A Stolen Cucumber

My husband has turned to crime. 

Some days ago he returned from the supermarket and presented me with a stolen cucumber. It isn't that we are in dire need of vegetables and can't afford to pay for them - he had just popped it into the baby's pram basket while shopping and forgotten all about it at the till. 

As crimes go, this doesn't rate up there with the Kray brothers, but it is a sign of how far we have deteriorated. People did warn us back when life was still orderly and quiet. But even though we nodded and said that we understood - really, we didn't. 

My husband and I have become the living dead, existing in a twilight world of nappy changes, three hour meal routines and nursery rhymes that get stuck in your head, forever. Some days I don't even know what day it is anymore, nor do I care.

The real culprit?

And it is not just the lack of sleep. Keeping up with a baby during the day is almost as taxing. These little human beings have a lot of energy, curiosity and a huge desire to explore the world - and it's your job to help them. It takes a lot of oomph, creativity and patience to make Felix's day constructive and entertaining and at the end of it we are as pooped as he is.

Yet I wouldn't change a thing. 

We loved Felix from the moment we knew he was a microscopic blob of cells in my tummy and we will love him as long as we live, and even after that, if at all possible. We will be there for him, always, whether tucking him into bed with snuggle rabbit, stooped over holding his hands, letting him walk and point and discover the living room for the hundreth time until our backs give in, or kissing and cuddling him when he's angry and sore with teething. Of course in the passing we still worry about the bags under our eyes, the laundry not being done, the state of the house and even fleetingly, the stolen cucumber. But those things all pale in significance. Priorities have changed.

And suddenly, there you are at 11pm, looking at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Baby is asleep, the dish washer is humming, your husband has nipped out in his dressing gown and slippers to take the dog for a quick pee. You brush your teeth and wonder idly when you both started looking so much like your own mum and dad.

And you can't help grinning. Being parents to a little person is absolutely the funniest, most weirdly wonderful feeling in the whole world, no matter how tired you are - and even if your husband is a cucumber thief.

Judge Not...

Oh how I used to criticise.

Watching Supernanny on the sofa (with no milkstains on the upholstery yet), in the orderly and quiet flat (that wasn't littered with musical toys, dummies and soiled milk muslins), my hair washed (sans the porridge clumps), I'd sigh and pity these people. Surely raising kids wasn't that difficult?

Then I had mine.

Felix is only eight months old, so I'm not exactly talking from a lifetime's experience, but it sure has been humbling. Child rearing theory and practice are two different realities.  

For example, TV and food used to be big issues for me. Neither should ever be used to distract a child. Right?

Hah! Meet my new best friend, the Baby Fresh Food Feeder. A tiny mesh bag with a handle, you stuff it with a piece of fruit or a biscuit... to be safely enjoyed by baby, alone. Magic. Gives you time to gobble down your own lunch.

Next, introducing children's TV. Some days the sound of Three Little Monkeys and Felix falling into silence for a minute or so means that I can go to the loo on my own, without having to hear a heart wrenching "Mamamamamamama!" from the playpen as I do my business as fast as possible (not good for the old post partum hemorroids I can tell you).

Because that's just it. I've come to see that we're not talking about toddlers being glued to reruns of CSI for eight hours whilst stuffing their faces with supersized Happy Meals. It's really about having five, yes, literally five, minutes to yourself. A short moment where you can have a pee, pull yourself together, make a cuppa or just brace yourself for the next six hours ahead. 

Keeping up with a high energy little person is hard work. I'm not saying that constantly taking the easy way out is right - or that it wasn't my choice to have a child. But it's not a cardinal sin to pacify your child occasionally with the "wrong thing" either. 

In fact, I'd be concerned if Felix stayed glued to the television like the little girl from Poltergeist. He has an very short attention span at the moment and even as he grows I really doubt I could make him watch TV all day - he's too busy discovering the world. I've also noticed that he stops eating when he's full (unlike many adults I know, yours truly included). Damage limitation seems to come as a built in feature.

Kids are really needy creatures and I for one have had to take my time to adjust to that fact. At the same time, the world is full of well meaning friends and scary statistics that can guarantee a lifetime of anxiety regarding our children's development. Yet why is it that there is no one expert formula that works perfectly for every parent and child? Because winging it with tons of love and an ample helping of common sense still seem to work best. For me anyway.

So as a heartfelt apology to all those people who I used to scowl at on the airplane when their babies cried: 

I promise I'll try very hard not to judge anymore. You're doing a great job without my help.