Remember Sacramento!

A few weeks ago, I promised you a story within a couple of days.  It didn’t happen, sorry.  I guess you could still call a fortnight “a few days” . . . maybe?

Anyway, here’s the story.  I’m going through a bit of a rebellious stage at the moment.  I won’t do a thing I’m told, and I am constantly testing the boundaries.  Daddy’s refusing to take me out on his own at the moment since a trip to the supermarket yesterday.  I ran away and hid and I think I scared him a bit. 

Mummy took me today and told me that I had to sit in the trolley, or wear my reins.  Yeah, right.  I refused, so she manhandled me into a trolley.  I hate the fact my size is such a disadvantage to me!  What I do have in my armoury is a great set of lungs, so I was still screeching by the time we got to the pay-the-cashier bit.

The Story goes back a couple of weeks, when this phase was already alive and well.  I’ll admit that I was trying very hard.  No, wait: I was very trying.  According to Mummy at any rate.  I whinged all day, I cried and screamed.  In the end, Daddy was in charge by bath time.  I’d been wailing for my bath all afternoon.  I didn’t want to eat, I wanted a bath.  I didn’t want to play outside, I wanted a bath.  I didn’t want to draw, I wanted a bath. 

Bath time came, Daddy ran me a lovely, bubbly, warm bath.  I wouldn’t take my clothes off, and I most certainly would not get in the bath.  More screaming, more kicking of feet and banging of fists. Then the unthinkable happened!  Not that Daddy lost it but that he put me in the bath, WITH MY CLOTHES ON!  Incredible. 

It has echoes of an incident with Mummy and Grandma many years ago.  Mummy was only small, and they were driving on the west coast of the US.  Grandma doesn’t like driving on the wrong side of the road at the best of times, and certainly not when she doesn’t know where she’s going, but Mummy cut her no slack at all.  She wailed for juice for hours when there was no way for Grandma to get her any.  Eventually, they arrived in a town called Sacramento, checked into the hotel, and the first thing Grandma did was give Mummy juice.  Mummy said she didn’t want it any more, so Grandma picked her up, stood her in the shower, and tipped it over her head!  “Remember Sacramento” is still a very real threat in the family lexicon.   Love that story!

CB x

Music As Therapy - Guest Post From Mummy!

I’ve been tagged by several people for this one and I’m finally joining in with Mammywoo’s Music As Therapy meme!  In fact, I’m not; I’ve passed it over to Mummy because she knows more songs than me.  In fact, she knows too many which is her feeble excuse for why it’s taken so long.

The idea, I think, is that she has to give you lyrics from three different songs, each by a different band, that have touched her in some way.  Is that right?  So, heeeeere’s Mummy  . . .

This post has been so much fun, but so hard!  Mammywoo’s story of ‘losing’ music for a time struck a bit of a chord with me because like her, I don’t listen to nearly as much music as I used to.  It’s been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, but has been distinctly lacking recently.  My husband would far rather watch television than listen to music, and he’s not so keen on seeing live music.  Concerts used to be a regular thing for me, since my uncle took me to see Peter Gabriel when I was sixteen, but I can count the number of bands I’ve seen live in the last five years on one hand, without troubling my thumb.

I have an iPod which is regularly my companion on the train and it never fails to amaze me how a song can transport me somewhere completely different, and how something I’ve not heard for a while can evoke such strong memories.  Music can change my mood in an instant.

The tricky thing has been narrowing it down.  My favourite band changes with the wind, and so my favourite song very much depends on my mood.  It does feel odd to me to have a list that doesn’t have any Pulp in there.  Or U2.  Or REM!  But, rules are rules – 3 only – and this is what I thought tonight.

The song I always listen to when I think I need to pull myself together after a tough day at work or when I’m frustrated by something someone has done or said to me is Des’ree’s “You Gotta Be.”  I’m a pretty emotional person – I wear my heart on my sleeve – and this song reminds that that’s ok but helps me channel some of that emotion more positively.  Here is the first verse and the chorus:

Listen as your day unfolds
Challenge what the future holds
Try and keep your head up to the sky
Lovers they may cause your tears
Go ahead release your fears
Stand up and be counted don't be 'shamed to cry

You gotta be, you gotta be bad
You gotta be bold, you gotta be wiser
You gotta be hard, you gotta be tough, you gotta be stronger
You gotta be cool, you gotta be calm, you gotta stay together
All I know, all I know love will save the day

Next up, Guns ‘n’ Roses.  Bet you never expected to see them beside Des’ree in a playlist!  My music taste is nothing if not eclectic.

I’m not posting the full song because although I love the whole thing, lots of people know it and it's a long one, sorry - over eight minutes if you listen!  Of course I think of someone in particular when I hear the song, but not an ex boyfriend as you might expect.  We’ll leave it there. 

Do you need some time...on your own
Do you need some time...all alone
Everybody needs some time...on their own
Don't you know you need some time...all alone

I know it's hard to keep an open heart
When even friends seem out to harm you
But if you could heal a broken heart
Wouldn't time be out to charm you

Sometimes I need some time...on my own
Sometimes I need some time...all alone
Everybody needs some time...on their own
Don't you know you need some time...all alone

And when your fears subside
And shadows still remain
I know that you can love me
When there's no one left to blame
So never mind the darkness
We still can find a way
'Cause nothin' lasts forever
Even cold November rain

And finally, Supertramp’s The Logical Song.  I used to be quite idealistic but sadly that’s long gone.  I want to try and protect CB’s innocence and keep her cynicism-free for as long as possible.  I’m often pretty cynical about Society these days!

When I was young, it seemed that life was so wonderful,
a miracle, oh it was beautiful, magical.
And all the birds in the trees, well they'd be singing so happily,
joyfully, playfully watching me.
But then they sent me away to teach me how to be sensible,
logical, responsible, practical.
And they showed me a world where I could be so dependable,
clinical, intellectual, cynical.

There are times when all the world's asleep,
the questions run too deep
for such a simple man.
Won't you please, please tell me what we've learned
I know it sounds absurd
but please tell me who I am.

Now watch what you say or they'll be calling you a radical,liberal, fanatical, criminal.
Won't you sign up your name, we'd like to feel you're acceptable, respectable, presentable, a vegetable!

At night, when all the world's asleep, the questions run so deep for such a simple man.
Won't you please, please tell me what we've learned
I know it sounds absurd but please tell me who I am.

CB will be back tomorrow and normal service resumed.  If you got this far, thank you for reading!

CB’s Mummy

Wibble, Wobble

I’ve upset Mummy this week.  I didn’t mean to, and I suppose I underestimated how much she’d take my ‘feedback’ to heart.

If you asked her, she’d tell you that she’s been struggling with a ‘baby belly’ since I turned up.  She’s gone through worrying about it and now just pretends it isn’t there.  It’s not that she’s particularly fat (cuddly, which is comforting for small person like myself) and she’s the same dress size as she was before me, but her tummy is wobbly.  Really wobbly.

We were lying on the sofa the other day and I’d had enough.  Being still gets boring pretty quickly.  So I got up to make my own fun, and actually, I didn’t have to go far.  I was climbing down to the floor and caught Mummy’s T-shirt.  I couldn’t help but look, fascinated by the giant, white marshmallow she was hiding.  I looked at her and giggled.  She pulled her top back down, but I hadn’t seen enough.  I ripped it back again, and just couldn’t resist – I had to touch it!

It was the funniest thing I think I have ever seen!  It looked like marshmallow, but it felt more like an almost-set blancmange. Or a big white jelly!  Ha ha!  I slapped it and it moved.  Wibble, wobble, wibble, wobble.  Hilarious.  I dug my fingers in, like I was kneading dough.  I laughed and laughed.  It didn’t occur to me that Mummy’s feelings might be hurting.

She’s now on a September Detox of no sweets, biscuits or alcohol in a bid to lose a bit of weight.  I didn’t mean anything by it, it was just meant to be a bit of fun.  I hope I’m not on the diet too!

CB

My First Foreign Holiday

On the back of yesterday’s post, I thought I’d share with you the journey of my first trip abroad.

I went to France when I was just six weeks old.  It was a special occasion for Grandma and Grandpa, so we all went to stay in a big house in Normandy.  All my cousins were there too, and it was a great chance for me to get to know them a bit better.

Sadly, Daddy wasn’t able to get time off work, so he kissed me and Mummy goodbye, told us to have a good time, and said he’d look forward to peace and quiet and long lie-ins while we were gone.  The last thing he said to Grandma was “make sure you’ve got your European breakdown cover sorted.”  You already know where this is going, don’t you?

We got on a bit boat to take us from Southampton to Caen and then we had another drive before we got to the house.  It was a long day because we had to keep stopping.  My fault.  I was still nursing every four hours and if I didn’t eat on the dot of 240 minutes, there was a riot. I don’t take kindly to being left waiting.

Everyone was getting a bit tired and grumpy.  They’d all had an early start too, and they just wanted to get to the house and get settled in. We were in two cars, trying not to lose sight of the other, and trying to navigate in a foreign land.  Whilst driving on the right for the first time.  Mummy is pretty well-travelled but she’s never had to drive on the wrong side before.  I don’t think my feedback at high volume helped with the general mood.

Then the warning light came on the dashboard.  A quick consultation with the manual suggested we could continue, but at a vastly reduced speed.  A quick call to the others in front and both cars continued, limping along at a snail’s pace.  At about 5km out (they don’t measure distances  miles sur le continent) the others pulled off to the side of the road and stopped, hazards on.  Who would have given odds of both cars breaking down en route. (I’m really getting in the lingo!)

It was at this point that the fun and games really started.  We, and I say we because any one of us (the grown-ups really, but I don’t want to point fingers) could have checked the breakdown cover, yet no-one had.  It was getting dark, we didn’t know where we were, our command of the language would be just about enough to get us directions to the library, and to top it off, it was gone 6pm on a Sunday evening so nothing was open.

So began the bickering and veiled insults reserved solely  for loved ones on a family holiday.  One car could hobble on, but both cars were absolutely full to bursting with luggage, food and associated stuff we didn’t need to bring.  The Great Balloon Debate began, everyone arguing their case for a space in the working car to stumble onwards, with the losers having to wait on the roadside for the driver to return.

Mummy went a bit primal at that point.  I don’t think anything would have stopped her getting herself and her baby in that car!  Needless to say, we got there first.

The house was incredible.  Just stunning.  Called La Brasserie, it was exactly what you’d imagine a traditional French farmhouse to be, and very sympathetically decorated.  My cousins quickly thawed the atmosphere when they arrived and the party was all together again in a way that only children can, and we started the holiday properly the next day.

I didn’t take pictures of the broken cars on the roadside, or the cross grown-ups arguing.  My picture is of Mont St Michel, which we visited a couple of days later.  It was quite something!  It’s a proper little town with shops and restaurants, and as I was travelling in my sling, I got a close-up view of it all.  I don’t think the buggy would have fitted through some of those narrow little streets.  Mummy always wanted to visit MSM, so she’s ticked it off her list now.  That and the Bayeaux Tapestry, but I slept through that.

CB

A Fashionista In The Making

Mummy left me at nursery today a very excited lady; the carers in the baby room had declared me Best Dressed Baby!  What an accolade!  I’m quite chuffed myself, but I take it all in my shuffle.

I know Mummy gets wardrobe-envy when she sees my clothes, and she’d love some of my things in her size.  I do wear it well, and it must be said, I am developing a pretty enviable sense of style.  I can make all sorts of unconventional combinations work!

I don’t know where I get it from.  I love my mummy dearly, but she’s not exactly a style icon.  And as for Daddy, I’m not sure he even knows what the word ‘fashion’ means!   Give Mummy her due, she does try.  Apparently she tried harder before I came along, but now the focus is more on what’s least likely to show my lunch! 

She has a very sad story of when she started a new job in a predominantly female open-plan office.  One day, she came back in having bought her lunch from the sandwich man outside, and the office was empty.  They all came back that afternoon raving about the new boutique they’d visited, and one delivered the ultimate snidy put-down; “We’d have asked you along but we didn’t think you’d be interested in clothes.”  Ouch.  Not that she’s bitter – it was only ten years ago.

Anyway, I’ll enjoy the oohs and aahs whenever I go in to nursery as they tell me how beautiful I look.  For the moment, I still have all the innocence and none of the self-doubt.  Long may it continue.

CB

Vomit warfare - my current weapon of choice

Mummy’s been getting a bit too cocky for my liking recently – she’s able to get us both up, dressed, fed and out the door before lunch, AND we both have brushed hair.  She even managed to paint her toenails last week!  Time to bring her down a peg or two – after all, I wouldn’t want her getting any funny ideas about having another baby, seeing as she’s coping so well!

She thought the other day that, with the sun shining, she would dig out a summer dress from the depths of her wardrobe. Aha!  A golden opportunity, too hard to pass up!  She’s been living in black since I was born – she says it’s because baby puke doesn’t show up so much and you can just rub it in (gross!) and not because she’s mourning her old life, although she often looks like someone’s died.

This little, floaty number is very pale blue, and baby puke shows up a treat!  I don’t know what they put in baby food, but it is very stubborn and won’t come out again!  Indelible carrot, mmmm.    I timed the barfing to perfection, even if I say so myself; we were in the bank, she had her hands full, and her important “telephone voice” on, talking to the painted lady behind the screen.  I’d screamed with such passion that I couldn’t see that Mummy had lifted me up to try and avoid a scene. 

The thing I love about hurling on grown-ups is the succession of expressions; the initial surprise, like you’ve sat on something unexpected, that morphs into mild unpleasantness as the sick soaks in (or rolls down Mummy’s back, as happened in the bank) that in turn becomes discomfort as it goes cold and sticky, and complete horror as they spot someone’s clocked them and they have to think about how to handle the situation.  I can’t help but grin at that point.  And when the smell gets them!  Triumph!

Mummy’s pretty good these days at being able to counter an attack with wipes and muslins always within easy reach, but I figure that’s about as far as she can go – she’ll never be able to predict the next strike, so with that, I have the upper hand.  A gentle reminder that I’m in charge around here.

CB