Look Who's on the Sofa Now

Yep, that's right. The pregnant lady. After the dishes and everything else (including half a banana loaf cake). Now playing: Coldplay, Viva la Vida. What a treat!

I Want my Dinner!

Little voice from my left: "I AM SO HUNGRY! I know! I will look at a book while I wait for my dinner!"

Then, quiet.

Next, humming and improvised singing: "I'm looking at my li-be-ra-ry book! And when I'm done, you can have it... Mummy, I'm SO HUNGRY and I WANT MY DINNER!"

Well, it's ready now. Dinner time!

*** 20 minutes later ***

"Tara, pleeeease let me take another picture of you ok? You can say 'cheese' to me because you helped me so beautifully putting the cheese on our dinner, ok? Pleeeease?" So it's ok (after a bit of negociating and persuading and the promise that I won't take a single picture tomorrow).

"CHEESE!"

Ice Cream

Ah, ice cream! For Tara, spending the summer in Germany is synonymous with going into the city centre for an ice cream. Every day. Twice, if it was up to her. It's a huge step up from the commercial pre-packed ice cream we've been having in England so far. Thanks to lovely Italians that evacuate their home towns and villages in the summer to flood to Germany and run one ice cream parlour next to the other, there's plenty parlours to go to, and plenty flavours to choose from. Of course, if you're Tara you go for the one with Marshmallows in it. (Actually, the waiters are hugely grumpy and stressed but then who wouldn't be after swapping a sunny Italian town for exile in a rainy one?)

German-Italian ice cream with marshmallows

German village ice cream with friends, banana flavoured (the ice cream, and no posh choice there).

German-Italian ice cream with aunties. More marshmallows.

English ice cream with sugary waffles.

Just out of curiosity and for the historical record: One scoop of German ice cream in town centres (ca 30 flavours to choose from) and villages (about six flavours), 60ct. One scoop in the city (about 12 flavours), 80ct. One scoop in England (ca 12 flavours), GBP1.50, sugary cone add 50p (which is why we'd been having commercial pre-packed stuff so far). Quite a difference, isn't it?

Three

Three years can seem a long long time... actually they are a long long time! (Also, this entry would be a lot longer if this nasty tummy bug hadn't knocked me out last night...) We're eating cake, blowing candles, maing wishes, and thinking back.
Ah, my wonderful big pretty girl!

Cousins and Siblings (or News thereof)

"Ok, everybody! Watch me!" as Tara would say: Watch me and my cousin "Baby" Maja and tell me if you can see any similarities between us!
Honest, if you find one I'll blame it on the photographs, because I really can't see one at all, and it's nothing to do with the fact that Tara is twice her age now that Maja has come over to spend the summer (or rather two weeks thereof) with us.
Hang on, they both like baby dollies... and the cars... and the dolly pushchair... and, well, everything that the other gets to first, really... or maybe it's more a case of Tara spontaneously realising how much she likes and needs this very instant the things Maja has just decided to want to play with... oh, I'm not sure... I think I'll just stick with: my, how different they are; it's amazing!



Still, the occasional little struggle or pinch can't hurt their overall affection for each other. Maja screeches with delight when she lays eyes on Tara in the morning, and Tara is wanting to know exactly where Maja is when she gets up in the morning or comes home from nursery. Maja likes to express her fondness for Tara in spontaneous big hugs (Tara's not fond), while Tara keeps an eye on Maja and tries to make sure she does not hurt herself: "No, Maja you can't go outside, there's no grown-up outside, come back inside!" (Maja is not impressed).


Tara will make an excellent big sister! (And I realise how glad I am there's a significant age gap of over 3 years!)
Talking of which, we've been to our 21 week scan at which an elderly scan lady went over every layer of baby she could get hold of to confirm that our baby was of perfectly average appearance, of perfectly average health, and of perfectly average size - I didn't need her to tell me that I was having a perfectly average preganancy with perfectly average levels of discomfort, weight gain, mobility issues and slightly above-average skin problems. Tara in turn didn't need the lady to tell her that our baby is a perfect baby boy. Just like she knew I was having a baby before I realised, she knew she was having a baby brother, and had told us so matter-of-fact when asked on the way in.

Waiting for baby's 21-week scan

I guess that means noone will fight her for her dollies and dolly push chairs on a regular basis in the near future. Great news, isn't it?

And on that note we're off to Germany for the next two weeks, to eat a fresh Italian ice cream every day, and of course, to check out Maja's toys. Bet you there'll be something worth fighting over!

Snap: Newsflash

See that sweet little open mouth? It's somewhere in the middle of listing people Tara wants to marry. The conversation went like this:
Tara: I'm gonna marry Daddy!
Me: ARE you?!
Tara: Yeah. I'm gonna marry Papi. And Mami. And Tante Claudia. And Kajina, and Maja, and Onkel Derek. And Daddy, and the tree (!), and Papi. Like Cinderella and the prince.

A strong contender for statement of the week, I think.

Big Z

I've got a major crush on my sleeping beauty at the moment (aside from the regular major crush on the child awake). To the point where I'ver started collecting picture of her sleep.
*Sigh* too cute.

Sleep starts of with story time (obligatory).

Bed too small for rotating child.

Baby Isobel for cuddly company. Company helps.

Parental company is better and she falls out of bed for it. "Daddy, help me a little bit!" (This is a direct order.)

Mind you, she falls out of bed with or without company.

Fell asleep with mummy on little mattress. "Mummy, help me a little bit, ok? Lie down on my baby mattress!" (This is a direct order.)

Transfer to mummy's bed after some 3 hours. Obligatory.

A fake! Giggling child, not sleeping child.

Bedtime starts at 7pm, right after dinner. We follow the order of face & hands, teeth (fight), pyjama, and varying numbers of stories by varying readers while sitting in bed. If mumy is last, two songs follow. Then comes the inevitable. "Help me a little bit, ok?" Read: Stay with me until I'm asleep and don't you dare take off before, ok? Ok. If you're lucky you get away with holding her hand. If you're less lucky she grabs hold of your nipple (damn uncomfortable and only affects mummy), or asks you (i.e. demands) that you lie down with her in her bed (no way) or alternatively on the floor (way).
(This, of course, must change back to the no-fuss process we used to follow until a number of months ago, and we've started at working towards independent sleep again. "I need to go and do some work downstairs but I'll come back in five minutes to check on you, ok?")
Sleep arrives, parent steals out of the room (if we haven't fallen asleep on teh floor), and Tara sleeps for 2-4 hours until she wakes up and can't go back to to sleep unless she gets promoted to a place in mummy's bed.
Truth is, I can't fall asleep if she's not there. Truth is also, I love looking at her at night, and even having a small heavy leg flung across my throat has its charms. Ah, my cuddly wuddly girl.