How to be a bad mother - part 2

I always thought I'd be a creative, fun mum, one who would always have time to read a book or build blocks for hours on end. I do do these things, but just not as often as perhaps I should. I have succumbed to that awful thing, the TV. I never wanted to just shove on a dvd to keep my son quiet for a bit and yet that's exactly what I do. If I need to cook the tea, Mr Tumble goes on. When I need to write e-mails, his makaton nursery rhymes dvd goes on. When I'm folding the laundry, it's Wallace and Gromit. For a long time Tom's attention would wander and I'd get mildly irritated that he wouldn't just stay put and watch the thing from beginning to end. Well, now he will sit there and watch an entire dvd (give or take a wander to check I'm still around) and while it allows me to do my jobs, I feel horribly guilty. I'm ruining his creativity!
I always remember those kids at school whose parents allowed them one hour of tv a week and they were always the brainy ones. They'd have family performances of Much ado about nothing and learn Sanskrit in the evenings. Ok, they were a bit geeky, but geeky you can grow out of. I'm not sure you can grow out of a serious tv addiction. Or can you? Can I cold-turkey him when he starts school?

How to be a bad mother - part 1

Wow. I thought I'd turned a corner when I finally put corner guards on the coffee table but it seems I'm still a work in progress as far as being a competent mum goes.
Before the nitty gritty I shall regale you with a few details or, in my case, mitigating circumstances.
I very rarely have the time for a shower, let alone a bath, and so last night when my husband kindly offered to watch Tom for a bit whilst I took a bath, I bit his hand off. I was in that bathroom quicker than you can say mouldy toes. Anyway, I scrubbed, shaved and rinsed and felt thoroughly human once more by the end of it.
Fast forward to this morning and my story begins. I was having a number two (the door was open too ensure a quick getaway if any vaguely worrying noises from the beast wafted in) but as it was he, as is his wont, came in to see me. Imagine my horror, then, when he went straight to the razor I'd left on the side of the bath. Aaggh! The fact that he put it straight in his mouth and smirked when I started shrieking at him didn't help to calm me in any way. Thankfully I managed to carefully get it out of his mouth and grasp before any damage was done. I sat back down to finish my doings and to chastise myself severely for being a crap mum only for Tom to return with a pair of scissors in his hands. I'd left it on the bloody dining room table! Ok, note to self, he can now climb onto chairs and therefore onto the table. Nothing is safe. I suppose a cage is out of the question? Yes? Oh, bum.

My favourite things (this week)

Over the past fifteen months I've noticed that these babies tend to grow pretty quickly. They're like mushrooms, the little buggers. I've therefore decided to jot down what my own little fungus is up to on a regular basis;one wouldn't want to forget their milestone moments, would one?
Here goes.
My absolute favourite thing about Tom is his dancing. Where he got his style/skill from is anyone's guess as I've got two left feet and husband just stands still and shakes his imaginary maracas, but nevertheless Tom is a groover. He starts his Ball Popper, the music kicks in and he starts swaying rhythmically and bopping up and down like he's practising headers. It's hilarious to watch and he clearly thinks he's the finest dancer in the land, such is the joy on his little face.
My other favourite thing is also one of the most tiring. While my back is turned, he'll clamber up onto my computer chair and start banging away on the keyboard. I rush over, gently place him back on the floor and tend to my damaged computer. He in the meantime has gone over to daddy's desk and taken his i-pod. I rush over to retrieve it and he flings it away and rushes off to grab the telephone. After I've re-claimed the telephone, he's pulling the dvds out of their cases. Once I've rescued Pingu from his grasp, he's back in my computer chair. Aaahhhh! It makes me laugh every time. He's so bleedin' quick!
My final favourite thing from this week is listening to his new words. 'Car! Car! Car! Car! Car!' he screams at every single car he sees which, seeing as we live pretty much on the main thoroughfare in our village, is a lot. He's also learnt to roar and to say ciao ciao. What a boy!

Teething woes

Tom now has ten teeth, including two of the biggies at the back, and they seem to have arrived without too much fuss. He was noticeably whingier but didn't seem overly uncomfortable or in pain. Last night, however, oh boy. I clocked him at about six-ish chewing on his dummy and pummelling his face with his little fat fist and thought casually, 'ah, teething', but that didn't prepare me for the following eight hours. He started to scream, and he carried on screaming, and he didn't let up until about two o'clock in the morning. Calpol didn't work, cuddles didn't work and even our fail-safe remedy - letting him sleep in our bed - didn't work. He was clearly in a lot of discomfort and there was nothing I could do. It was quite upsetting, actually. Come this morning and the teeth pain seems to have gone but it's been replaced by a rasping cough and voice that comes from a lifelong B&H fan. And there's another thing. His bottom. When I changed his nappy this morning, his bum wasn't only red but it was raised, swollen and bumpy and painful-looking. I smeared him in sudocrem and that gave him some immediate relief but on changing him again a little while ago the rash was still there and looking as angry as before. I'm reliably informed that red bum syndrome goes hand-in-hand with teething so I'm not to worry on that front. Both will sort themselves out. I used to complain about having a whingey baby but I'd rather have that than the screaming whirling dervish of last night. Not pleasant. Roll on adolescence!

Taking advice

Before my son was born I was warned by several people that everyone would offer me advice. I was reliably informed that everyone has an opinion on the best way to raise a child and that mine very often wouldn't be right. No problem, I thought, I'll take the advice graciously but not necessarily apply it. Graciously, my eye. I really thought I was more mature but clearly not; I find myself grinding my teeth, or arguing my contrary case against the advice given to me, often offering proof in the form of balanced research (wikipedia). Of course, it depends largely on where the advice is coming from. I can usually take it from my mum because more often than not I'm the one who's asked for it. My mother-in-law, though, is a completely different kettle of f. She doesn't offer advice, instead she tells me what I'm doing is wrong, or else that it would be much better to do it her way. She doesn't encourage, she watches silently, biding her time until- No, sorry. She means well, I know she does, but her extremely forthright manner is so utterly alien to me, so unlike anything I was used to pre-Italian life, that I find it difficult to nod and thank her for her wisdom. I automatically go on the defensive and ask her why I should stir my risotto slower, why he needs to wear a sweater on top of his shirt and bodysuit when I'm only wearing a t-shirt, and why I have to give him his lunch at 11.30 and his dinner at 4.30 when clearly he gets hungry at 12 and 6. These are small things, I know, and I should be happy that she takes an interest and wants to help, and so my new mini-mission is to bite my tongue and smile (or at least grimace) when she tells me how to do the next thing, and hopefully I'll become a slightly better person.

The Flight - how it went - or judgemental parents

Well, not too bad actually.
We got to Bergamo airport and it was absolutely heaving so I decided on Tom's behalf that we'd leave the shopping area and go straight through to the departure lounge...two and a half hours early. (I should explain - it had been snowing heavily, I'd been worried about traffic, I had to leave my car in an off-site car park...hence the ridiculously early arrival). It was perfect. The lounge for flights to Liverpool is a sort of add-on to the main airport (a posh shed, really) and when we arrived it was empty. I released him from his shackles (let him out of his pram) and watched as he climbed over seats, crawled under tables and toddled from one end to the other, all with a delight worth the muck and grime he was getting all over himself. The problems started when the other passengers started to wander in. I had sympathetic looks and smiles from some mums but an awful lot of why-can't-you-control-your-son looks as well. I wanted to point out that they'd get a lot more annoyed with Tom if he were in his pram as he'd scream non-stop for the remaining two hours. And so I let him run amok, occasionally wandering into someone's leg or picking up someone's water bottle but on the whole being very well-behaved.
Once on the flight, Tom wriggled and whinged for ten minutes before I clamped him to my chest, stuck my cardigan over his head and he fell asleep. There was a collective sigh of relief as I lay him across two seats (people had wisely avoided the seat next to us) and he settled in for the next seventy minutes. When he eventually woke up, he was so groggy he just sat still on my lap for the remainder of the flight. All in all, apart from the odd look from judgemental folk, it all went pretty well. I'm not sure I'd do it again in a hurry, or at least until he can sit still with a book that is, but yes, not bad.

Trying for a baby!

Ok, so I've got one and he's slowly killing me, but I want another. It's some warped joke mother nature plays on us girlies: baby number one tore you in half trying to get out and then destroys your figure, your home and your sanity once he's out, and yet you still want another one. Husband and I have been officially trying now for two weeks and I'm excited. Husband is permanently excited knowing sex is up for grabs but it's become slightly, ok, very formulaic for me now, even after only two weeks. Must have sex, must have baby. I'm becoming obsessed, wondering whether one sexual position is more conducive to baby-making than another. I only hope I fall preggers soon so that sex can return to its normal role.