If only we could bottle it...

I don't know how she does it. For the last two weeks or so, the Snot Queen has been busily sprouting a new molar or two. This weekend marked the climax of the show complete with an all night display of temper and tears to which the only obvious solution (to her at least) was to use mommy's breasts as her own personal morphine drip/teething ring.

I was not consulted on the matter so much as molested into submission as she smacked at my chest and tore at my nightgown until I gave up the goods. You see, we broke the night feeding habit some time ago and since then, I have been slowly rediscovering exactly what 6 or 7 unbroken hours of sleep feels like and am loathe to give it up.

But, for want of a few minutes peace, give it up I did. Every hour on the hour to a sound track that went something like this "WWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! (smack smack) WWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! (smack smack) WAAAAAAaa.... (suck suck slurp) zzzzzzzzz...."

It is now Monday morning. I am wrecked. Destroyed. Despite a lovely, unbroken stretch of zzzz's last night (with only 2 or 3 pregnant pee breaks! Yay!) I am completely and utterly beside myself with tiredness. Broken potentially beyond repair.

And what about the Snot Queen? The poor little love who's pain wracked gums caused all the kerfuffle in the first place? Surely if I'm in such a state, she must be practically comatose!

Not. Bloody. Likely.

The little scut has been happily chatting away sine 6:00 this morning and even as I type this is gleefully taking apart the kitchen, leaving a trail of sippy cups, chapsticks, mobile phones and anything else she can get her sticky little hands on in her wake.

Far from being exhausted, she looks as though she's been pumped full of e numbers and liquid sugar. The joys of spring fairly glow from her fingertips as I slump at the table, a haggard shell of my former self pleading with her to slow down, to show some some sign of weariness that I can capitalize on in the form of a nice, 2 hour nap.

She shows no such mercy though and continues on her cheery faced rampage.

Oh lord, she's found something sharp. Must drag myself off to prevent her being impaled on a flossing stick.

Enjoy your week!

United We Stand

Right, So I'm away again this weekend which means today is two blog Friday! Here is my second offering of the day, Although it being after midnight, it's technically Saturday now so, looks like I'm right on track:)

Last week, the Irish Government announced yet another "Get Rich Quick Scheme" ... uh, I mean, a new Budget. The genius' at the top have decided that having failed to squeeze money from the pensioners, they will instead focus their attention on an even more vulnerable group... Our children. The slashing and eventual cutting out of the Early Childcare Supplement as well as the future taxing/means testing of Child Benefit affects us all, not to mention the constant degradation of our Education system...

A group has been organized to protest these cuts. It is called PACUB (Protest Against Child Unfriendly Budget) and for more information you can visit Irish Mammy on the Run (the organizer) who can write about this in FAR better detail then I, or else you can visit the PACUB Facebook group (Click here)

I understand that people have different opinions on the means testing/taxation issue, but the only way we can be effective is to put aside our differences and act together to protect the constitutional rights of the politically weakest among us, our children. United we stand a much better chance of being heard and making a difference. Divided, we lose.

If we allow the gvn't to get away with this, they will not stop there. We need to make a stand and let the gvn't know that in no uncertain terms will we accept the political and financial bullying of our babies. (God I'm getting soap boxy, it's late, I'm pregnant and hormonal and probably not making a great deal of sense. Will shut up now!)

For the moment, if you would like to show your support, write a Message on a Nappy (have attached a sample albeit a messily made one!) and tape it to your front door or else in your front window. If you are stuck for ideas, simply write "Protest Against Child Unfriendly Budget" on it. Alternatively, you can send your (clean) nappy to both Brians and Mary Hanafin at:

Dail Eireann
Leinster House
Dublin 2

Have a great Weekend!

Please Don't Eat the Compost

Well, it's been a day of great achievements in our happy house. For starters, the snot queen had her first "walk in the garden." After several moons of soul destroying rain and wet weather, the sun finally came out and my little girl, who has been choosing walking as her primary form of transportation for the last three days now, had a go at toddling over the grass and flowers whilst pregnant, hormonal mommy looked on and wept.

Once I dried my eyes, I decided to take advantage of the good weather and hung out a load of laundry (only of course after a scan of the sky both in front AND back of the house.) I then gave the highchair (which I'm sure was harbouring several strains of unknown bacterium...) a good scrubbing after which I took a deep breath, gathered my skirts and my courage about me and went off to face my nemesis...

The Compost Bin. (Cue scary Music of the Dahn dahn dahnnnnn variety.)

It all started rather innocently enough. Originally, the discovery of a compost bin in the back yard was a good thing. I envisioned myself becoming a properly green person and reducing my carbon footprint from that of bigfoot to something more in line with one of those super tiny chinese foot binding slippers.

I immediately hit the internet and set about researching anything and everything there was to know about composting. Then, when it turned out there was LOADS to know about composting, I started adding words like "basic," "easy," "beginner" and "dummies."

After this came a trip to the garden center where I stocked up on herbs, seeds, a trowel and of course, gardening gloves. I already had a bit of potting soil, so I used this to plant the beginnings of what I envisioned to be my gardening empire. Then, when the soil ran out, it was time to open the composter...

OH. MY. GOD. Horror does not begin to describe the way I felt upon my first meeting with the black stuff. For starters, it looked NOTHING like the compost you buy at the supermarket. Instead of being lovely and crumbly, this stuff was black as oil and sticky as tar. The thought of touching it made something inside of me die. I think it was my inner gardener.

Secondly, it was crawling. With bugs. Lots and lots of horrible, manky, slithery, slimy, live in the dark bugs.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Of course there were bugs, bugs are how the vegetables and things turn into compost. Not being a fan of all creatures great and small, I had conveniently ignored this small fact and focused instead on the more important aspects of gardening, like shopping for gardening gloves and a lovely little gardening trowel.

Faced with what was essentially a giant pot of bug infested death and decay, I began to question my lofty goals and noble intentions. My Carbon footprint wasn't THAT big after all, and hey! We haven't had a decent summer in AGES, a little global warming might even be nice around these parts!

I swallowed my disgust though and soldiered on. Every day, I went outside and fed my compost the remains of the days fruit and veg. When we cut the grass, I lovingly fed it the clippings. I stirred it daily with the huge metal weightlifter's pole I found alongside it and slowly, my confidence grew. Not enough to actually touch it mind you, but it grew none the less.

And then came the ants...

It was a Tuesday evening. Himself had just brought out the peelings from supper and when he came in commented disgustedly that the banana peel from earlier was covered in ants. I froze. My stomach turned and roiled and made a leap for my throat. Worms I could handle, but the thought of ants was more then I could take. It was for me, the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back.

My brain filled with images of ants in their thousands, their HUNDREDS of THOUSANDS, crawling through the composter. I imagined them as a moving carpet of shiny, anty blackness, their antennae twitching and their little legs scarpering about as they hungrily devoured the detritus of our meals.

For more then two weeks I stayed away. The Composter lay out back, abandoned and unstirred. The giant metal pole stared accusingly at me as I went about my daily business. Finally, Last night, in an attempt to swallow my fear I went outside with a handful of garlic , determined to defeat the evil ants. My heart rate sped up and my mouth went dry as I cautiously approached the green beast. With trembling a hand, I lifted the lid releasing a torrent (and by torrent I mean three) of worms to the ground below. I did what any good gardener would do.

I screamed.

I threw in the garlic, screamed blue murder and raced back into the house, locking the door behind me.

Which brings us to this morning. More then a little shame faced at my behaviour the night before (seriously, what must the neighbors think of all the weeping and wailing that goes on back here!) I looked at the Snot Queen, exploring the garden and stiffening my spine, turned to face my foe. It was one thing for me to be afraid of the composter, but I'd be damned if my daughter would grow up screaming and running away from what was essentially a big pile of dirt.

I put on my gloves, grabbed my shovel and opened the door at the base. The first scoop was the hardest. At the sight of all those wriggling little wormies, I started to get nervous. When the centipedes appeared, I just about lost the plot. I won't lie to you, in the start I swore - a lot. I cursed and muttered and occasionally let out a terrified yelp. But the further along I went, the easier it got until I'd dug out about half of the contents and filled the planter three quarters of the way full.

It was at this point that I turned and uttered the 6 words I never thought I'd hear myself say, "Baby! Please don't eat the compost!" Oh well, it's only a bit of old plant matter, what harm can it do?


The true test came at the end. Having finished with the bottom half, it was time to attack the top. Closing my eyes, I lifted the lid and threw it across the lawn then cautiously opened my eyes and peered in.

It wasn't that bad. Sure there were one or two ants, but that was all. Where were the masses? the legions of miniature black storm troopers that had haunted my mind this past fortnight? Surely they couldn't have been the product of an over active imagination, could they?

Naaaaaahhhhh! They were probably just hiding further down.

This afternoon, I celebrated my victory with a trip to the gardening center. My reward? 100 litres of pure, black, bug free compost. Now THAT to me, is the good stuff!

Happy planting:)

Made for Loving You

Oh Yay!!!!! I've been tagged! Soooo exciting (also very sad that I am taking this as a sign that yes, I am liked and therefore valid as a person as opposed to being one of the 5 or so people that someone had to send this to in order to avoid eternal damnation.) Anyhoooooo....... This was started by an American Mom in (you guessed it!) America, and I forget most of the details except that I have to write 5 things I like about being a mom.

Actually, I think it may be my 5 favourite things but I'm going to say 5 things I love as I will invariably forget something incredibly important and instead blather on about how I love being able to sit at my kitchen table at 10:30 in the morning wearing what has to be the most sexless, granny style nightgown, my boyfriend's slippers and thick black socks whilst I pore out my inner most thoughts to blog world and my small one potters about ...

5. The ridiculous, all encompassing love she has for us and we have for her. It eclipses everything else in the world. Having a baby is as close as you will ever come to having your own personal cheerleading squad/fan club rolled into one. When her daddy comes home from work at the end of the day, the squeals of sheer joy that erupt from her are unreal. Her hero has returned and she could not be more impressed.

No matter what tragedy occurs in her little world, she trusts that we can make it better and I hope to god that doesn't change anytime soon. There is something so amazing about that sort of innocence.

4. One small step for the snot queen... ONE GIANT LEAP FOR ALL OF HUMANITY!!!!!! I find it incredible that each little baby seems to have their very own internal clock that tells them when it's time to go and learn a new skill. As much as you'd love to be able to teach them to crawl, walk, roll over and hit every other milestone with perfect timing, when it comes to learning new skills, each little baby has their own idea of when is the "perfect" time.

When the snot queen was 11 months old and happy to sit like a lump on a log whilst all the other babies crawled, shuffled or walked on by, I may or may not have resorted to some pretty unorthodox (and some may say questionable) methods to try and "enhance" her mobility skills. These methods may or may not have involved a harness and couple of water bottles and there may or may not be photographic evidence of my endeavors.... The one thing that is clear is that no amount of pushing (or pulling) on my part was going to get that baby to crawl before she was good and ready.

Sure enough, a few days before Christmas, she up and crawled across the floor. No ropes, pulleys or levers necessary:)

Just last night she had me in tears as she took off on her first long haul voyage and walked the length of the kitchen herself and then took off into the hallway en route to the sitting room. Again, there was no warning, she just looked at me as if to say "check this out!" and of she went. Unreal.

3. OMG!!!! EVERYTHING IS SO EXCITING!!!!! Is that a piece of CARDBOARD? WOW! Is that a roll of TOILET ROLL?!?!?!? HOLY COW! Are we going OUTSIDE?!?!?!? HALLELUJAH!

Seriously, anyone who has ever spent anytime around small children will know what I'm talking about. The incredible curiosity, joy and enthusiasm with which they greet EVERYTHING in life. At risk of sounding cheesy, it really does open your eyes to a whole new world and makes your own world new again.

Of course, the flip side of this is the complete and utter soul destroying agony they feel when things don't go their way... "OMG!!!! IT'S TERRIBLE!!!! WHY CAN'T I PLAY WITH THE KNIVES?!?!?!? WHY ARE YOU SO MEEEEEEAAAANNNNNN?!?!?!?!? CAN'T YOU SEE I WAS HAVING FUN?!?!?!?!?!?"

2. Learning what's truly important in life. It has nothing to do with what you're wearing, where you work or even... (gasp!) how much you weigh. There is no job on earth, no amount of money or chocolate that could ever come close to the undescribably powerful, primal and overwhelming love that rolls over you when two sticky hands plant themselves on your cheeks and pull you down for the wettest, snottiest kiss known to man.

1. The realization that THIS is what I was made for. This is my destiny. Every part of me, from tip to toe and everywhere in between was designed to create, nurture, love and protect the child I have born and any future children I may have.

My breasts, which have been everything from a source of embarrassment (they're MASSIVE) to a source of pride (They're hot) are now a source of food. I used to look at my baby in the days before meat and veg entered her world and was constantly amazed at how big she'd grown and how well she was thriving, all on MY milk. And that's not even taking into consideration all of the other ridiculous benefits of breastfeeding of which I could yammer on about for days!

My arms, always there, always doing something. I never really gave them much thought except that I wanted them to maybe be a bit more toned. Not mannish like Madonna's or anything, just maybe a little sleeker and more defined. I had no idea how much comfort they offered until I had a baby. Now they are a place to run, they are encouragement as she takes her first steps and they are somewhere to rest when she takes a tumble or just needs a cuddle.

For the record, they are also sleeker and more defined then ever thanks to lugging around a 23 lb toddler!

In life pre - Snot Queen, my belly was never flat enough. It needed to be hidden (or so I thought) and flattened and tightened by hours of pointless excercises. It needed to be deprived of food and made smaller.

Oh how the mighty have fallen...


I am currently 6 weeks away from giving birth to number two and never have I felt sexier, more confident or as comfortable in my own skin.

On my first pregnancy, my waist expanded from 28 to 44 inches and I have never been so proud of any body part. I flaunted it like you wouldn't believe! There are pics of me in a bikini swanning around at 7 months gone and the smile on my face is almost as ginormous as my belly!


Even after she was born, I never really did go back to that all encompassing obsession with obtaining the perfect physique...

As it turns out out, I already have it.

Baby, I was made for you.

Sounds Like...

Oh the shame!!! So, after a night spent listening to the incessant beeping of the alarm, I "awoke" (and I use the term verrrrrry loosely) with the firm intention of getting the blasted thing fixed A.S.A.P

My quest started with the security company. I rang them up, explained the problem and this time at least, was asked for my details. The woman at the other end said that she'd find out what she could and get back to me. I hung up the phone and settled in for a loooooooonnnng wait.

Surprisingly though, the phone had barely left my hand before it was ringing again. The reason for her prompt reply was soon evident; the "problem" was not one that could be handled on the phone, it would require a house call - a €100.00 house call.

Next stop, the management company. Once again, I was asked to give my details and explain the problem. When I got to the part about the €100.00 I was once again, ever so nicely told that someone would get back to me shortly with an answer.

The word shortly can mean so many things to so many many people...

Six hours and no reply later, I called back to check how things were going. The alarm was still happily chirping away in the background. I tried thinking of it as a pet bird but only succeeded in imagining those canaries that get sent into mines and wishing I could send my little "bird" into a mine of it's own...

After a brief game of "Find the estate agent who I spoke with this morning" it came about that we were waiting on a reply to an EMAIL that had been sent to the owner of my house seeking permission to pay for the service call. Ummmm.... an email? Haven't these people ever heard of a wonderful new invention called the phone? Instant connection + immediate answer = Horrible beeping noise goes away and nobody gets hurt.

So it was off to wait some more. At 4:30 I bundled the baby and myself into our finest wet weather gear in an attempt to escape and find some peace and headed into town to get a library card. 5:00pm came and went without a whisper from the management company. It seemed the beeping was ours for another night.

And then, about an hour ago whilst baking cookies, a little thought that had been niggling at me all day long came back to rest on my mind.

How was it that we had managed to stop the main, indoor alarm the night before by removing the fuses indicated by the security people and yet the beeping sound remained? The beeping sound that I had described to everyone from the "emergency operator" the night before to the woman at the alarm company this morning and again to the management company later this morning as being reminiscent to the sound of a smoke alarm with a low battery...

You can see where this is going, can't you?

The answer was obvious. The reason the beeping sounded JUST LIKE the beeping of a smoke alarm with a low battery was because.... (drum roll please!) It WAS a smoke alarm with a low battery, and once the 9volt culprit had been safely removed, silence reigned once more and my sanity was thus restored.

My pride however is another matter. I foresee my tail as being oh so firmly and uncomfortably entrenched between my legs as I call back the management company tomorrow.

Hey guys! Wanna hear a funny story?

I hope they will be amused.

Calling All Cars! Or none at all...

I had no idea we even HAD a security system until it cheerfully started going off upon our arrival home from Easter at the inlaws. I knew that at some point, someone had one here as the outside of our house is decorated with one of those lovely plastic boxes with a catchy slogan of the nab a thief/no burgle variety, but assumed that were it still active, the estate agent would have informed us about this small but useful fact. Perhaps would even have supplied us with the code...

Unfortunately, such was not the case and this evening found us frantically calling the lovely folks at the alarm company in the hopes of not waking up every child in the neighborhood and also for our own sanity's sake. The thing was loud.

If I was at all worried about the alarm people requiring a password of some sort or indeed any proof that I was a resident of the house and not merely a thoughtful thief, I needn't have worried. For starters, there was no answer at their "24hour Line" and when I called the "In case of Emergency" number, the gentleman at the other end of the line couldn't have been more efficient. Instead of messing around finding out useless bits of information like my name or address, he simply told us to remove the four fuses inside the box and that would shut down the alarm. The outdoor siren would turn itself off in twenty minutes.

Is it just me, or this make anyone else feel just a tad insecure about their security system which I'm sure cost more then a pretty penny to set up and maintain? Now, I have to say that in this case, their laissez faire attitude came in handy as it stopped the incessant blaring of the alarm (although that annoying little beeping is STILL going off!!! ARGHHHH!!!) However, the area which we've moved to has recently been hit by a string of night time home invasions and the thought that a burglar can just ring up the company in question and say "Hey there! I seem to have tripped the system, how do I turn it off?" and be given STEP BY STEP instructions on how to do so does raise alarm bells (sorry) in my mind.

It's also shattered any illusions I ever held about home security systems being connected to some sort of home security SWAT team who would come running the second the sirens sounded.

Oh well, on the bright side, the Snot Queen's giant molar has finally broken through her gum and ended the OTHER nightly alarm we've recently been experiencing. Hope you all enjoyed your weekend!

It's a ......WHAT?!?!?!?

First off, I have to congratulate my friend Jen over at Jen's Rantings on the news that she's having a girl!!! Yay! a little sister for Crazypixie:) Her news got me thinking though...

Ever since we discovered we were expecting for the second time, I've just assumed that we would have another girl. I have it in my head that I am meant to be the mother of girl babies, that I have some sort of "lady gene" which prohibits me from producing a male until I've popped out at least 3 of the fairer sex.

Take my family history for example; my mom? Three girls, then two boys. My Uncle? Three girls, one boy. It just seems that if you start with a girl, you go on to collect the entire set before adding a boy to the mix, at which point you realize that they are a whole new set of troubles and stop procreating altogether. Add to that the fact that we have enough pink, flowery clothing to dress at least ten baby girls simultaneously and you can see why I find the thought of having a boy rather perplexing...

Obviously I don't care what we have so long as the child is healthy and well, but to be honest, I really don't know what we'd DO with a boy! (and by we I mean me as I've a feeling my partner would be more then comfortable with a little more testocerone around the place)

For starters, I am more then a little freaked out at the thought of the penis and all it entails. When I was visiting home last summer, I had the experience of watching my sister change her son's nappy. Being the mother of a young baby myself, I considered myself expert in such matters. Even so, I got the shock of my LIFE when she took off his nappy. WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!?!? Obviously it was his penis and yes, as my child's conception was far from immaculate I am fully aware of the physical differences between males and females, but still... my baby doesn't have one of those.

This brought up a whole new set of questions. How do you clean it? How do you keep them covering the place in pee when they're having "air time" (nappy free time for those of you not in the know) I assume it produces somewhat of a sprinkler effect. Little girls are much neater as it just sort of trickles out onto the towel beneath them.

And how about things like circumcision? How do you decide? Personally, I would have huge issues with this. The thought of "chopping off" a bit of his bit makes me queasy, but what if he grew to manhood and was like "Jesus mom! Why'd you go and leave it on? No one else has one and no one knows what to do with it either!"

I suppose I'd just have to consult the expert on such matters, his father, who, by the way, dealt quite admirably with the delicate flaps and folds of our girl child when first confronted with one of her messier creations.

Also, boys seem to be that bit more "rambunctious" then girls. Having observed the social interactions of my friends' babies, I no longer give any truck to that whole "It's how you raise them..." crap. As far as I'm concerned, in this area at least, Nature kicks Nurture's ASS! They're mad little creatures, full of vim and vigour from the get go. While the girls are happy to take regular "sit breaks" where they happily sit and play away, the little men are like freakin' action heros in training! They NEVER STOP MOVING!!!!

It's a bit of a shock to the system to be honest, to think that somehow, with my lifetime's experience of all things pink, soft and estrogen fuelled, my body could create a little person who will grow up to be broad, hairy and more then likely, his dad being who he is, a devotee of the cinematic offerings of Sylvester Stallone.

But for now, my little princess is stirring from her nap and needs changing and dressing for the day. It's sunny and warm outside, I was thinking maybe something pink.

Only time will tell.

I am eating peanut butter and jam toast off of the floor. Not just any peanut butter and jam toast mind you, but the kind that has had it's crusts lovingly removed and then been sucked and mauled to within an inch of it's life by a snotty, drool coated monster before meeting it's demise on the kitchen floor.

Oh crap! Must finish this later! She's taking stuff out of the recycling bin...

Hard Day at the Office

There are times when I find being a mother really hard. Times like today when it's pouring down rain, the baby's screaming and there's nowhere to go. I know that she's tired but she's refusing to sleep so eventually I give in and pick her up for a cuddle. Even this is no good though as she continues to wail away. She arches towards the floor. I put her down thinking she wants to play. She screams even louder. I pick her back up. It works for all of two seconds before she is once again roaring at the top of her lungs.

I am tired. All I want is a few minutes peace to gather myself together again. I want to be able to explain this to her, to tell her that mommy is getting very close to the end of her tether and just needs a moment to find that bit of calm that I know is lurking inside somewhere but that in the midst of all this screaming is pretty hard to find.

It would be so easy to just let it rip. To scream and wail right back at her. I want to rant and rage and stomp my feet and let the entire world know how frustrated I am at this moment. It would be so easy. And for two seconds would probably feel really good. But what about after those two seconds? What happens then?

Maybe she would stop screaming, maybe the fright of mama roaring away would scare her into silence. It would be quiet. I'd have my peace. I'd have gotten what I'd wanted.

But at what cost?

Because at the end of the day, I am much bigger and stronger and louder then her and it is my responsibility to use those things to protect her, not to hurt or frighten her.

In the end, it was the ringing of the phone that ultimately distracted her for the 2 seconds it took for me to take those desperately needed deep breaths and to remember exactly how small she is and how much she needs me to be the stronger person.

I am her mother and she loves me unconditionally. She trusts me to do what is best for her. The decisions I make on a day to day basis may seem small in the short term, but in the long term will shape the person that she will one day become. It's a big responsibility and it's not always easy. The most important jobs never are.

What's Behind Door Number One?

It's finally happened. After 14 months of blissful ignorance, the snot queen has finally learned to open cupboards and drawers. In our old apartment, mama was master of the this domain and there was hell to pay everytime I dared to close one of her precious doors, especially the fridge. As far as she was concerned, that was it. Once the door was closed, the magic was over and the pots, pans and other miscellaneous bits and pieces lost to her forever, or at least until it was time for me to prepare another meal and open them up again.

Since moving to the new house, all this has changed. Maybe it's the confidence she's gained from running around the big airy rooms pushing her little trolley? Maybe it's the fact that all of the cupboards are painted a cheerful turquoise blue? Maybe it's the fact that she's been spending more time with a little friend for whom every door needs closing (and opening and closing and opening...) and every drawer requires serious investigation? Who knows?

Whatever the case may be, the snot queen has discovered that the key to the kingdom lies in her very own chubby little hands and that happiness (as well as various REALLY FUN toys! Think pots and pans, measuring cups, boxes of cereal, bags of flour....) is just a handle pull away.

For the most part, this is grand as playing with the above mentioned items gives her no end of amusement and me a little extra time to "get stuff done" (i.e write this blog, eat biscuits and procrastinate writing letters of inquiry to literary agents.) I am more then willing to pay the price of a few potatoes thrown around the kitchen or that of listening to the beautiful music she composes using only the lid of the pot and the floor if it means that I do not have to be her one woman entertainment complex for a few minutes (bad mommy, I know, I should be honoured to sing the eensy weensy spider for hours on end complete with insane smile and hand actions.)

The only problem is that we are now entering a whole new world of childproofing and discovering a host of new items which while harmless to most adults, in the hands of an inquisitive 14 month old quickly become instruments of mass destruction with the capability to maim, choke or otherwise injure my curious little magpie.

Our stationary drawer in particular is taking a bit of a hit. In the last hour alone I have wrestled from her clutches (or her mouth) the following items: Two staplers, several rolls of cellotape with the sharp cutting edge that I couldn't find for the LIFE of me when wrapping Christmas presents but which all came flying out of the woodwork at moving time, a bottle of black ink and an oldfashioned fountain pen complete with razor sharp tip.

Between that and the fact that her new wooden friends all seem determined to shut or slam tight onto her tiny fingers has us thinking that it may be time for yet another trip to the babyproofing aisles...

Now for your viewing pleasure, a short clip of little miss walking towards her new favourite toy (the trolley, not the cupboards...) It's the first time she's properly walked to an object and not a person. Very exciting:)

Okay. That's the wrong video. Will try again.

Sneak Preview...

I'm still here. Please don't give up on me! I know it's been a few days and I know that in penance I should now write the blog equivalent of a best seller, but to be perfectly honest I can barely eke out the energy required to type these few measly lines, let alone the gold standard prose I had intended on treating you to.

So instead, I'm going to play dirty. I'm going to tease you with the topics of my recent antics which I will hopefully be writing about just as soon as I can once again keep my eyes open till past eleven O'clock. (Drumroll Please...)

- Adventures in Composting: Otherwise known as "You seriously don't expect me to touch that..."

- The Snot Queen "All That She Leaves Behind"

- The Smart Trike: The trike that really is smarter then you! Some tools included, others not (but it does not say this ON THE BOX!!!) Degree in Engineering required.

- Life on Wisteria Lane: Where the kids play football instead of "Let's steal some bikes and throw them in the river! Sure! Right after I rip the windscreen wipers off of Jimmy and Maria's Car"
And other reasons why I love my new home...

- Joining the Brotherhood of Suburban Dads: Jimmy Mows the Lawn!

- It's here! It's Here! The DREAM BUGGY HAS ARRIVED!!!!!!!

But for now my lovely readers (God that sounds condescending! Even to me!) I bid you good night and leave you with a few of my favourite blogs of recent days....

For the artificial insemination of frogs, please click here

For the sweet delusions of first time parents once they face up to cold, plastic, barney singing reality, click here

For more realities of Motherhood, click here

As for me, I'm off to bed!
Night all!

I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE My new house!!!!!! That's the good news, now for the bad news. My eyes are hanging out of my head with tiredness, so once again you will have to put up with reading a less then quality blog. So without further adieu, I present to you "snippets from the move "

Day One: Almost a non starter. After FINALLY getting myself and the Snot Queen cleaned, fed, dressed and cleaned again, we were off to begin an exciting day of unpacking the dream house. I had packed a lunch for me and the babs as well as a few basic cleaning supplies (washing up liquid and biscuits to be exact) what I hadn't packed, were the keys to our new home. Luckily, our fabulous neighbor Dots came to the rescue in her golden (navy blue) chariot (Volkswagon Passat) and drove us all the way to town and back to collect the damn things. Not of course, before we enjoyed a lovely midafternoon coffee and biscuit break. Despite the late start, I did manage to acclomplish a surprising amount and vowed to finish the job tomorrow...

Day two: The Packing Gods hate me. I don't know what I did to anger them, but it must have been bad. The day got off to a good start after I roused dear daddy and got him to drive myself and the small one to the new house, intent on putting in a full days work. My belly was feeling a little funny, but I figured it was just the enormous quantity of biscuits I've been consuming of late and that it would settle down shortly. By 9:00am we were settled in to our task. By 10:00am my head was in the toilet as my stomach returned the contents of the previous night's supper. Luckily, after a few hours of play, the Snot Queen had worn herself out and by noon was more then happy to curl up with mama for a three hour snooze... tiny baba meanwhile, spent the remainder of the day kicking my internal organs with glee while I battled the urge to well... purge.

Day two was pretty much a write off.


Day three: SUCCESS!!!!! Despite the discovery of the corpse of a rather large spider in one of the pint glasses which prompted me to clean every single dish in the new house as well as the cupboards in which they resided, I managed to fit three days work into a single morning. I would have made it a full day, except that friends were meeting down the road with coffee, tea and biscuits and the lure was just too strong.

Moment of Pride? Conquering my fear of our new gas powered appliances and cooking a pot of pasta and vegetable soup on the range.

Right, I don't have the energy or the brain power to come up with a witty closing, so I'll simply say good night and haiul my giant pregnant arse off to bed. In the words of the great Scarlett O'hara, "...Tomorrow is another day!"