I hate you Aristotle.

When Aristotelian bumper stickers advise one direction in life, but your friends and your fears direct you in another, which road do you take? 

The path ahead has not been walked before you, and you fear treading, well, not on a landmine, but at the very least on a cowpat. So why would you not stand safely, stagnantly, still?

I do not know. I do. Not. Know.... which direction to take. I stand at Three Ways:

Do I leave my useless, selfish partner and be a single mother to the one child I love with every fibre of my being, enjoying my newfound independence? 

Do I stay with my useless, selfish partner and have a second baby, which he has finally, begrudgingly agreed to but is already resenting me for even though we're not even pregnant yet? 

OR do I leave my useless, selfish partner, attempt to get pregnant via donor sperm at the age of 40, and be a single mother to TWO children I love, one of whom will never know her/ his father? 

What does it say for the power of hormones when that last option seems the best, even though it's the one that means I will be busy, impoverished, stressed, old, at my wits' end, disorganised, messy, late, haggard, forgetful, a bad friend, a frustrated mother, terrible role model, scattered, sad, unfit, isolated, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely and lonely, plus with frizzy hair and chewed nails?

Them's some powerful hormones.

Bread and peanut butter

"Bairt," said Conrad, pointing at the loaf on the table. We had just walked in our front door from his swimming lesson.

"Bread?" I replied. "Would you like some bread darling?"

Emphatic single nod.

"Sure thing babe," I say. "And what would you like on it?"

"Bubba." Is the answer, with a point directly at the peanut butter on the shelf.

I am incredulous - we are having a full-blown conversation! - and don't quite believe my ears. 

"Yes? You show me, darling," I say, to make certain, and hold him up to the cupboard where, sure enough, he touches the tub of peanut butter.

I've never been so excited about making and serving up six tiny pieces of peanut-butter-on-bread. 

When it was gone, I softly asked, "Would you like some more, darling?", and a gluggy "moh!" was the immediate reply.

This is thrilling. It's so exciting to have this extra level of connection through language! 

I've felt intensely connected to Conrad since he was a few weeks old (it didn't happen the moment I laid eyes on him) and we have had intimate, sensitive two-way communication with each other since ooooh about three months old? (I wasn't too good at understanding him before that age). 

I almost thought that was the way it always would be, that he would forever communicate with me without the need for words. I understood him using my intuition, by deliberately being open to receiving meaning, and trying hard to empathise with whatever he was feeling at the time. 

I still have that openness, that empathy, that intuition, but now there's this wonderful precision and, my god, such EASE in understanding him: Oh yeah, I hadn't noticed, there IS a "bird" in that picture. Yes, that oven IS "hot", so please don't touch it. And of course, "NO", you don't want any more dinner, and fair enough too.

I come Face to Face with my Ignorance of Science.

"Woss Dat?"

"That's a light, darling"

"ight?"

"Yes, a light. Uh. It makes… light."

First rumblings of the avalanche

I hazily toyed with giving Conrad to my friend D the other day. I had been out for a night on the town, and was deeply, drunkenly, asleep when Conrad's waking wail wrenched me out of slumber. It was not yet five a.m. Unimpressed, my darling boy: mama's still boozy.

But later that morning he miraculously found my lost phone charger, and was generally insanely cute, and came out with three more new words over the course of the day, pretty awesome ones - 'tea', 'hat' and 'fruit' - so I decided to keep him. 

These latest additions to Conrad's vocabulary met withe the gleeful affirmation, applause, hugs all round etc, as his other words. The list so far: Hi (Haiii), Bye Bye (Bah Bye), Dog (Doh), Bird (Bir), Duck (Duh), Fish (Fih), Bee (BEE! BEEBEEBEEEE!), Star (Dar), Baby (Babay), Hat (Hah), Shoes (Sue), Socks (Soh), Mama, Daddy, Nanna, Kitty (Kitta), More!, NO!!!! (Noh!!!), Bath (Bah), Door (Door Door), Book (Booh), Nose (Noe), Mouth (Mou), Eye, Wee Wee (Weh weh - unfortunately not yet in association with his own), Car (Tah), Truck (Tuh), Bike (Byh), Plane (Mayn), Nah nah (Food or drink), Bread (Beh), Cheese (Tzeeh), Puffballs (Puhboh), Fruit (Fooh) and Tea. 

I've been waiting for these words for months, ever since, one wondrous morning, he suddenly pointed out into the backyard and exclaimed, "Birds! Out there!"  But this gorgeous phrase turned out to be a one-off, and it is only now that I think the 'avalanche' of words that I've read about is beginning.

I am absolutely elated with every new word, to think it has been brewing in that little head for so many months and finally has been coordinated by his brain and mouth to come out into the spoken world. Welcome, dear words! You're here!

Rat vs Model Mother

Waaah, there's an enormous dead rat over there in the corner of the yard! Waahh, its head is several inches away from its body and there is blood all around. Waaah, I'm only noticing it AFTER I've finished putting out the washing, and Conrad has been roaming freely around me for 15 minutes. Waaah, I thought that was just innocent dirt all over Conrad's hands, and now I have to worry that he's been playing with, and therefore eating, rat entrails…..

"I'm going inside now!" I say brightly. Conrad makes no response, absorbed in the sight of leaves floating in rainwater. "Come on, darling," I entreat, holding out my hand and ignoring all the parenting rules not to break babies' concentration. And then, with a tone of panic: "Would you like some breakfast? Breakfast? BREAKFAST?!!??" completely throwing the parenting rulebook out the window by bribing him with food. Just get him away from that fucking rat! 

There is a time and place for perfect, conscious, respectful, politically correct, gender neutral, lahdidah parenting. And there is a time to just get that baby inside, lather up those hands, soap that mouth (yes, i really did!), lock the back door and wait for the man of the house to wake up and deal with decapitated rodents. 

Sleep, Sanity and Summer - and the lack of all three.

The last time I wrote here, my baby boy was just starting to roll around. Three months later, he is crawling, sitting, and pulling himself up to standing using the bars of his playpen. Yesterday his first tooth peeked through, and today came his second. The last few weeks, in particular, I feel he has really jumped from babydom into toddlerhood.

But these developmental changes have not been the object of my thoughts. I have been focused, nay, obsessed, with one thing: Sleep.  My sleep, baby's sleep, my partner's sleep. 

By dark, we've been trying to teach baby to sleep through the night. By daylight, we analyse and strategise, and I've been seeing an insomnia expert for my own sleep troubles. 

We've been living in a sort of chronic crisis state, every day a juggle of naps, anxiety, failed attempts at sleep, timekeeping, rocking, jiggling, back-breaking sessions of patting over the cot, sleeping tablets, camomile teas, hot showers and carb-heavy meals. Three-hour baby screaming sessions. Tearful phonecalls for emergency assistance. Arguments over which partner is more in need of sleep. Arguments over resettling techniques. Deal-cutting over which parent has to wake up when. And, let's not forget, several jubilant morning awakenings after seven glorious straight hours of unconsciousness. 

When I say it has been a crazy time, I mean it literally. I went a bit mad. I became so fixated on sleep that I lost all perspective. I couldn't think about anything else, and it seemed to me that Caroline didn't exist anymore. A whole month went by when I didn't socialise once without Conrad. More than once I lay on my kitchen floor at 5am and sobbed with sheer exhaustion and despair, only to find that, after a brisk walk and a few strong cups of tea, I actually have managed to cope quite adequately with my day. 

But then it was Summer, and though the rains have stayed, my personal fog has lifted. I realise I must savour these last pleasurable breastfeeding sensations before a full set of teeth turn it into a battle. I will gaze on that gorgeous gummy grin before it is forever changed by tiny white teeth. I love that my knees, thighs and hands are such ready supports for a baby attempting to get vertical by any means necessary. Soon he won't need me as a stepping stone, but will be running around on his own. I adore Conrad's triumphant smiles when he pulls himself up yet again. So, this too shall pass, and one day I will again sleep uninterrupted.

Conrad transforms solids into liquids and gases

Mmmm, cold porridge mixed with breastmilk, anyone? What if someone chewed it up for you, then spat it back in the bowl and fed it to you on a teaspoon? No? Well, this is what my baby has been offered the last few mornings, with mixed success. I can't imagine a worse introduction to a lifetime of gastronomic delight, but porridge-and-breastmilk is what the experts recommend when you start your baby on solids. 

I was disgusted by the chewing part, until I read a billion articles saying that the reason this generation is riddled with allergies is because we've been raised in such a pristine, disinfected environment that our immune systems aren't learning how to work properly, and are therefore overreacting to ordinary foods. A Good Weekend magazine story a few months ago, which I have in hard copy but can't find online, said that, before blenders, parents chewed their baby's food for them, and this is "still the norm in countries where food allergy is rare". Not exactly a direct causal link, but I figured it can't hurt to do it. 

Conrad is the very picture of health so I think he can handle a bit of my bacteria. He is curious, non-stop active, mostly happy, and loves to socialise. His skin is like cream and his eyes are sharp. His body is a bundle of muscle, while his face has nice chubby cheeks and a double chin. My boobs are responsible for all that, by the way. We just took our baby for his six-month check up, and found that he weighs 7.8 kilos, which is right on average for his age. Babies are supposed to double their birthweight by six months, and Conrad has almost tripled his. It is my breastmilk that has done that. Me!

But breastmilk alone is not cutting it anymore. Conrad has been RAVENOUS over the last fortnight, since he started moving around more, and my boobs just can't keep up with his appetite. I can't help feeling a bit sidelined, a bit impotent, but I always knew this day would come, so I have to be tough. It's good emotional preparation for the blow of him moving out of home in a couple of decades' time.

So, solids it is. Thus far, it has been only the afore-mentioned porridge, plus a few spoonfuls of avocado, none of which has met with much of a response either way. The only change is in the nappies - phew!! The delicate aroma of milk poos has made way for some seriously stinky deposits. I can't wait to witness the results of dairy products. Hmm, and maybe some asparagus, hommous and cabbage? I'll put up with anything if it means I can stop getting my boobs out every two hours.