Samuel Beckett once wrote about Vladimir and Estragon waiting by a tree for their esrtwhile friend, waiting and waiting for hours. You never see their friend, all your hear about are the two discussing him whilst waiting. And for a moment there, that is how Girlpants and I felt as we waited and waited for over 6 hours in the waiting room for the pediatrics ward.

We thought it would be two hours tops as we paid for parking and made our way to the ward, but one sad turkey sandwich plus yogurt proffered to the non-impressed monkey 2.5 hours later clearly told us how little we knew. After all, we hadn't even seen the nurse then to take our details.

Don't get me wrong - I have nothing but admiration for the NHS. However our GP referred us at 4pm in the afternoon and whilst we had a store of nappys, rasins and water, we clearly hadn't thought ahead to pack a small suitcase, bottles for milk, milk itself or even some of the veg that Monkey is used to eating and wouldn't turn her nose up at, let alone bringing Monkey's jimjams. Nothing had prepared us for the fact that others had been waiting hours before us. A fact that dawned on us as bath, bed and milk time rolled past as the clock looked closer to midnight.

The Godot of pediatrics is not only the Doctor on call, but the Registrar. However such were the conflicting symptons that Mini-HD portrayed, that whilst running riot around the waiting room and taking people's ankles out with the VTECH baby zimmer frame that only played one tune when it went in reverse so that each adult in the room wanted to drop kick it out of the 12th floor window

that neither the Doctor nor Registrar wanted to take a chance on sending her home. Something both Girlpants and I so desperately wanted to do. Luckily enough, at quarter to ten, Godot did arrive much to both Girlpants and my relief, but clearly not an acceptable moment for Mini-HD, especially at the sign of a rubber glove. After being prodded and poked for most of the afternoon, she was clearly overtired and had enough and therefore made it know as she "tangoed" daddy full on in the face. Our little girl is growing up so quickly...

Monkey is fine - we're to keep an eye on her but we eventually (after much begging and promising to bring her in again at 8am if needs be) were allowed to leave. By this point, our little girl was overtired, shattered and really wanted her milk. And now that she's sated, in her cot and finally settled, I would drag myself to the long dusty drinks cabinet for a Sim special strength G&T.

Only it's been so long, I do actually believe that I've forgotten where it is...

Happy New Year

As Sim is a little busy with Erika, I thought I'd share a few Christmas photos...  It was a wonderful Christmas with a very happy little monkey.

Yes, that is about all the snow we had.  As you can see, her monkey (named My) still makes an appearance, but look what she got in her stocking...

Yes, it's another monkey - and guess what we called it... yes, that's right, it's called Spank ;)

I'm sure there is something else in here...

By Girlpants...

Hello everyone, yes, it's Girlpants here...  Sim is still around, but has been unable to blog as her laptop died, I finally managed to fix it for her so you should be hearing more from her in the coming weeks.

Well, the last week has not been much fun, the HD household has been a rather miserable one with me full of flu - prescribed with Tamiflu..., Sim suffering with bad cold/flu and Erika with a cold and ear infection!  But, ignoring all of this, Erika is 1 today!

Happy Birthday Erika

Rather unusually for us, our forward planning meant that Erika's birthday card appeared on CBeebies this morning - Sim was very pleased when Alex showed Erika's card :D

So our little girl is one, lots of presents although she hasn't done much playing today, hopefully we'll have more photos etc. on-line as soon as possible...

Bye for now,

Me!

Mini-hd is now 33 weeks old. Thats over half a year and she's taken over already.

The living room is a carnage of toys, cushions and foam play mats as she's now rolling and moving backwards in a moonwalk shuffle. And it's taking all my time to chase her and keep her safe, wreastly with stair gates, fireguards and taking the scratches when she pulls clumps of hair out of the cats. Housework? Forget it! I just manage to stay above the washing loads and cooking as she only sleeps for 30 minutes twice in the day, so the rest of the house has gone to pot.

Preening time is something of the past - my eyebrows look like that they've been backcombed, my hair hasn't been cut in 10 months, and forget about moisturising. I'm lucky to be able to slap on some Oil of Olay in the morning. Think Yeti with a tan. I used to feel awful at the Yummy Mummies with their perfect hair, nails and clothes chatting about how their babies all sleep through the night, never cry and are as god as gold fitting into their lifestyles and routines, and whereas this first got me down, I now know that they are, quite frankly lying.

What on earth did I do with my time before? Breakfast in bed is something of the past, and I have no idea how I managed to get out of the house and ready for work by 8:30 each morning. I also have no idea why I almost killed myself working all the hours for a job which effectively ended when I started maternity as effectively, it's not that job I'll be reminising about at the end of my life. Why on earth did I not relish the time I had to myself as now, the 2 occassions I've gone out to the pub, I've felt as guilty as hell. I sense the need to look as mini-hd's schedule and my own and try and make some logical sense out of it with time for me. It needs to be done before I lose my sense of self in a mountain of wipes, cotton wool and dribble. I'm loving the suggested champagne Thursday although I get the feeling that once a week may be deemed to much at the moment - well, until term is over. But then despite my whinging  I'd rather have a happy monkey who interacts at groups and plays than still having the same old routine and making her fit.

But the gin tasted good and it felt ike I was a teen sneaking out for the night.

Mini-hd is now 24 weeks old and is currently being weaned in her bumbo. By feeding herself.

Thats right - baby led weaning where you cook finger food until it's soft enough and then let baby loose. Which means for the first time in months, Girlpants and I can have a meal at the same time at the same hot temperature. Fabbo!

Unfortunately due to mini-hd's mamma being another year older (I cut my leg off and counted the rings to check), this also mean that mini-hd was introduced to chocolate cake. But only a smidgen. And under parental supervision that she only had a sniff, as the last thing I need is for her to go off her broccholi at this stage. She's already gagging at cabbage. Like father, like daughter...

On another note, I now unfortunately know all the songs to the characters from In The Night Garden. However, to counteract this, I did manange to find Trumpton, Camberwick Green, Danger Mouse and Mr Benn on dvd. She may be young, but she's young enough to be brainwashed. She will convert...

As I slowly struggle to get mini-hd in more of a routine so I can tweak her day to suit mine, I'm left wondering what on earth I did with my time before she came along.

To help my snoring wonder go to sleep, I've taken to reading a page from my current read outloud to her each evening. And whilst many may think that she doesn't look like me, she certainly has my sense of humour and outlook on life, as I had to wrestle my MBIAT book back tonight.

Plus if I read to her in a singsong voice, it helps the little cherub on her way to slumberland, as so, all the while instructing my eikle one, as I like to think of it as starting her education early. After all, it is a guide... .

Currently at page 110, she has taken to chewing pages which she finds especially funny, her favourite currently being pg47. Not something I was especially please to find out as I may have to buy another copy. In fact, I may even have to raid the kitty to pay for it.

After all, whats mine is mine...

There's one good thing that's come out of the recent furore of Brand and Ross leaving messages on Andrew Sach's mobile. It took the prime storyline away from the world recession to the moral outrage of thousands after they logged on and listened to the radio broadcast a week after the event to then email in complaints. The joys of multimedia and youtube...

Whilst the phonecalls were both infantile and stupid, and more importantly should not have been broadcast as the entire thing was pre-recorded, only two people complained on the day. One week on plus tabloid coverage later, there were over 30,000 compplaints, two investigations and mention in the Commons. Ahh - the age of mass hysteria.

Whilst this all was uncalled for and was IMHO blown out of proportion, the two have apoligised, one has resigned from the BEEB whilst the other is suspended for 12 weeks without pay, setting Jonathon Ross back over 1million, it did break the gloom and doom of the recent news broadcasts. And on a personal note, the doom and gloom of nappies and sleepless nights have been broken by my daughters first smile. And once she popped a smile, she now really can't stop.

The minor disruption in our life is currently taking over with sleepless nights and projectile vomit, whilst I've lost my ability to get ready and be out of the house before 11 in the morning. How crud is that? But thank God Sky is currently rerunning Bones and Stargate in the morning.

Like others, I've fallen by the wayside when is comes to blogging, which admittedly has happened too often for my own personal liking. What with finances, clingy whinging child, house guests and trying to keep ahead of householdy stuff, time has flown away. And I'm left thinking what on earth did I do with my time before and morepertainent, what on earth is happening to my time now?

I'm still not allowed to drive and although I have popped to the shops, walked around the park and have been into town a couple of times, so it's not like I'm going out much. Occassionally, I'll sleep in the afternoon when mini-hd is sleeping just to catch up, but I just can not see where the days go. I actually managed to sweep the floors today as I couldn't tell the difference between the tumbleweeds of fur or the cats themselves. I even had time to wash my hair this morning and am now considering cutting my long tresses off to save time on brushing it.

Although then, Joe Bloggs on the street may confuse both my daughter and myself for boys. Were it not for my impressive rack that is, which my daughter tends to cuddle and conceal for both my dignity and her own gluttony...

My god. I'm sore. That was one long cookie receipe that took 9 months to ferment. And after everything kicking in on the Wednesday afternoon, mini-hd was finally born on Saturday morning after many drugs, much pain and almost ripping the head of the last consultant who suggested that I give another four hours a try on top of 50+ odd hours I had already partook in. In fact, had it not been for the fact that I was immobolised and had an epidural in my back, I would have found the nearest hard sharp object and heaved it at his head. Thank god the senior midwife recignised me from her shift two days previous and called in the boss...

I suppose that I should now refer to mini-hd by her real name, Erika. It seems bizarre referring to baby bump as a real person with name as for a long time, she was in effect a mass of wriggles in the belly that generally kicked off around 10 at night.

A habit she has continued...

Erika finally made an appearance out of the sun roof, however without the tummy tuck or the zip that had been requested. And despite the worries and trepdiation of surgery, it has to be said that should you ever be worried about something monumental that you just can't get out of, it surely helps to have Dr McKnockOut as your anthesistist.

Believe me ladies, the eye candy helps.

Having drooled through of the surgery whilst attempting to hide it from Girlpants, it all just seems all unreal, especially as I was discharged after two days with my world hospital goods in sainsburys carrier bags at the effects of the the Christmas parties 2007 was felt in the September baby rush and clamour for beds.

The difference is the sleep or lack of. The smells. The baby vom. But my goodness, she is cute. And despite bits of me still aching and not managing to catch up on the lack of sleep from labour, how can you begrudge it all when you see my little monkey child...?

Butter wouldn't melt...

I've been up for the past two hours with the acute inability to sleep. It's not mini-hd squirming, or being uncomfortable - it's just the fact that I couldn't quite settle down again after being violently prodded in the bladder by the mini one and then blinded by the light shining through from next door when I then had to pop to the little ladies.

Not that I have long to go and admittedly, maybe this is training for me. The joys! But there isn't all that long to go. And whilst occassionally I do get fed up with being large and rather rotund, I realise that whilst it would be nice to get my body back, this would in effect mean that I would get less sleep and be shackled down more to a routine which will take time and space to build. A complete change of lifestyle.

And lets not forget poor grumpy Girlpants. That man can not survive on lack of either food nor sleep, so I might have to even resort to some of above the baby sleep techniques on him. Right after stocking up on frozen portions of home made leftovers so that he can survive the early weeks. I'm sure that he managed to cook and look after himself before we met, but apparently now the pixies do alot of the jobs around the house, which must make me Dobby. Oh to be appreciated.

Parenthood. It's a big unknown, and to be honest, I also worry how how mini-me may affect our relationship. Before, we had the choice to go out and about, do as we please, spend money where we wanted and quoff gin until the junipers were in bloom. And whilst we never actually did any of these things, it's the fact that the choice has been taken away from us that makes us wonder. Like marriage, it's a big adventure which we want to face on together in our own way. And whilst this is what we want, we are however painfully aware that as much as we want to try and do as much as we can on our own, that there are some people who appear more excited over the new addition than even us. And just because we didn't jump up and down for the last several months.

I sense the setting of boundaries ahead...

Advice for those first time parents going for their scans...

Number 1 - Remember to tell the sonographer that you want a photo that you would like picture to ensure that you get a good snap, unlike so:

And secondly, prepare yourself for the baby to look at the camera when the picture is taken and therefore looking like an extra from Stephen King, as so:

Ladies and Gents - I might just be having an alien...

Whilst the flu has finally subsided, I'm steadily becoming more aware of the parasitical life form within my belly. Ignoring the constant stuffed up nose, the hay fever for which there is no pill that I can take, the restless nights as I can no longer lie as I usually sleep and the back ache in my coccyx makes sitting at my desk and generally standing the proverbial pain in the derriere, in general, Although you would never know if you saw me from behind, the big fat belly I'm developing kind of gives it all away.

But joy of joys, apparently when you're up the duff, you're prone to bad dreams. Leaving out the usual cheese induced feverings, so far in my dreams, Girlpants as cheated on me in my dreams with Stacey and for which, I couldn't forgive him for the first half hour of being awake. There have been ghosts, Alien v Predator with the obligatory alien burst out of my chest/belly for full affect, gigantic cats, the re-occurring waking dream and the crouching tiger, hidden Sim flying through the air and beating up Alexis Colby dream.

Needless to say that morning conversations with Girlpants have been fun. But the last few nights have been racked with even more anxt as various people I know have been giving me words of advice and have filed me in with their experience and therefore knowledge of my "impending motherhood doom..."

Did you know that:

1. active mums make active babies
2. if you stretch too much when you're up the duff, then the baby stretches too and is prone to being strangled with the umblical cord
3. if Girlpants put the pounds on, I'm more prone to be carrying a girl
4. my baby will be bald when born as I've not experienced any heartburn

So....I have milked 1 to it's full effect, 2 has given me nightmares and Girlpants belly in 3 will only be influenced by mini-hd, as opposed to being caused by his own gluttony with the 2 kilo box of Hotel Chocolat. In comparoison, I totally expected 4....

That and I'm hoping that sproglet will be under 6.5lbs...
Any old wives tales for that??

Why is it when men get ill, it's five times worse than anything else in the world? No matter what pain, how hard or how difficult the trials, it can never compare to a man suffering from the common cold.

Girlpants is ill with man flu again. But doubly worse and much to my shame, now I am. And I'm acting even worse.

To say that having two drama queens on the sofa bewailing their woes and illness is enough for anyone would put it mildly. The cats have fled and the fish are all hanging around the only spot in the tank that is furthest away from us both, as either side of the sofa belows with nose blows that fog horns would be proud of. I can only attribute my chronic self woe down to being up the duff with blob. I'm currently weaker than a two day old pup. Whilst usually I can pop a couple of pills and then carry on with the day, whatever energy I would usually have must currently be sucked out of my by mini-hd, whilst I can take nothing to help me. Lemsip? Ask my midwife, and she will say yes. Ask the pharmacist as the other half did yesterday, and in order to cover their own backs, I apparently have to grin, take fluids and bear it. No paracetamol apparently, herbal remedies haven't been tested and are therefore not advised, no anti-histamines to sooth the nose... the list goes on. Take naddah.

So if this is the case, then I'm going to milk it for all of its worth as I may not get duffy duck again. This may be my only chance. So I may as well ham up it and see what I can get out of it. There's been no demands for exotic food stuffs, foot massages, or even breakfast in bed but in my weakened and faint state, I feel some of the moments may come on in a room very near me.

But then again, Girlpants has written a new motto above the front door...

Pregnant Not Disabled

I haven't blogged for a while and with good reason. I hate lying and I have a couple of secrets that that been quite difficult to keep in. To add to that, I am absolutely crud at lying. My cheeks flame up, I lose eye contact and then ye olde Catholic guilt kicks in.

Needless to say, no booze has been involved with this secret. I apologise if we haven't been able to be in touch in person, but things have been hectic with work, deadlines and families. Meanwhile, Girlpants has insisted that I tell the world my inner thoughts via here to see how long it would take for the news to out - a wee bit of a social experiment as it were. So here I type. However, despite the salivating jaws, there are no tales of espionage, no blackmail, no affair. The secrets are quite simply this:

One

I was one year older two weeks ago. Thank you to all those who remembered. And no. For once, I did not get drunk.

Two

I found four, yes four! grey hairs on that blessed day which did not make me happy.

Three

That's right folks. It's a blob and it's invaded my space.

 Now Girlpants would like to claim that this now proves that a) he is no longer a girl and b) he wears trousers, not pants. But I beg to differ as we had a deal when we married - this was his job even if he dragged medical science kicking and screaming with him. And as far as I'm concerned, he's renegade on the deal. Meanwhile he's sipping cider whilst slowly my clothes are feeling ever so ever so uncomfortable, unable to eat "steak bleu", paté or runny eggs with a fry up. It's just not fair...

In the midst of this humble selflessness, I would also like to stand up and say "Hi. My name is Sim and I haven't drunk gin for several weeks." Actually longer than several weeks which just goes to prove my long standing assertion that should I ever stop drinking my favourite tipple, then the gin stocks would be put under threat and suffer. Ahh - to be proven right...

My new and rather homely doctor would prefer that I refer to this as a parasitical life form as opposed to blob but either would do I suppose. Apparently it's quite proficient in sucking the very nutrients, being and even the calcium from my bones. Nice. But that's okay - mini-hd will have years to more than make it up to me and I am already chalking up a number of chores for wee hands. Until then, I suppose Girlpants will have to continue to do the ironing.