First words

Rebel Baby is very close to saying her first word.

“She will say her first word any day now,” says Mummy.

“She has already said her first word,” says Daddy. But Daddy is wrong; Mummy refuses to accept that “Daddy” is her first word. It is a coincidental baby-noise that sounds like a word.

“Say MUMMY,” demands Mummy.

“Dadadadada,” babbles Rebel Baby.

“Mamamamamama,” echoes Mummy, insistently.

“Dadadadadada,” says The Baby again.

Mummy frowns. She needs to make this fun.

“Mummmmmeeeeeeeeee!” says Mummy, swinging The Baby into the air.

“Daddeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” squeals Rebel Baby in delight.

Mummy is not happy. She will spend the next week repeating all words that are not Daddy most forcibly to The Baby, and referring to Daddy by other names so as not to reinforce a habit. Much as she would love RB’s first actual word to be “Mummy,” Mummy is resigned to the fact it is more likely to be, “Noooo,” “Give it to Mummy,” “Put that down,” or “What’s in your mouth? Spit it out, SPIT IT OUT!”



Mummy fail

The kitchen is a building site and soon Mummy won’t be able to use it at all. Probably for a month, says the builder.

“I will buy jars of baby food,” says Mummy, “for emergencies.” Mummy goes into Boots.

Boots are selling off jars of baby food for 15p. Mummy does love a bargain! “We will take them all!” says Mummy, who forsees lots of emergencies.

Mummy gets home and opens the 15p baby food. Rebel Baby does not like 15p baby food. She likes absolutely everything else in the world, including beetroot-flavoured scrambled eggs, and porridge with leek and onions. But she does not like 15p baby food. Not even a little tiny bit… not a morsel shall pass her lips.

Now, Mummy has ten tons of 15p baby food and no kitchen.

Bugger, thinks Mummy.

DIY Baby

Daddy is building a baby gate to stop Rebel Baby launching herself headfirst down the stairs at every given opportunity. Rebel Baby is watching intently, taking detailed mental notes. Rebel Baby will overcome the baby gate. A gate is no match for a Rebel Baby.

Fathers’ Day

Tomorrow is Fathers’ Day, the Dad-equivalent of Mothering Sunday, except that Mothering Sunday is steeped in historical significance and religious sentiment, whereas Fathers’ Day was made up because the Dads were annoyed there was a Mothers’ Day and not a Fathers’ Day and decided that this was the perfect opportunity to demonstrate they did care about gender equality after all, when it suited them. So now there is a Fathers’ Day with no deeper meaning, sentiment or tradition attached to it than that. But that’s OK, it doesn’t bother Mummy… and at least Hallmark do well out of it.

The only thing that does bother Mummy about Fathers’ Day (and, for that matter, Mothers’ Day) is the national lack of consensus over the use, omission or placement of the apostrophe. After careful consideration, and contrary to popular opinion, The Great Decider that is Mummy has decreed that they are both Fathers’ Day and Mothers’ Day, so makes it her biannual mission to enforce them as such, with little success.

When it was Mothers’ Day (which Grandma insists should only be called Mothering Sunday, which – although Mummy agrees in principle – just sounds so old fashioned and takes too long to say (see also: Mummy’s views on All Hallows’ Eve)) Mummy had to get up very early, look after the children and do all the housework while Daddy had a nice long lie-in.  Mummy remembers this very clearly and, as such, Mummy is really excited about Fathers’ Day!!  Mummy has briefed Rebel Baby most clearly on how the morning should play out. Only one more sleep to go….

Crazy hot-weather hair!


Sucky Bunny

Mummy put Sucky Bunny on top of the clothes horse so that Rebel Baby couldn’t reach it. Mummy wanted poor Sucky Bunny to dry out and smell of washing powder for a bit instead of stale milk dribble . But Rebel Baby could reach the bottom of the clothes horse, and she understands how gravity works. Nothing will come between Rebel Baby and Sucky Bunny… not even a clothes horse.

Political stance

A nice lady in town gave The Baby a leaflet all about the Labour Party.

Mummy thought Rebel Baby was sleeping under her sunshade. Rebel Baby was in fact stealthily ingesting the leaflet.

Mummy can’t decide if Rebel Baby loves the Labour manifesto so much she just had to eat it, or whether she is secretly working for the Tories to destroy the opposition. She will find out in eighteen years…