Monday 21 January 2008
No rest for the wicked, or even just the slightly naughty. I decided weeks before his birth that Boy Two was going to integrate seamlessly into the Jones household. Just because there was a newborn kicking around, it was no excuse to take life slowly. I can therefore only assume that it is some kind of post-partum insanity that leads me to book a skiing holiday for when he will be barely five weeks old.
I don’t think the travelling itself will cause the headaches, even though we have also decided to tackle most of Europe by train, with the out-laws in tow. It is how to decide on a name, register the baby, get a photograph that doesn’t make him look like an alien and get the passport back in time to catch the 7.15 am from St Pancras on 8 March.
We had settled on a name halfway through the pregnancy, but now he is out I’m not sure Boy Two really suits it. I don’t have a great history with naming things. In my lifetime I’ve owned three cats so far. They’ve all been pedigree Burmese and came ready-equipped with fancy monikers, such as Aduihbu Buttermilk Dennis, which didn’t really trip off the tongue when I was rattling a bowl of Kibbles and bellowing the name into the garden at sunset. More shouty names were required.
The first kitty was a Chocolate Burmese, the naming of which, I felt, was a no-brainer. That would be Cadbury, then. But my sisters also got a chocolate and named that one the far snappier, simpler, cattier Wispa. Unfortunately Cadbury had an argument with a car and lost. Her successors were twins: the aforementioned Buttermilk was a Yellow Burmese and his brother was a Blue (which is actually grey) with a similarly mental name. I swiftly renamed them Little Leo and Ichabod (no, neither do I), respectively. When it became clear that these were as crap as the pedigree titles, they sort of renamed themselves by being skinny – Weeman, and fat – Fatso. And I’ve spent the past six years working with words in the branding industry. Boy Two was stuffed from the start.
But whether or not Boy Two’s name will dog him for the rest of his life is immaterial. We have four days to register him, get the certificate and get it off to the passport office. There is no time for creativity. I also need an official passport photo. The passport office doesn’t like ultrasound pictures – it’s really hard to get a foetus to smile for the camera.
The nice man at Jessops lies Boy Two on a white marshmallow and takes the pics. I’ve been fretting about how you get a baby to look straight at the camera with a neutral expression, but as newborns spend much of their time trying to focus on their own noses, the photographer says the passport office tends to overlook it.
Tuesday 5 February 2008
Whether it is sleep deprivation or a heady cocktail of hormones and my first G&T in many, many months, I’ve hit a period of manic activity that mixes Stepford wife with Superwoman. Largely, I’m not much of a success as either but I have my moments. Much to Boy One’s delight, I rocked the Shrove Tuesday pancakes with every topping conceivable, the favourite being chocolate and melty cheese. Together. The crepe fiesta is to celebrate getting all of his unused and grown-out-of toys and clothes into bags and into the attic. For a brief moment I surveyed the feng shui’d, decluttered, picture-perfect home before dragging out all the baby stuff I’d jammed under our bed for Boy Two, thus returning the house to its normal, chaotic state. I believe it is generously termed ‘lived in’.
In a rare example of foresightedness I have also just hotfooted it down to the local ‘paint your own pottery’ place to immortalise Boy Two’s feet in Dutch Blue paint on a variety of mugs and plates – bijou presents for friends and family. That’s Christmas 2008 sorted. Mind you, if I don’t break these by spring 2008 it’ll be a ruddy miracle.
Returning home with blue-footed children, I resurrect my old website that proudly proclaims: ‘Make and Do for Fathers’ Day 2007!’ in 56 point sans serif. Some time ago I published a moderately successful book which, every year, gets a bit of a push around Mother’s Day. With the sacred date looming once more, I didn’t want to get Googled and be caught with my virtual knickers down. Some quick updates later and becausemumknowsbest.com can face her public with pride.
All this before teatime and on three hours’ sleep. Move over Maggie Thatcher, eat your heart out Nicola Horlick.*
Wednesday 6 February 2008
Boy One didn’t sleep through the night until he was at least two years old. But the quid pro quo was that he was a serious napper during the day. I could usually rely on a good four hours to myself during his first year, and about two during his second. So, the rings under my eyes rivalled Saturn’s but I still had the chance to knock together the odd magazine article or enjoy Diagnosis Murder uninterrupted. Thankfully it looks like Boy Two is going the same way. When the midwife turns up to stick a scalpel in my newborn baby’s foot – babies spend a significant amount of time in the early days doubling as pin cushions – Boy Two just sleeps on through. It bodes well for enough peace and quiet to make proper business phone calls without being rumbled as a sick-covered zombie.
And it looks like I might be needing second son’s good nature sooner than I thought. The Husband’s work situation is never totally safe and, even though he has until June on his contract, it can take months to find a new job. Faced with the prospect of a five month-old baby and no money, I decide that perhaps I ought to dip my toe in the old work water and just see what floats by. After all, it’s good to keep the mental stimulation going and a little light typing couldn’t hurt. Besides, even though my ultimate aim is to quit the rat race, it doesn’t mean I won’t need to earn some money. Only I want to do it on my terms.
So it is that a mere 17 days after the birth, I get back in touch with my freelance contacts to see if there is any work in the offing. It’s not exactly the business empire I’d entertained during those last, tedious days in the office but I don’t really have the energy for a full-blown attack of the Richard Bransons right now. But surely I can scrape together a few hundred words about potty training. And emails hide the reality of hungry newborn howling and cracked nipples. Still, the magazine’s deputy editor sounds a bit shocked to hear from me:
RE: BACK IN THE SADDLE
Message: Am amazed to hear from you so soon…
Reply: Everything’s pretty much back in the old routine!
Message: Are you really feeling up to writing again?
Reply: I’m finding it much easier to ignore the screaming this time round.
Until I come up with a better idea, writing freelance doesn’t seem like too big a burden. I don’t think it apposite to mention that the impending skiing holiday and the inevitable poverty thereafter is a great motivator.
Thursday 7 February 2008
If I’m going to maintain this mania, I’m going to have to introduce some method to the madness. I’m going to have to figure out what schedule Boy Two is on. It certainly isn’t mine.
But, having done that, now I realise that I shouldn’t have bothered. Early indications that Boy Two was going to cooperate by sleeping nicely while I try to work are