And will not be again, if Jose has it his way. I'm just saying, in case. ("Jose's way" is not the only way there is, is it.)

Leo and the Other Babies

2010-01-15T22:06:00.020+01:00

Anna-Baby and Baby Leo (5 weeks)

Before baby Leo arrived, Tara had 3 years and 3 months to practise and perfect her baby love. That means two things. One, Tara has ideas as to what babies like and dislike - because that's the way 'her babies do it'. Two, Tara is very fond of 'her babies' and insists that thay get shown a fair amount of loving too.

Now, in practical terms it means that many a tearful moment was spent - in the first month - educating Tara about the differences between her babies and mine. Tara would be doing something absurd for/to/with her baby brother - like sitting at the top of his bouncy chair with him in it, about to let go and catapult the child across the kitchen - cry bitter tears when told to STOPTHATIMMEDIATELY, and argue, invariably, "But MY babies like it that way!"
This got less after 4-5 weeks.

Then, of course, with all the new lovely baby equipment abou, and so many much-loved darlings, on occasion we cannot get Leo into any of his stuff because another Baby is already sitting there, and Baby's mother will watch over them carefully, lest they be expelled from their cosy bouncy chair / moses basket / push chair / car seat. "No, Leo can't be in that because MY babies are in there!"

A challenge? But no! A beautiful opportunity to practise the art of sharing or the related art of taking turns, and to work on my biceps, what with a) an increased future need in the obove listed skills, and b) much reduced time for gym fun.

Incidenally, since I mentioned it before - Tara's alter ego, Baby Lola, has been seen twice since Baby Brother's birth. Looks like the little usurper is the coolest baby of all her collection yet.

Leo wants to be a REAL baby!

No conflict of interests with Baby Kelsey

Leo conversing with Sophia (Good sharing, Leo and Sophia!)

Leo (2 months, 1 week) and Milo (1 day)

On Monday, 11/01/10, Leo's first Best Friend Milo was born (finally!). We got to see him on day two (his mother is mad). I nearly fainted when I saw how tiny he was, and what an absolute GIANT my son is. That said, Milo was heavier at birth than Leo was, with even larger hands and feet. Being told that your two month old is the length of an average 4-month-old is one thing; but here, seeing IS believing. Leo at two months: heading for 6kg, and 62cm. And, of course, a heartbreaking beauty. I love my baby, I love my baby, I love my baby.

MY baby (7 weeks). The One and Only.

PS.: A subject with tremendous potential for humour. Pah. Who can be humorous when a sweet babe is crying and it takes two weeks to complete one entry, witout any real time to get into the flow of it? Pha!

Family Photo, 2010

2010-01-03T21:59:00.009+01:00

We've spent the last fortnight thinking about traditions, and which we would like to introducte in our family. One that I would like to stick with is taking a family photo every year. We go for a best-out-of-seven approach after I've spend five minutes asking Tara nicely to pose, then threatened that there would be no dinner until AFTER she had kindly come over (and promised a photo-free time zone of one week after). The pics look like this:
Pictures 1-4: Mummy is in slippers.
Pic 1: Jose looks a bit overwhelmed. Hard light, harsh on our very first Christmas tree.
Pic 2: Mum has a bad hair moment. Hard light, as above. Just not fair on the tree.
Pic 3: Tara's eyes closed.
Pic 4: Leo's eyes closed. It really is time I started working on that post-baby fat.
Pictures 5-7: Mum's slippers have been discarded and appear at the right side of the picture. Mum is in cow socks instead. Nice.
Pic 5: Tara not looking.
Pic 6: Does Jose want to strangle me? Why else could his hands move in on my throat?
Pic 7: Are those cows part of the family? And actually, Jose is in slippers too, and the kids are entirely without shoes.

Talk about a spontaneous snap of a family in holiday spirits... I'll go with picture number two. Slippers and socks all around, baby fat and a two month old Leo who's not yet sure what to make of his family. Jose bemused, Alex (having a bad hair moment and) holding her baby, and Tara standing by her Mummy, holding her baby brother's hand.

Family by Christmas Tree, Jan 2010

And for a more complete portrait, here's a family snapshot. At breakfast (holiday muffins and weekend pancakes): We're downgrading from slippers and socks to pyjamas. But that's us, at the beginning of 2010: Improvised, informal, but connected and contented, and very fond of daddy's pancakes.

Family at Breakfast, Dec 2009

(There. Another potential family tradition started.)

Christmas Eve, 2009

2009-12-24T14:16:00.024+01:00

Let me be a child again, and today I'm doing this: Watching lots of TV (including a version of Cinderella). In the morning, my father cuts the top off one of the trees in the garden, and once it's put up, we decorate it with the same stuff as every year, including ornaments we children made (that's now been used around 25-30 years). There is now new 'themed' tree decor every year, it's the same always and it's good to see our old friend in its new incarnation. Of course, while we decorate, there's more TV. In the early afternoon, there's potato salad and frankfurters: yuck - but later there'll be lots of sweets so I'll be (more than) compensated. We are eventually banned from the living room. it gets dark, and there's a Christmas walk that sometimes takes us (without our father) to a church, but more often just through the neighbourhood. There's not much decoration on the outside of houses or in gardens, but we try to peep into the houses to see other people's trees. When we're back at home, Father Christmas has been, and our dad has let him in, entertained him and supervised the laying out of presents under the tree. Before we are allowed into the living room, we gather round the piano (mum palys) and sing some songs, or listen to a reading of the nativity story. Then, my mum will sneak into the living room - the tree is lit and its light shines through the tainted glass doors - ring a little bell, and we are finally allowed in and sing "Ihr Kinderlein Kommet". Sometimes we are asked too recite a poem, one by one, to contribute to the festivities and celebrations. The presents lie under the tree in little heaps, a heap for each, wrapped in different paper each, recycled from the year before and the one before and the one before. The table is full of special plates full of sweets, biscuits and citrus fruit, a plate for each. The room is dark - dark furniture, dark wooden walls, and lit by only the tree and maybe another small desk lamp. The light is special, cosy and promising. My mother shows us which heap is for whom, and then the presents are ours.
This is the Christmas I wish for tonight.

My childhood tree, 2009 - as so many years before

"Bunte Teller" (Two or three too few because we're not there)

But we live in England, and things are different here. Tara has been brought up to the English plot. She's learnt from Raymond Briggs' Father Christmas that Santa is on his way on the 24th, and delivers the presents at night, to be found in the morning. Nursery has her convinced that she must spend the whole night in her own bed, or else Santa will not leave any presents if he doesn't find her in - bit cruel really, and I've already spent ages telling her not to worry, we would make arrangements in case she is to be found in mummy's bed (as every night, without exception, from ca 10pm on). So, when in England...
It's the first Christmas we celebrate on our own turf, and we've put in some thinking as to how we'd like it. Mum and dad agree: as close to the German Christmas and Holywood (that's Jose's influence, due to a somewhat different Spanish celebrations) as we can, within the English plotline. I've had a look at suggestions of traditions on the internet, and chosen a few to adopt. It doesn't matter that it's researched and adopted - they will become authentic in their own good time. So we:

Bake cakes with the intention of giving them to the neighbours as gifts. Although, by the time I've found fairy Tara (in a festive outfit of her own choice) has poked her slobbery fingers into the pink icing of half of them, I'm deciding that that part of the 'tradition' can just as well be added the next time round.

Who says festive cupcakes have to be red and green?

We undertake one last shopping trip to get our offerings for Santa and his reindeer. Every member of the family gets to choose one item, so if Santa is tired of mince pies and too full in general, we get to eat some lovely things in the morning - obviously an adapted take on my family's plates of sweets, the famous, above mentioned Bunte Teller. Tara chooses - marshmallows. They are pink, and green. You can't eve say they're unorthodox as we are only starting the tradition this year!
I want to bring the TV into our day, and Jose downloads a film (paid for! legally!) he feels is appropriate for all the family, then disappears into the kitchen "for only five minutes" to make dinner, and leaves us to it. The film goes like this: Divorced mother drops little son off at father's place for Christmas, parents fight, child is unhappy. Tara is puzzled. "Why are they shouting? Why is the mummy going away? Why is the girl sad?" (Boy has long hair.) There is a sound on the roof, father goes out to check and scares Santa, who falls off the roof and lies like dead. Tara is shocked. Next cut, Santa has dissolved. Tara is even more shocked. Conveniently, Santa has left his baggy clothes, a ladder to the roof, and sleigh and reindeer on the roof. Little boy and father get into sleigh. Tara cries. "I don't want she to get in there!" We abandon the film and comfort a traumatised Tara imstead. What kind of choice was that, Daddy! What were you thinking, Hollywood! Next year it'll be Cinderella, and I'm getting the film. Luckily there's another programme point to be actioned:
Since we have no accessible chimneys - and Tara is hysterically worried about Santa trying to get onto our roof to come down one as of ten minutes ago - we lay a path of reindeer food through our garden, oats mixed with glitter (the internet promised the oats would blow away, which of course does not happen, and by mid-January we still have soggy oats and glitter everywhere), for them to follow from our gate to our back door. I nearly forget, so by the time we sprinkle them all over it's a bit late and I have to attach a headlight to my head (hand full!) to see what we're doing. Still. Tara is impressed. And relieved. And talks about Santa falling off roofs and coming through doors for the next week. Now, mustn't forget to leave a special key out for Santa... Leo sleeps through this, although there's a chance he would have liked the sight of his mother shining white light from her head.

Fairy Tara, flapping her wings and looking a bit of a hippie, takes carrots (must feed those reindeer well!), a drink of orange juice (riding a sleigh under the influence of alcohol? Not in our garden!), and a big plate full of marshmallows and cookies into the living room and places them under the tree. The table is still too full of stuff, and we hope that if we save Santa the trip through the chimney he'll manage to bend down for his snack.
And that's it. Tara flapps off to bed, Leo is asleep on mummy anyway.

'Tis done! Off to bed!

Hang on, Mummy, says Leo, what are you thinking dumping me in bed to go back down to watch a film with dad and nibble carrots (marshmallows and cookies)! I want boobies, I want cuddles, I NEED company in this big old lonely bed!

Don't go, Mummy!

It's been a bit of an exhausting day, and I fall asleep with Leo. This means I leave the field to Jose who, I think, convinced Father Christmas that marshmallows are bad for his reindeer. Father Chrustmas in turn convinces daddy that they are bad for his daughter and best returned to the cupboard, and that stockings are best left next to the tree so the big presents can spill over and sit under the tree. It's just lucky though that Jose made it through bedtime awake, or else Father Chritmas wouldn't have made it in - we've forgotten the special magic key to our back door! In fact, we HAVE NO special magic key to our back door!

...And our next entry will reveal if Jose managed to keep Tara away from the stockings and the tree until he, and he alone, decided it was a good enough time to get up and enter the living room, all as a family, as they do in Wunstorf and Hollywood... or do they?

Let It Snow

2009-12-22T18:48:00.016+01:00

It's Friday before Christmas, the last day of nursery. (I know, I'm behind a little with my blog entries!) A quarter to three in the afternoon, I quickly peel myself and Leo out of bed to run to nursery, to get Tara and to start the holidays. Thirty seconds after I close the front door, it begins to snow. Another thirty seconds later, it is hailing. Christmas holidays, winter and the snow arrive all at once. I'm delighted for thirty seconds, then the hail comes down far too hard (on my naked arms thanks to fashionabley short coat sleeves and absolutely no time to go back home and adjust clothing) to be pleasant - but Tara is delighted for as long as there is the tiniest trace of snow anywhere. Her first snowball is collected out front with daddy, and brought into the house with loving care.

Tara's very first own, self-made snow ball

Mummy says: Tara, what do you want to do with your first snow ball? Put it in the freezer?
Tara says: No, I want to bring it into the house and put it under the Christmas tree.

So be it! learning should not stop with the beginning of term break, and Snowball Number One is granted a short but comfortably warm life under the tree. By the time Tara realises what comfortable warmth does to Snowball Number One, she tries to rescue her dirty little puddle with a quick transfer to the freezer, but looses half on the way. Alas, a lesson in physics learnt, and Snowball Number Two still sits in the freezer, bottom drawer, next to the bread and the ice cream, two weeks later.

The next morning, everything is white, and we are dressed and out in record time. We have snow men to build (however small), lots of snow balls to throw at anything on offer, especially mum at dad, and dad at mum: Jose aims and hits hard with 2 out of three, I aim hard and hit with nil out of however many. Tara laughs her head off. And then? More of the same, of course!

Tara's second snow man

Leo reasonably happy in his pram

Whack the house with snow balls

I invent a snow ball attack game: Place Tara against a (photogenic) wall and hit it with snow balls to have them rain down on her. She's enjoying it, and she's far too young, innocent and lacking in war film education to be reminded of firing squads as I am, ahem, but never mind, it's FUN!

While in town with a camera, I'm taking a few seasonal pictures for the record: Christmas trees on sale at the greengrocer's, the harbour in sunshine, a blurred Christmas tree with blurred 99p shops disguised as seasonal angelic creatures of light, and - oops - a hungry, tearful baby bundle in dire need of an emergency feed in the Christmas section of a shop.

In the box: Our own tree's old friends at £25, £30 and £35

Ramsgate Harbour bathed in winter sunshine

Emergency cuddle! Quick! Emergancy feed! NOW! Here!

Ramsgate Christmas blurr

(Blog should have had more text but guess what: The most beautiful baby boy in town wants a cuddle and a feed. Now.)

The Proof of the Pudding...

2009-12-20T21:22:00.000+01:00

What do you do with a little girl ("Mummy I'm a grown-up, right?") who skips any dinner at the thought of any sugary pudding ("Tara, you've got to eat 5 more spoons full of your dinner to earn points for your pudding!") at Christmas? You buy her plenty cakes when you're out for coffee? Perfectly correct. But above all, you introduce her to the Christmassy art of baking. Not that I remember a single recipe of all those that we baked with our mother when we were kids, but they are easily gotten hold of (Christmas Baking with Children - recommended!).

Now, the dough comes first. I proceed like this: Prepare the dough in child's absence. Then, while trying to cook some dinner with one had, clutching a five-kilo nursing baby to one boob with the other, somehow manage to knead and roll the dough with the aforementiond first hand while supervising Tara's cutting out of cookies and helping out with, ideally, a third hand. Half way through I accept the fact that I cannot stop the flour from going onto every inch of floor and into every crack that presents itself on tables or chairs - I've reached the maximum of my multi-tasking abilities! For that reason, too, the decorating is postponed to the next day. I need a break! (Tara is upset.)

Decorating cookies in five easy steps:

1. Place infant on next-best surface that presents itself in order to free hands. Get out cookies and remaining ingredients as quickly as possible. Note: Placing infant on table in presence of older sister is a bad bad bad idea as older sister will pull infant off table in a well meaning attempt at placing as many kisses on her little brother as physically possible. Before disaster hits, proceed as follows: Take a picture for the blog, THEN save the baby and place him somewhere safer. Feel guilty for only the briefest of moments; we got cookies to ice.

2. Get daughter to prepare icing. Note (1): Baby safely stored in background. Note (2): It does NOT help to inform Tara that icing consist purely of sugar.

3. Follow instructions to "spread icing thinly onto each biscuit with a knife." Then, "sprinkle on decoration." Note: Baby in background, stored safely, happy.

"Tara, show me your first biscuit!"

3. Add more water to sugary icing; we're way too slow and it's dried before we get any decoration on. Actually, we're way too slow at anything and anyway, the intructions are ridiculous. Drop them. Following her first biscuit, Tara has stopeed decorating and has started eating; first her biscuit, then the sugary decoration. Bit by bit. Slowly. With great appetite. I'm doing this alone! Proceed as follows: Chuck all decorative sugary elements into one bowl. Dip cookie in icing, dip cookie in decoration - done - next. Note: Baby, stored safely, is NO LONGER HAPPY.

Hmmm, pink sugar, bit by bit

4. Pick up unhappy baby, clutch to chest and insert nipple into infant's mouth to lighten his mood. Proceed with double dipping process one-handed. Note: Tara has found a way of speeding up her sugar consumption as well, as pictured below. Great. We're nearly done.

Hmmmm, pink sugar, by the tongue full

5. We're done. Leave cleaning to the man of the house and get biscuits out of the way so some get to make it through to the next day. Find somewhere safe to put baby and make some dinner, quickly, in case the child that's just eaten half a ton of sugar can be persuaded to have some real food. Note: Put away £2 for dentists' bills later in life. We'll be paying for this. What's wrong with nuts and oranges, anyway? They're much tastie, and much, much easier to prepare for eating!!!

Mummy, my pink sugar is all gone!

So then, as the saying goes: The proof of the pudding is in the EATING! I've had to try that sugary stuff my daughter loves so much myself. It doesn't taste of sugar, it doesn't taste of pink. It tastes of CHILDHOOD!

(7.12.)

Snap: Smile

2009-12-18T19:25:00.001+01:00

Possibly the cutest 6 week old in the whole wide world.

Snap: Where's the baby?

2009-12-14T17:17:00.001+01:00

Hello and welcome to a peep into my pram. Looks a bit messy? Well, as long as you can spot a little nose we're all right... The plot narrative behind this cosy scene goes like this: baby sleeping soundly on bed. Mum realises quite late it's time to run to nursery to pick up big sister. Grabs sleeping baby, sticks it in the pram, covers little head with next best piece of cloth to protect against the cold without wanting to risk him waking up by putting hat on, and voila! One messy pram with a tiny nose and a warm baby - and we made pick up in time!

Christmas Tree

2009-12-13T21:47:00.010+01:00

Guess what we've been doing today?
Well. Ok. It's not that hard, given the title.

What can I say about that tree? It's beautiful, and it's our first own tree ever, decorated by our first child ever, with lovely dangly bits that I'd already bought before the First Child Ever came along. Ah, the joy of anticipation: First anticipating the day we would get them out to have our own family Christmas at home, while they were hidden on top of a cupboard. And now anticipating the moment when beautifully wrapped presents lie under the tree, our First Child Ever enters the room, sings a Christmas song with/for us and joy and harmony abound.
For now we're quite well on the joy and harmony side. Only one fight so far about the decoration (Mum/Tara), only half a crown broken off the new nativity set's wise man (Tara/Jose), and only one bauble shattered (Mum/Leo). Tara did not protest (too much) either when we took the odd eclectic ornament back off the tree (her pink fairy wings, a blue dummy and a musical toy teddy), and the pink bauble she got to buy for pink's sakes was honoured with a place right under the angel. Also, Mum&Dad didn't tell Mum&Dad off for jointly opening and using the first present that amazon had accidentally delivered to Mum&Dad instead of Santa's workshop - a slow cook pot... Why enter cooking heaven only in 10 days when the gates have already opened now?

1. Fairy Lights

2. Ornaments

3. Finishing Touches

4. Festive domestic bliss

The only disappointment of the season to date is Tara's Advent Calendar. Never mind that I only managed to get it out on day 7, but it's Really Not Nice that I only fill one drawer a day, and only once. Tara 's question of the day, any day, is, "Mummy what day is it today?" She'll be standing in front of her calendar, opening drawer after drawer for the third time on the day, when she asks that, and accordingly my answer is not "Sunday" or "the 14th" but "There are no more sweets, you already had them all today!" Accordingly, the second big disappointment of the season will be sweetie cut-off day in early January (at the latest) - but that horror is in the future.

On that note, off to feed the baby seasonal biscuit and slow-pot dinner fuelled milk. Under the sparkling tree. Aah, joy!

Snap: a domestic snapshot

2009-12-08T15:09:00.001+01:00

That's the kind of mother i am... Putting my babe down where we happen to stand when i need a hand more than he leaves me... Oh well... The table IS very clean after last night's baking session...

Snap: Little Man with Hat...

2009-12-08T00:05:00.001+01:00

...on his way to pick up his big sister (and already one month and two days old!)

A Glorious Full Month

2009-12-05T21:58:00.012+01:00

Hi! My name is Leo-Peo and I'm... Mummy, is my name really Leo-Peo?
No, baby, it's Leo Gabriel. Nice name, isn't it?
Oh. It's not Leo-Peo. It's not Schnuckel, kleiner Schatz, kleiner Mann, Suesser and Frump either?
No. Just Leo Gabriel. Leo for a Lion and Gabriel for an angel. Nice, yeah? I hope you like it anyway. I chose it with great care, even though your initials came out as LGV, not LEV like I wanted cause Tara is TOV but I only liked Eren and Elias for an E and you didn't look like either E when you were born a month ago, and your dad din't like them anyway.
Ah. I like Leo. What's wrong with LGV?
LGV is short for Large Goods Vehicle, that's a truck, and for initials that can go both ways but at least you're a boy so there's hope you'll forgive me for it, but like I said you didn't look like an Eren or an Elias...
What's a truck? And anyway, mummy, you're talking so fast, you're making me sleepy! Can you sing me a song?
Oh... well, I'm not very good at singing... what one would you like?
I don't know any but I like your voice. Mummy, what's the first song I ever heard?
That's Bah Bah Black Sheep, mein Schatz. I told you that your big sister Tara would sing it for you, and then I sang it for you so that you'd recognise her by it.
My big sister, that's the one who always wants to pick me up and give me cuddles?
That's the one. She loves you tons.

Tara: "Uuuugh... I can't pick him up, Mummy!"

She holds me funny. It's wobbly. It makes me cry.
I know, mein Schatz, but I'm always there to catch you, and I'm watching, and she won't let you fall. Ok... I'm nearly always there... sometimes Tara is a bit faster than me or I'm a bit stuck like, say, on the loo or so... and I've shown her how to hold you, and she knows when she's not allowed to pick you up, and it's all just because she loves you so much, she's not confusing you with her dollies, totally not, and she's so proud of you and... well...
Mummy, I'm hungry. Mummy, ouchy, what's that?
There's an ouchy in my tummy!
Sometimes you eat as much air as you eat milk, I'm afraid, and I don't know how to help you stop it, so it gets stuck in your tummy. But we'll see the breast feeding counsellor for a demonstration, I think, and I've already worked out how Pupsgymnastik (trump exercise ;-) can help you a bit: Every time you trump I push your legs into your tummy and more air comes out; it's particularly funny when you're naked...
Mummy, you're talking too fast again. And I'm hungry.
Sorry, baby. Wait. Here's a boob...
Oh YES! But wait, there's one thing I wanted to say: 'Hi. My name is Leo Gabriel and I'm one month old.' ... Mummy, I'm hungry AND sleepy now. Can I have a cuddle? And can I have my song now?

Leo-Peo, kleiner Mann, you can have all the cuddles and songs I can possibly give you.

Mummy Cuddles...

... and Daddy Magic (works when not hungry)

The above chat, of course, never took place. Expecially not the bit where Leo is presented a boob and says "wait." Hah! Truth is, I'm still getting to know him.
Tara, on the other hand, has the whole situation worked out. If any little cry gets in the way, she'll suggest: "I know! Just stick a bubu into him!" Well - it's very practical, and it works.
Me, I'm getting better at reading him though, although it took me a while to work out that not every cry is a cry for a boob. For the first two weeks, I fear, Leo-Peo found himself with a milky nipple in his mouth every time he was complaining about a bit of wind stuck in his tiny tummy. Still, Little Man is likely to accept the offer whenever it is made. But then, we're still only very new to each other, and I am getting better!

In celebration of Leo's first full month, we've made chocolate and orange cake with raspberries (no icing as calories would get too close to 4 digits per piece), and ornage drizzle cake. We've invited the neighbours round for tea and baby cuddles, and Tara has invited her collection of ponies round, too. The ponies line up with great discipline at first, then drift of to graze on both cakes... they have nothing to do with holes being poked into the chocolate cake where the raspberries can be spotted... and eventually show a strong preferrence for the orange drizzle. Strangely, just like Tara. Good job, too - there's already only half a cake left of the chocolate one, which, ahem, is my own seasonal favourite (recipe available upon request).

PS.: Tara's one month entry is here. All is pretty much the same, except that I weighed a whole lot less then and looked it, and I'm certainly nowhere near having my tummy back to normal and flat. All that cake...

Snap: Night Night

2009-12-03T00:00:00.001+01:00

It's 11pm and I should be sleeping. Instead, i'm standing at the top of my bed adoring my brood all snug in their nest. The space in the middle is mine (it IS as small as it looks). I'll have to work out which duvet I claim a share off eventually, and carefully move one medium sized arm out of the way before I lie down. But I'm not quite done looking. So beautiful. So sweet. So mine... And such a good time of day to love them uninterrupted!

Tales of Snails

2009-11-23T20:48:00.008+01:00

It's 9:30pm, Jose comes up the stairs and finds, on the top step, one little girl dressed in pyjamas and, contrary to parental assumptiuns, very much not asleep. Nor sleepy. "I can't go back to bed, mummy. I'm not sleepy at all," she shrugs, and won't budge, stubborn little thing.
Five attempts down (stubborn mother), I cave in and offer the next best thing: How about we sit in my bed and chat about... things? Tara is all for it. Can her Baby Sophia come; she can't sleep either? But of course Sophia can come! The more, the merrier.

So we sit in bed, in the dark, holding our respective babies, and chat. Better, Tara chats. And chats, and chats and CHATS. She LIKES this!
"Mummy, is there a shark under your bed, and what is it going to do when..."
"...and then we grabbed the snails and squished them and they went *pop*..."
"...and the queen and the man-queen..."
At midnight I realise that my strategy of uhm-ing and aah-ing does not have the desired effect of sending her off to sleep. Neither works plan B, that of occasionally warning her how tired she will be tomorrow. I switch to plan C of doing all the talking myself. "Tell me the story of the four friends in the garden," demands Tara. "But that's a story in one of your books downstairs," I decline. "But it's also in your head," insists Tara. She is subborn and clever, and she's very sure of what's in mummy's head. At 12:3oam, the four friends have been to the beach, and the hospital, and Tara is asleep. Sophia too. I don't like story telling. I don't like the four friends. I do like Tara. She's awfully cool.

The next morning, I am a little bit tired. So little bit tired I lose track of what I'm doing. Like, I walk down the stairs with a vague feeling I've forgotten something. The empty push chair at the bottom of the stairs tells me that's my baby. I'm glad he's not dressed in pink, white and purple - I may not have found him in the mess, forgotten why I came back up in the first place, and/or grabbed Baby Sophia instead. You never know what a tired mother is capable of.*

* Not cooking, that much is for sure.

Ah! To Be Loved So! (Day 13)

2009-11-18T21:37:00.017+01:00

Kuscheln Leo. All day long.

"Mami, can I kuschel Leo?" when she opens her eyes in the morning. "Mummy, I want to kuschel Leo!" when he's half dressed and cries for a feed. "Mummy, can I hold Leo now?" after breakfast, after lunch, after dinner. Even in the middle of the night, when Leo wakes up in bed with me, and Tara wakes up in her bed next door, I'm likely to get a very alert sounding "Mummy! I want to kuschel him!" coming round the corner. Any time of day or night, and any imaginable situation, Tara wants to cuddle her baby brother.

"He's very cute, actually," she said on day one. "I love baby Leo," she said on day nine. "Aaw, what a lovely baby brother I got, what was in mummy's tummy; Aaaw Leo," she cooed on day 11. She says it, and she means it. It's lip service in the nicest possible sense, with dozens of snotty, germ ridden kisses being planted on his little head, nose, lips, cheeks, daily.
Tara will bend over his basket, just to stroke his little face for a few moments before she returns to her play. Or, ahem, she will try to pick him up for an unsolicited cuddle. She has sung to him when he was crying, and Bah Bah Black Sheep did calm him down. She hushes and shushes and coos, "Shhhh, Shhh Leo, Schatz, hallo! Hallo, hallo! Hallo hallo, Schatz!" And I swear it's not regular English or German she speaks to him then, but proper Motherese.
My beautiful girl - brought up on love and cuddles, she knows how to love and cuddle. To say I'm proud and pleased would be an understatement.

I'm waiting for the day when Leo loves her back. For when his face lights up when she comes to see him, for the cooing and gurgling and patting when she kuschels him. I want to see Tara's face when she understands how much her baby adores her and looks up to her. I'd say I can't wait to see it, but I can: Every day is so full of blissfully enjoyable moments, of hilariously funny ones, or even difficult and trying ones when I need to pour out all the love and patience I can muster for my children - I wouldn't want to miss a single moment; not a single day, and not a single squished up, sleepless night.

Tara loves Leo. It's that simple.

PS.: In the first week, there have been some iffy moments, with a few since, and decreasingly so. Sibling rivalry and dislike peaked in a moment when Leo had lost a sock, I asked Tara if she could put it back on, she pulled off his other sock too. That's the extent of it. And this entry isn't about the challenging moments, anyway.

Breakfast in Bed (Day 10)

2009-11-15T20:00:00.013+01:00

Does anything compare to a mummy-trained, pancake-baking daddy who gets up first on a Sunday morning and delivers yummy jam pancake rolls for breakfast in bed with babies a little later? It certainly is a step up from toast in front of the telly, and we're enjoying it considerably. It's also a good way to start a Sunday, or the tenth day of your life: For Leo, there's loads of midnight snack flavoured milk now, and jam pancake roll flavoured milk later. Tasty!

Talking about food, the young gentleman has a healthy appetite and a very fetching degree of greed and sensuality. Is it that he likes to eat all the time? Or just cuddle and suckle? On occasion he will happily look around or look at and listen to me coo to him for a few minutes - he's a bit more impatient with his loving sister's cuddles that leave him a bit scrunched up in a womb style fold-over hug - but while awake, he usually calls for The Boob before he even bothers opening his eyes. Then, he goes into hour-long loops of drink - fall asleep - wake up remembering he was drinking and calling loudly for being rejoined to The Boob, which of course he is... can't refuse my gorgeous son his heart's desire WAH WAH WAH, or his tiny tummy's. The only thing that gets in his way are his little fists. Does he flail his arms in panick, worrying there will be no food? Does he try to catch The Boob and make sure it goes where he wants it? Either way, he tends to clap them into his face with a vengance, and I end up fighting little fists before I can feed him. Tcha, Leo, so much to learn in life; why don't we make that your first lesson: TRUST Mummy, no need to fight!

So much eating, of course, has consequences for the little man! Serious weight gain! By day ten, midwife Lou confirmed today at her visit, a breast fed child should have regained his birth weight - Leo has put on 165 grams to boot. I'm proud. I'm also a bit shocked I'm showing off such silly details - I'd quite forgotten what early motherhood does to one's view of things! It's a good job I never really talked politics before, so there's not much of a chance I'll put close friends off forever...
Also, of course, so much feeding has consequences for the be-boobed mother! Serious weight loss! By week ten I expect to resemble a stick figure, so bring on the pancakes, Jose... and I hope you never took stock of the chocolates we have in the cupboard or were, God forbid, hoping for a share? Erm... it was LEO who ate it all up!

PS.: The last picture is not exactly a mirror image of Tara's pic of being weighed - but they somehow do look like the same baby: see here for comparison.
For Tara's Day 10, click here.
... And I've let my precious child go hungry to write this, with only daddy's finger for a dummy / pacifier WAH WAH WAH - just like in the old Tara days like here.

So many memories! It's such fun loving two babies at the same time!

Rainy Saturday (Day 9)

2009-11-14T20:10:00.000+01:00

It's the day on which Tara spoke the magical words: "Mummy, I love baby Leo!"
So here we are, rained in on a Saturday, slowly finding our places and turning into a family of four. It's as good a day as any for a brief family portrait, to try and catch a magical moment and freeze it in time:

Jose: Today he's our link to the outside world. Nobody else has yet bothered to get dressed, but one just had to go out for some bread (SOME BREAD! Not some bread and two bags full of other stuff, mostly treats!... But then, that's just what happens to all of us, each time we shop at the shop of the white and green bags... just part of the price you pay for frequenting the nicest and most expensive supermarket in the UK...). And anyway, one desn't feed a family of four on bread alone. So I say: "Smile, Papi, and lift up the booty!"

Alex: ... Or do I prefer to be known as MUMMY today? Forget about personal space, ego and individuality when I have such gorgeous children to contemplate, play with and cuddle? I mean, look at me: Still in my pyjamas at the end of the day, messy hair from lounging in bed or on the sofa all day, and a big silly smile going as wide across my face as it will... stupidly blissfully happy, one could say. High on hormones perhaps? High on baby and his sister? Don't know. don't care. For now, just 'Mummy' is totally sufficient.

Tara: The most beautiful girl in town is actually MY daughter! Three years in and I still can't believe it... So here she is, my Baba (Can't still call her 'baby' now, can I?), on to rainy day activity #34, colouring in one of the gifts that Leo brought her 9 days ago. In between activities nipping to the baby brother's basket for the occasional stroke of his little face or status update like "Mummy, Leo's eyes are awake"... "Leo is sleeping, his face is very worried!" What do I wish for her future, I wonder? A successful career? Many lovely babies? Or simply that she remain my little amazing girl forever?

Baby Leo: Aaaaw, he's so cute. He's so lovely to hold. His hair is so incredibly soft and beautiful to stroke! I love to tickle his soft little neck. And the little smiles I've seen so far? Just the sweetest! His chord came off two days ago. He's all himself now - I've got no clue what he's like, really, and who and what he'll be, but I don't care. We'll have him any way he wants to be.

And the other baby hanging over the rim of his basket? Anna-baby. Introducing Leo to all tof Tara's babies was rainy day activity #35.

So here we are, getting to know and love each other all over again, my little family of four.

Welcome, Leo!

2009-11-12T17:28:00.000+01:00

Leo's Ticker: 19 1/2 Hours to Having My Baby

4/11; 9:30pm: So tired I'm shaking, I give up on the day and decide to go to sleep right away. By the time I've made it up the stairs, I've had the first mini contraction. Other signs within the next five minutes. Straight to bed hoping for a bit of sleep before it gets serious. Sleep never happens. Instead, Tara joins me. I take to wandering around, wondering how strong contractions should be - after all, Tara was induced so I have no idea what I'm looking for.

5/11; 1am: Finally worked up the courage to call the hospital (still feeling ridiculous as contractions are so painless if regular and long). I'm just planning on discussing the character of serious business with my midwife (whom I have to request via the hospital ward). They hear 'homebirth' and say that someone will call me back right away.

1:50am: I'm starting to wonder whatever happened to my call back as the midwife arrives. Bit more than I bargained for at this stage... I mean, I get to ask the questions I wanted to ask, but I'm still feeling a bit silly and insignificant, which her examination confirms: I'm only 2cm dilated and what I call 'cramps', she calls 'niggles', so two hours later, she is off back home, and I'm left with instructions to take a paracetamol, aim for some sleep, and call her back when the niggles become contractions.

6:30 am: Tara wakes up, I've slept for maybe an hour. I spend the next 2 1/2 hours lying on my side, suffering insilence for 50-70 seconds every so often, relaxing in between and dozing back off - totally lost all sense of time.

9am: Tara is off to nursery, I start timing contractions and work out that vocalising works a lot better than suffering in silence.

11am: Contractions have been strong, loud and regular all this time - in a sudden surge of panic I know it's time to request the midwife, Lou. She is there five minutes later, watches me, examines me and confirms: fully dilated. She expects the baby to arrive within the next half hour. I panic and want to cry: I can't imagine this happening, I'm scared of the pain, and I can't imagine, after all this, that there actually will be a baby. Contractions start to slow down.

12pm: The second midwife arrives (one for me, one for the baby). Contractions have slowed down to nothing much at all, but Baby Leo's heart rate is perfect - at least one of us is happy.

12-3pm: Another examinations shows that I am not fully delated after all - one tiny "lip" remains. The midwives are full of ideas as to what we can do to get the contractions back. I eat something. I eat enery bars and sugary stuff. I bounce on the ball. I walk around and up and down the stairs. I try every feasible position that makes use of gravity. Nothing but the odd short weak contraction. As a last measure, Lou breaks my waters - it scares me: This is how Tara's birth was kick started and it hurt a lot. Even more scary: There is a time limit attached to it. If I do not deliver the baby within the next 30 minutes, I will have to transfer to hospital for a hormone drip. I don't want to go to hospital. I'm scared shitless. I'm scared contraction-less. I do as I'm told and try and bounce and try but there is no contraction worth mentioning. I can't imagine this happening. I can't imagine the baby. I try to call up a mental image of my baby but there's just one big blank space.

3:00pm: Another mercyful 15 minute deadline to calling the ambulance. Jose is getting the bag together as per my instructions; I'd only packed the bare essentials before. This nightgown. Those pyjamas. Waterbottle. Snacks. Jeans.

3:15: They're calling the ambulance. I start crying and can't stop. Jose panics. He's convinced I'll end up with a cesarian if I waste my last energies on howling like this. I'm full of horror scenarios too - I'm already right inside one. Lou jokes about how rickety ambulance rides often bring contractions back, and how babies are born in them. My baby is not among them, even though we travel in style, and my body rewards the ambulance for switching its sirens on for us with a few contractions.

4pm: Handed over to hospital staff, examined, hooked up to drip and monitors. I let them do as they see fit -I don't fancy any of this any more; it's not my labour any more. Mayby I should some consider pain relief now.

4:15pm: Labour resumes with proper contractions. I'm still frustrated and tired and rather disinterrested, except when Leo's heartrate dips to what sounds like close to nothing. Very scary. Ca 4:50pm, pushing starts and I'm fully alert within a second. It's happening! I'm no longer worried about pain but sucked into the intensity of the experience. I feel his head making progress. I feel it crowning. I ask for his hair colour. I remember in an abstract way how it hurt with Tara, and how i was shouting "I'm burning I'm burning!"... I feel his head coming through... brief panting... a little body slithering out...

17:00 (sharp): ....within one eternally long push contraction, Leo is born and delivered right onto my chest. I greet him with an avalanche of made-up terms of endearment that all sum up to the same thing I greeted Tara with: "My baby! My baby! My beautiful baby!"

19:30: Leo has suckled for 90 minutes (5 blisters for me to start off on), and we've chosen Gabriel for his middle name. Tara Olivia and Leo Gabriel. I have a shower and stand there smiling to to myself: He looks like a copy of Tara, and that is a very good thing. When I come back into the room, feeling like I've been miraculiously restored to being a whole healthy person after a long period of illness, Jose greets me: "I've already called him 'Tara.'"
Our boy, Leo. I hope life treats you well. We will do our best.

Tara's Ticker: 27 Hours to Big Sister

5/11; 6:30: Tara wakes up and says: "Who's coming to our house today?" "I think Baby Leo is coming today, and Oma Gisela is coming tomorrow," I reply. "But I want Oma Gisela to come today, and Leo tomorrow," Tara complains. I agree, but there's not much I can do about it now. Tara takes off to find her dad and request daddy-made pancakes for breakfast.

7:30: Tara is back on the bed for a cuddle. I'm in the middle of a contraction and tell her not to touch me right now. She cries and is comforted after the contraction ebbs away; I'm glad we've discussed her brother coming out of mummy's tummy and it hurting before. Would she like to go to nursery to play with her friends, or would she like to stay home and wait for Leo? Nursery, she chooses happily, and is off to play with dad some more.

8:00: Nursery opens. I phone to ask how soon I can drop Tara off. Right away. It's a relief. Can I get this birth over with by 3pm?

8:30: A very chirpy Tara is off to nursery. I miss my good-bye-have-fun kiss.

14:30: Call to nursery to confirm Tara can stay till 5pm (instead of 3pm).

16:15: Call to Rebecca. "Are you in labour?!" - "I'm at the hospital. Can you pick Tara up?"

16:39: Text from Rebecca: "I've got Tara we're waiting for Caden to finish football and then we'll go home. She's fine so far so don't worry. x"

17:27: Rebecca: "Tara is very pleased with her new brother. We've taken her to tell nursery she's cuddling Carter now!"

17:50: R: "Tara is home now playing. She's fine here as long as you need. I'll put her in pj's and she can sleep with Carter or on the sofa. She's going to have some chips and watch peppa pig! Don't worry about Tara and well done! x"

18:43: R: "Take your time she's fine. She's no bother at all.x"

18:??: R: "Tara happy eating chips and beetroot. We're impressed!"

19:55: R; "Tara fed, washed in sleepsuit given to her by Carter and has a new green toothbrush. And fast asleep on my sofa. No rush she'll be fine till Jose is ready.x"

6/11; 9:30am: Tara and Papi arrive at the hospital to pick Leo and Mami up. When I hear their voices outside the room asking for us, I start crying, just a little. Tara climbs right onto the bed, beaming smiles, stretches her arms out for her brother, holds him and gives him a kiss.

Let the Blogging Resume!

2009-11-12T14:06:00.003+01:00

One week ago, I was still in the middle of giving birth to gorgeous baby Leo (with the threat of a hospital transfer hanging over me, but still hoping and working towards having him at home), and today, same time, I'm looking at my fashionably dressed little man in his basket by my side, sound asleep, and wonder what level of clothing will be appropriate to take him out in - we have one big sister to fetch from nursery and deliver the promised little birthday party (complete with balloons and party bags) that I had planned for the end of the successful home birth.
Leo and I are on our way to working out how this feeding business works for us, and I'm remembering how to blog one-handed with a baby snuggled up close. Much to record and report!

One small reminder: If anyone wants to send us a card - if you have the address starting with "8 The..." then it's the old/wrong one!

2009-11-09T13:24:00.001+01:00

I've been sitting like this for over an hour now, and can't for the life of me make myself get up and do anything other than looking at him and nuzzling him. Digging my own grave no doubt, out for a blue repetition of the pink cuddle disaster. But grave digging has never been this sweet!

Snap: Aaaaw!

2009-11-08T15:12:00.001+01:00

Skin to skin

2009-11-05T21:59:00.001+01:00

...and mum is staring and staring and marvelling.

2009-11-05T18:37:00.001+01:00

2009-11-05T18:06:00.001+01:00

Ready for Take-Off, Mr. Stork?

2009-11-05T02:20:00.000+01:00

Ready for take-off, Mr. Stork?

*Ouch*
Tummy cramps! And they started only half an hour after I finished the last entry and a chocolate bar, swell. So, Mr. Stork, I hope you're ready for take off, to go and deliver one beautiful baby boy.
Of course, just in case one stork is not enough help with the delivery of baby Leo, I'll also call the midwife. Just for a little chat about pain, the (for now, lack of) intensity thereof, and other delicate details pertaining to the birthing region. Sleep is much desired but somehow not on the agenda, it appears.

There is no official birthing playlist. I was thinking about putting Leona Lewis on, briefly... Tara:"I wish I had a voice like that!" Me: "Yeah me too" Leona: "... You cut me open and I - keep bleeding, keep keep bleeding..." That put an end to official playlists, but here is one of the songs I've been playing a lot recently and moving myself to hormonal tears every time without fail (click on the title to listen in, sing along, and maybe shed an emotional tear or two):

Look no Further

"I might have been a singer
Who sailed around the world
A gambler who wins millions
And spent it all on girls

I might have been a poet
Who walked upon the moon
A scientist who'd tell the world
I'd discovered something new

I might have loved a king
And been the one to end a war
A criminal who drank champagne
And never could be caught

But among your books, among your clothes
Among the noise and fuss, I've let it go

I can stop and catch my breath
And look no further for happiness
And I will not turn again
'Cause my heart has found its home

Everyone I'll never meet
And the friends I won't now make
The adventures that there could have been
And the risks I'll never take

But among your books, among your clothes
Among your noise and fuss, I've let it go

I can stop and catch my breath
And look no further for happiness
And I will not turn again
'Cause my heart has found its home"
(Dido)

Call me a tacky soul, but let me put it this way: Tonight I have no regrets.

Ready for touch-down (*ouch*)

Big Mama's Big Girl & Big Girl's Big Mama

2009-11-04T20:40:00.011+01:00

Today is Leo's due date (rah rah, baby boy, rah rah rah!?), and since he's not making any move in the right direction (down and out, my boy!), I've still got time to write about my precious princess before I get sucked into the wonder of having TWO amazing children to love.
Ah, my big girl!

Story time: "Baby Wolf and his mum and dad..."

Actually, she's floating in between big and pretend-small these days. Have I ever introduced her alter ego, "Baby Lola"? Baby Lola is a good few months old already and pops up whenever Tara feels particularly cuddly. She doesn't do much talking but a lot of cooing and snuggling, likes to be carried and extra amounts of attention. "I'm not Tara, I'm Baby Lola," she announces in a sweet little voice. "Tara is in Ferien (on holiday) with Oma Gisela." We see a lot of Baby Lola in the morning or in the evening, when Tara is tired. And oh, just how handy did that old dummy come in that we found when unpacking her old stuff?! Too old for Baby Leo, too big for Tara's many babies, and Tara herself sure never had any use for it when she was small... but Baby Lola? It's the must-have gadget of the day. Ah, week. Ah, month.

"Baby Lola" shares a cuddle with the bump (today full term)

The real Tara, of course, is a lot older than that. Old enough, in fact, to have many a baby in her own tummy that pop out ("Baby Tina, she already came out") or pop back in, depending on what is more convenient ("Mummy, Daddy, I can't pick the puzzle up off the floor... I have einen dicken Bauch (a big tummy); I have a Baby in my tummy...."). And since having a feel for, or a look at baby Leo movement has become old news, she sometimes treats us to a feel of her own baby ("Mummy, my baby is kicking now, you can feel it if you want") - lifts her top up, pokes her tummy out and wobbles it a bit while making a serious and important face. I always, always take her up on her kind offer - those are my grandchildren in the making, after all!
But she's big in other ways as well, looking after her old mother and treating her with kindness. Example? Last week, when tired and keen on playing with mummy on the floor, she threw a massive tantrum when I told her I couldn't sit in the specific way she wanted me to, that little bossy thing. Two days later, wanting to play on the floor again, she offered me lots of different position: "Can you sit like this? Can you sit like this? Or like that?... Ok, you can sit like that then. Come and play with me!" And another day later: "Mummy, can you come and play with me? You can sit any way you want!" I'm so impressed by such consideration that I fall to my knees and play on the floor until my legs go numb.
I do wonder who I will see more of once Baby Leo is with us - Baby Lola or Big Tara?

Last week was term break at nursery, and since I was at home and felt guilty about sending here when there was no need, I'd reduced her hours to morning-only. We spend a lot more time together than I'm used to, and it wasn't even half as hard as I thought it would be. The library, the park, story telling time, making new friends down the road that we'd noticed months ago but never had the time to talk to, tons of cuddles - it was a bit like honey-mooning with my girl, just the two of us before we become three/four. I spent half the time just staring at her thinking, wow, you're so amazing, and feeling very much in love with her. My girl!

And then, of course, there's her baby brother, my boy. Still snug inside my enormous tummy, with his perfect little heart beat, perfectly average estimated size, still giving me probably rather average amounts of stretch marks (*sob*).

"Hey, Papi! It's Leo's due-date! Foto session time!... No, fotos first, then dinner, come on, I'll be way too tired later!"

All covered up - not looking too impressive...

...so I'll get it out into the open, and have it kissed while we're there...

... looking big? Looking small?

If I've got anyone thinking it's a small tummy, let me reassure you: It's the perspective. It's huge. And very nearly at its peak. 3/5ths engaged, says the midwife, who came round today, and since second babies often only engage fully during birth, not before, it's a sign that we're very close to meeting each other, finally. On Saturday, we have agreed, after Oma Gisela has arrived for a spontaneous weekend support visit, and after the midwife's favourite dance show is over. Starting 9pm, finished by midnight - sounds all very good to me. Not tonight, please, I'm too tired now: Instead of resting while Tara was at nursery, I went into Broadstairs to enjoy the sunshine and a pretty walk. Would that be fine by you, little man?

Your due-day, Leo, was a beautiful crisp and bright sunny day. There was spag-bol for dinner, made with tomatoes from our garden. Papi had some sort of fume exhaust emergency at work and got home late. Tara chose lots of books about babies to read, Mum drank chocolate tea and listened to Norah Jones. A good day to be born - but just as good a day to give to mum to enjoy and keep looking forward to meeting you.

Snap: Talking to Tante Claudia

2009-11-01T10:49:00.000+01:00

Early Sunday Morning

2009-10-25T20:53:00.008+01:00

All ready now

We've entered Scoripio, turned back the clock and come 5:30 am, Tara climbs out of bed, stares at me and declares: "Mummy, I need a wee-wee. There's no light." (Read: 'Mother, get up, switch the light on and come with me.') "And after that I want pancakes for breakfast and watch Charlie and Lola." (Read: Forget about going back to bed after toilet support duty.)
Cruel. Especially since on a regular week day, when I need her up by 7:30, I can often barely get her up for 8am, and certainly not without a long snuggly sleepy cuddle. But here's the beauty of it: We got an extra 3 hours to the day rather than just one, and that was plenty of time to finish sorting the bedroom out, hoover the house, do three loads of washing, put summer clothes into storage and put baby clothes size 3 months up away; time for shopping for/with Tara (clothes), groceries, gifts, and more baby stuff; and after all that: still plenty of time to visit the tea room I've been meaning to go to visit for the last 1 1/2 years (part of my bucket list - my Thanet bucket list anyway) for coffee, double helpings of cake and a little late-pregnancy photo session, with plenty time for Tara to charm everyone in that tea room by chatting happily with the lady owner and performing "Bah Bah Black Sheep" for all the old dears present. We'll be back, and we'll be recognised. Ah, my face and my motherly heart glowed with pride! What a lovely day!

Family of three...

Busy busy then, getting ready; and that was only today. Tomorrow, while I'm enjoying my first weekday on maternity leave, I have plans for a dinner cooked from scratch, some cake baking, car/home/life insurance investigating, scheduling of play dates for the week ahead, assembling of labour music play list, and some more washing.
There must be some sort of connection between this unexpected shocking surge of energy and the beginning of my year-long maternity leave (holidays, yay!). Or maybe it is Leo's continued descent into the birthing regions - suddenly I can breath again, the horrid heart burn is nearly gone, and the idea of keeping this pregnancy lark up for another two weeks or so suddenly seems rather appealing, actually. How things can change in a day!
With that in mind: I'll see whether tomorrow I'll be a domestic goddess, whether I'll just lie in bed and feed the family ready made pizza, or whether I'll be busy having a baby (with an improvised or no music play list). It'll be a nice day either way.

... going on FOUR

And now I'm going to have a muffin or two, fold three loads of washing and wrap presents.

Rah Rah, Leo!

2009-10-21T20:35:00.010+02:00

Tara, waiting. Even 'Crocodowel' is doubled over with boredom.

The latest lot of fresh stretch marks actually hurt (ok - a little), and one of the nicer compliments I was given this last week was "you've got a right old waddle on you, girl." That was after Leo had turned and I felt that my gait had improved immensely over night, i.e. that when walking down a narrow corridor, there was no longer an immediate risk of head injury. When I get up to walk somewhere these days, I look like I'm on my way to a Limbo contest and already practising. I've officially given up washing the dishes due to problems reaching the sink and feel guilty about letting Jose do everything (other than growing 14gram of baby fat per day), and I'm no longer taking pleasure in people debating whether I'm BIG or QUITE SMALL. I'm TIRED OF BEING PREGNANT. Mind you, I've been tired of being pregnant for quite a while now, at varying degrees - it's just not the same the second time round; no offence, Leo, it's not personal.

Tara speaks to her brother: "Come on, Leo. Come on, Bruder. I can't see you!" Rah, rah, Leo, get a wriggle on! We spent some time the other day listing all the yummy foods that were waiting for him this side of my tummy, with Tara luring him with "polar bear ice cream... mozzalelli... pineapple pizza" and a whole host of other delicacies she could think of. His beds are made, and Tara is practising covering up the whole thing in case he doesn't like the mobile over his basket (her babies, it appears, don't).

The central heating has had a trial run for the impending - fingers crossed - cosy home birth (and has stayed on since; 18 celsius is just nicer than 14-16), and have I mentioned that I'm tired? I have? Never mind then.

Leo, bub, don't tell me you're going to wait until we've settled on a middle name - you'll have me wondering whether a random one like (randomly opening baby name book) Laird, Nelek or Salamon (bad baby name book) is worth the extra two weeks. Or are you waiting until the 24th at least to make sure you're a scorpio - the one sign that your dear mother really has concerns about? I say, 38 weeks are just as good as 40. COME ON OUT! Major cuddles waiting!

Come on OUT... and STOP giving me stretch marks!

Week 38 completed

For the record: The man-who-does-the-dishes has a different opinion about the ideal length of this pregnancy. "Leave him alone, he'll come out when he's ready, and that way we'll all get some rest before, you included."

Little Helpers (3 Weeks to Go)

2009-10-14T20:54:00.005+02:00

The little lady is treating me to support wherever she can. She sleeps better at night (thanks!), she wakes up calling for the BROTHER instead of her mother (Aaaaw!) and she gets up in the morning declaring "I want to go to daddy, you can stay in bed a little longer" (THANKS!!). Of course, she and her babies also continue to test every baby item they can get their sweet hands on, like the bed with the new cute elephant cot bumber:

And how is this for help in the kitchen? The table laid as follows: Daddy, left, a big fat "strong muscle" bread knife and a regular fork. Mum, middle, a regular knife and a kiddie desert spoon. Tara, right, a butter knife and an adult fork. Leo, top corner, a half empty glass of milk. Touching? Touching.

Leo, too, is being a star. After a whole tense week of worry about his position (transverse, back to back), its implications for my home birthing plans and whatonearthamIgoingtodowithTara, he's turned and was parked just outside the birth canal, head first, when the midwife whecked on us last Tuesday. What a relief! But maybe I can claim half of the laurels - after all, I've spent an intentionally relaxed weekend, took a day off work, and dangled over a gym ball on all fours for a fair share of the time. But if we go there, Jose also should have a share of the praise for keeping the family up and running while I lounged in bed or dangled off said ball. Praise for everyone!

Leo is officially full term and welcome to hatch once I've gotten the oldest sheets and cushions out, remembered how to work the heating, and after I've roared some more with Tara like a lion/ dinasaur/ mummy in labour and read Hello Baby with her at least ten times (one down, nine to go). Oh, and then there's the minor issue of me still being at work for another 8 days, of course - I nearly forgot... and then wanting a few days to rest all by myself... so actually, I'd like another 2 1/2 weeks or so, really.

But...but... those precious little teeth!!

2009-10-06T21:32:00.004+02:00

A cavity! A scandal! A visit to the dentist! A drill! A sticker! ... And a mother with a very very bad conscience.

A princess, her teeth and her sticker

I'd just spent a week discussing sweet intake with friends, and bought about 4-5 kilos of my favourite German sweets (to be eaten over half a year of course), only to take an incidental look at Tara's set of very young beautiful teeth two days later, and spot a cavity that was a cavity-beyond-any-doubt. Ah, those sweets, that fruit juice all day long, that lack of cooperation with teeth brushing until just after she turned three, and quite clearly also a bad genetic starting point (with ME ME ME to thank for it).
So, with a heavy heart, I arranged for dentist (got one straight away, which is lucky), and a visit within the week. I resolved not to let anyone drill - JUST advice at the first visit! - then picked my girl up from nursery, and took her to the dentist where she bravely sat on the big magic chair all by herself, opened her mouth and had her teeth counted. 20 teeth, one cavity. And two minutes later I'd signed permission for the dentist to drill. Great one for consistency and resolve, mum. Tara was promised a sticker and let the dentist "brush her teeth with a special brush", but when it came to water and air she ended her cooperation promptly. So now she has a hole without filling that's bigger than the cavity was, has food getting stuck in it whenever she eats, and remembers that she does not want to lie down on the magic chair and doesn't like air and water either. Great.
She was very pleased with her big sticker though, paraded it through nursery and her home, played dentist for the rest of the day and declared that her tooth was much better now.
Still, we need to go back and have the job finished asap, and I'm feeling awful for letting anyone drill against my plans, and knowing that Tara lacked the maturity to go through with it all (actually, she did shockingly well). Bad mother - I'm feeling utterly gutted.
There is some ocnsolation in being told that the cavity would be at least 6-12 months old, which means it predates our sweet habit, potty training bribery and excessive consumption of fruit juice.

I bet everyone else is thinking, what's all this fuss about something so relatively minor. But still.... *sniffle* I had such high hopes and aspirations for her teeth. I have such bad ones and the dentist was the horror of my childhood and now is one of the horrors of my savings. What can I say... Tara, darling, you did great. There'll be a fat lovely present when we have the job finished. And much much fewer sweets from now on, and forget about undiluted fruit juice!