I don’t care if they’re not mine!
I’ve noticed that most of the recent posts have been about Motormouth with the occasional cameo appearance from young Mini.
This week, I thought I’d put that right.
The question is what to talk about?
Her plate envy? (She has the worst plate envy of anyone I have EVER met and is quite blatant about demanding her portion of the food in front of you.)
Her obsession with cleaning her teeth? (We have to do this at least 6 times a day at the moment, more if she walks past the bathroom more often than that.)
Her lack of compunction about shoving her big brother out of the way if he’s where she wants to be? (This can be a little disconcerting, especially as a parent cuddling a small boy who suddenly finds the small boy is on the floor and she is being scaled by a tiny toddler mountaineer.)
I thought I’d talk about feeding.
Are they related you ask?
Yep. Apparently they are.
I’m pleased to be able to say that I’m still feeding Mini, having taken the choice to feed her until she weans herself. She’s approaching 21 months now and shows no sign of giving up.
We have settled into a little ritual for the first feed of the day though.
Her little ritual that is.
First of all she climbs onto the bed, with her aah. (For those of you unfamiliar with the term, this is her big, fluffy blanket. By big, I mean it’s about 3′ by 5′. And by fluffy it’s sort of a fleecy, polyester blend courtesy of Ikea.)
By the way, those Ikea blankets are brilliant – they can go through anything including washing machines, tumble dryers, muddy puddles, pushchair wheels, upset stomachs (both ends), big brothers, being used to make forts, drag toys around and whatever else Mini and Motormouth’s minds can devise, and still come out looking almost brand new. And they are cheap. (No, I’m not paid by Ikea, just in case you were wondering.)
Sorry. Back to the point and apologies for the diversion.
She climbs onto the bed with her aah and snuggles under my right arm for a bit of a lounge and a thumb suck.
Then I get the look.
The “time to get your boobs out now Mum” look.
Of course, I do. I’m nothing if not baby-led when it comes to this feeding thing.
So my boobs come out.
Both of them, since, apparently, it’s the law that they both have to be out for the entire feed.
Then she’ll settle back for a bit longer, maybe taking in a show (Motormouth is usually practicing his star jumps on the end of the bed by this point, either that or trying to persuade Mini to sit on his tummy, a request she generally ignores).
When she’s judged the time is right (a bit like a wine connoisseur who opens the bottle to let it breathe a while) she’ll make her move.
Or rather moves.
First of all, she will shove me back until I am leaning at exactly the right angle.
Then she’ll position my arms so they are in just the right place.
She’ll spend a few moments tweaking the position of my hands and fingers.
Then she’ll sit back on her haunches and regard me for a few seconds before making sure I’m looking in the right direction (by virtue of placing her hands firmly on my jaw and shoving my head round. She’d make a good chiropractor one day. I’m sure I heard my spine crack this morning.)
Finally, she’ll take a few slurps from the right side.
If I dare move my head, she’ll give me “the look” and push it back round again.
She then stretches, stands up and belly flops on top of me to take a few slurps from the left side (just to make sure it doesn’t feel left out, you understand.)
It’s at this point that I think, hopefully, that we’ve settled down and can get on with it. (Usually with one eye on the clock calculating the time left before we absolutely have to get out of the door and sadly watching my shower time dripping away.)
Then she stops.
She’ll give me a “don’t you dare move!” look and wriggle backwards off the bed, walking out of the bedroom in that drunken toddler lurch that she has.
Only to return a few minutes later with….
can you guess?
…. no, not a fluffy toy, or even another aah….
she always comes back with …..
a pair of socks.
Mini has an obsession with socks.
So there we are, mid feed, me trying not to move out of today’s approved position too much and her waving a pair of socks and a foot in my face.
So, we have to put our socks on.
Then, finally, we can get back to the business of feeding.
As the minutes tick by I console myself with the thought of how much good this will be doing her.
And how many calories I’m using doing this.
And I wave a sad mental goodbye to a nice hot shower.
And Motormouth (it’s his turn for a cameo), well, he’s still bouncing on the bed.
Just in case you thought mornings might be peaceful in our house.