Can you believe it? And I’ve only cried a handful of times. I haven’t really yelled at anyone, although there was the once I did at Jasper which made the baby Jesus cry because that child? That third child who can and does get away with everything? Is SO cute and endearing that the fact these traits are matched by cheekiness and we’re-just-on-the-border-of-fully-fledged-naughtiness mean the latter are totally obliterated by the former. Each day he adjusts to the existence of Grover and has started calling him bubba. I am having niggling worries about his (as in Jasper’s) speech development as he’s 20 months but we’re only getting single words and well, let’s just say we’re pretty experienced in this house with speech disorders and milestones and well, he just ain’t hitting them. Thank GOD we’ve got a good speechie w/ Oscar and will discuss the third child with her next Monday when this term’s schedule resumes normal programming.
See that? That was a massive tangent that can completely be blamed on being really fucking tired.
Last night was one of those nights everyone remembers from their own days at home with a newborn. The nurse-a-thon (thanks Krista, that phrase is now officially in the lexicon) started at 8pm and continued every two hours until about 9am, with a nice unsettled phase running from 2-4, which saw Jasper wake and Chef bring him into our bed where he gave a good
crying screaming fit due to no bottle being produced and no engagement whatsoever in his various pleas to go down the backroom and watch ‘toot-toot’ (Thomas the fucking tank engine and all his stupid petulant friends at the most dysfucntional railway this side of CityRail. Seriously people, that the lazy-arsed Fat Controller – under instructions from his doctor ‘not to push’ no less – has not ordered an enquiry, nay a Royal Commission, into the perennial failure of the buffers is beyond me), which in turn woke Oscar (although he’d been whimpering in his sleep for a good half hour) who cried loud and hard when Chef told him that no we were not going to visit Nana and Grandpa and to go back to sleep because it was the middle of the night, a claim he clearly didn’t believe as he got up half an hour later, went to the bathroom (a during the night miracle for Oscar as he clearly adheres to the principle if you can get up and go to the toilet you might as well just do it in bed), and then proceeded down to the back room as if it was morning. See, I know you all remember those kind of nights.
A few years ago I saw a program, probably on that hideous construction called the Lifestyle Channel which is dedicated to indulging bores with their own programs all the while taunting me with programs of life changing adventures and stunning house renovations, where some cleaning wonder woman (see, B.O.R.E) said the greatest way to overcome the what seems insurmountable cleaning requirements of a home is to break it down into 10 minute alotments. To explain further, while I know it isn’t necessary, instead of thinking “oh god I’ve got to clean the pantry but where to begin” you simply think “I’m going to clean the pantry for 10 minutes” and of course, what happens, is you get totally into it and do the whole bleeding lot and lose a couple of hours of your life you’ll never get back. But, there is something to be said about the approach. That is, when I get all gnashing-of-teeth and irritable because of the state of the house and where to begin and blah blah blah, I just do the “just do x for 10 minutes”. I did that this morning and by close of business I’d vacuumed, done four loads of washing (and hung it all out), put washing away (gag), cleaned the fish tank (I KNOW!) all on about three hours of cobbled together sleep. Wayheyhey!
In other more concerning (and far less boring – I can’t believe I just typed 12 lines of crapulence about cleaning) news, I seem to have lost my cooking Mojo. First was an appalling stir fry for dinner on Wednesday where I over-soaked the noodles and it was just glug fest. I was so cranky no one dared question it and all ate it up dutifully. Then there was the appalling failure of my attempt at the Dank Street Depot bacon hash. A tragedy. I even have photos of the start of the process as it was going to be this triumphant post of deliciousness. So tonight was frozen offerings from my stepmother. I am concerned nonetheless.
So the newest boy is two weeks old today. I have nutted out that he likes to trick me into thinking he is hungry and have a good yell just before surrendering to sleep (he is more and more a carbon copy of Felix each and every day) but I’m onto him now. The milk/hormone rash is appalling on the wee chap and we seem to be in 48 hour pattern, just as Felix and Jasper followed. It’s funny isn’t it, just as the little guy gets covered with an angry pustule rash on his face, I think he is completely and utterly adorable.
The big boys return to school tomorrow. (Cue collective sigh of relief now.)