Gone, Baby, Gone


My baby is gone. And I only realised this after watching this little film of O in her Tiny Trike  (which was kindly sent by the toy wizards of Galt Toys), and realising she’s slightly too big for it already.  It leads me to the rhetorical question of the day: How can she outgrow things? SHE SHOULDN’T. SHE CAN’T. I haven’t had time to have enough of her as a baby. She loves the little bike so much that when she wakes up, she jumps on it and cycles to the living room for her milk. At least that, she still has some of her baby habits: milk, dummies, nappies (yes, not potty training yet. SUE ME.) I can’t help by being nostalgic. I wonder if it’s always gonna be like this? Constantly pining for the fleeting moments that make up a childhood. There was a time in my life when I used to miss my own childhood. Now I’ll be missing hers too.

I know what you’re thinking. And NO, I’m not having another one. Not now anyway. Thanks for asking.

The Change


I know “The Change” sounds more like an euphemism for menopause, but since Baby O turned the 12-month mark she has gone through a big one. And for the better, I hasten to add, even though she has learnt to throw tantrums not dissimilar to a woman having hormonal hot flushes. She is leaving babyhood behind quicker than I thought she would, but compared to other babies her age (I SWEAR I try NOT to do the comparison thing. Seriously.) And she is still not that bothered about walking. Her mates are all toying with the art of moving around on two limbs rather than four, which makes me slightly, SLIGHTLY (that means QUITE) concerned. I know I shouldn’t give it a single thought, specially as my worries are all about practicality rather than development, i.e. not getting her hands/knees dirty when going to the park, and finally wear those cute dungarees that were not made for crawling (shameful, I know).

She also finally recovered after those horrendous weeks when she picked up every existent germ in the world and did nothing but lie around not-eating, not-sleeping, not-moving much. It’s hard to believe when you take them to the doctors and they wave you away, rolling their eyes, saying “it’s just a little virus, come back after 3 weeks please.” THREE WEEKS is a lifetime! IT’S LONGER THAN THE OLYMPICS, for f*** sake! But the maddening thing is, they’re right. Three weeks later, life is alright again.

And the best thing to come out of all of this is that she’s eating like a champ. Like she NEVER ate before. She was that kind of kid who refuses bananas (who ON EARTH doesn’t like bananas?) and spits everything after the second spoonful. I was pulling my hair out thinking WHY GOD OH WHY WAS I MADE TO HAVE A CHILD AS FUSSY AS I WAS when I stumbled upon a book on the Guardian website called My Child Won’t Eat, by a spanish doc called Carlos Gonzales. It said in the simplest terms that 1. No, your child won’t die if she eats VERY little 2. You’re the fussy one, just let it go. The first chapter itself was enough to make me relax. I promised myself I would stop trying to shove food down O’s throat at the right times, and just let her be, i.e. eat when she was hungry, no matter how late/early that would be. And then, the next day, MIRACULOUSLY, O. decided to eat again. That book is THAT good. Well done Dr. Gonzales. You’re my hero.

The saddest thing is there’s nothing in the world that makes me happier than seeing the kid clean a plate. Nothing. I feel an immense sense of pride, as if she won a gold medal, or something. God. Motherhood turns one into a wimp. Talk about going through THE CHANGE.

train rides. No longer possible in the pram.
her favourite mode of tantrum these days.
first time she ate PEAS, millions of them. I celebrate these things, these days \o/